Collection 3: "The Banana Tree" by James Berry

With violent gusts and squalls the storm broke. Great rushes, huge bulky rushes, of wind struck the building in heavy, repeated thuds, shaking it over and over and carrying on.

What’s the good of tellin' when Pappy don’ like cricket. He only get vex an’ say it’s an evil game for idle hands!

What’s the good of tellin’ when Pappy don’ like cricket. He only get vex an’ say it’s an evil game for idle hands!

The people were sitting with bowed heads, humming a song. As the repressed singing grew louder and louder, it sounded mournful in the room.

Again, before the last long-drawn note faded from the deeply stirred voices, Mr. Bass intoned musically, “When odder helpers fail, and comfo’ts flee...”

The congregation swelled their throats, and their mixed voices filled the room, pleading to heaven from the depths of their hearts. But the wind outside mocked viciously. It screamed. It whistled. It smashed everywhere up.

But the belligerent wind was merciless. It bellowed into his ears and drummed a deafening commotion.

As he grimaced and covered his ears, he was forcefully slapped against a coconut tree trunk that lay across the road.

Above the tormented trees a zinc sheet writhed, twisted, and somersaulted in the tempestuous flurry.

A feeling of dismay paralyzed him, reminding him of his foolish venture.

Their thatched house had collapsed like an open umbrella that was given a heavy blow.

But several attempts to replace the prop were futile. The force of the wind against his weight was too much for him.

Because the bridge was washed away, the hazardous roundabout journey had badly impeded them.

The flickering light above his head showed Mr. Bass the forlorn and pitiful banana tree.

There it stood, shivering and twitching like a propped-up man with lacerated throat and dismembered head.