Speak Through the Wind Read Online Free PDF

that silent way she was capable of when she wanted. “But this child needs to use her mouth to finish her breakfast so’s I can get to cleanin’ up this kitchen.”
    “Yes, Clara.” Kassandra took another bite of her toast, chewed it thoughtfully and swallowed before speaking again. “Sarah James gets to do the verses about the pits and sufferings of hell, but I think my part is much nicer, don’t you?”
    “Of course,” said Reverend Joseph, blowing on a spoonful of porridge to cool it.
    “Besides, she does not understand what most of the words mean. She pretends to be smart because her father is rich, but she is really quite stupid, and—”
    “Now you watch yourself,” Clara said. “It weren’t so long ago that you wouldn’a known any part of them verses yourself. Don’t be thinkin’ that because you got some knowledge in yo’ head and some ribbons in yo’ hair that you’re any better than anybody else.”
    Kassandra wanted to explain that she could never be better than Sarah James, who was dainty and pretty and had not only ribbons but silk ribbons in her hair, but she knew that any such remark would be taken as ingratitude, so she chose instead to pick up her spoon and heap a generous portion of blackberry preserves on the remainder of her toast.
    “Your recitation was perfect,” Reverend Joseph said, sending a pointed and protective glare toward Clara, who turned to busy herself at the sink. “But you shouldn’t be so critical of young Sarah. Perhaps you and she can practice together, and you can help her understand the poems meaning.”
    “She does not ever talk to me,” Kassandra said, dropping a glop of preserves on her chin.
    Reverend Joseph smiled and reached across the table to wipe it off with his own napkin. “You should try. Who knows? Perhaps you will be a great teacher someday.”
    “Do you really think so?”
    “Why not? You are quick and intelligent and thoughtful. Look how much you have learned in just these few short years.”
    He rose from the table and left to his study to work on his sermon for the upcoming Sunday When he was gone, Clara walked over to the table and stood there until Kassandra looked up at her.
    “Reverend’s right,” Clara said. “You are smart. Know what you need to know to fit in. To survive.”
    Kassandra squirmed under her gaze.
    “But, child, don’t you forget where you come from. What you was. And whatsoever the Lord giveth, He can taketh away. And don’t think He won’t slap down the prideful and send them back to the mud He pulled them out of.”
    The last crust of toast seemed lodged in the back of Kassandra’s throat, and she reached for Reverend Joseph’s own teacup to wash it down. But Clara snatched the cup off the table before Kassandra could take hold of it, saying, “No time for tea this mornin’, girl. You got a poem to say.”

 
    lthough he was a humble man and true servant of God, Reverend Joseph Hartmann was not a man of modest means. His parents owned several textile mills in his native town of Heidelberg, Germany, which they sold in order to bring a massive amount of cash to invest upon their emigration to America. Joseph was just fifteen years old at the time, already torn between following in his father’s industrial footsteps and his own desire to enter the ministry. His mother died of fever during the voyage, and his father had only enough time to build this home in the fashionable district of New York’s Centre Street before following his wife after succumbing to a bad piece of fish. The bright spot in young Joseph’s view was that the family fortune was largely intact. He took from it only what he needed to finance an education at a modest New York seminary. Within five years, at the young age of twenty-six, he secured a position as minister at the Tenth Street Methodist Church—the place of worship for some of New York’s most affluent Methodists—and as a spokesman for quiet reform.
    On Tuesday afternoons,