Read the excerpt from Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. The night whispered of distant thunder. It was muggy,
hot, a miserable night for sleeping. Twice I had
awakened hoping that it was time to be up, but each time
the night had been total blackness with no hint of a
graying dawn. On the front porch Mr. Morrison sat
singing soft and low into the long night, chanting to the
approaching thunder. He had been there since the house
had darkened after church, watching and waiting as he
had done every night since Papa had been injured. No
one had ever explained why he watched and waited, but
I knew. It had to do with the Wallaces.