This is actually chapter vi from Hughes' novel "Not Without Laughter," (1930) which is a coming-of-age novel about a young boy, Sandy, growing up in a small town in Kansas.

         The sunflowers in Willie-Mae's back yard were taller than Tom Johnson's head, and the hollyhocks in the fence corners were almost as high. The nasturtiums, blood-orange and gold, tumbled over themselves all around Madam de Carter's house. Aunt Hager's sweet-william, her pinks, and her tiger-lilies were abloom and the apples on her single tree would soon be ripe. The adjoining yards of the three neighbors were gay with flowers. "Watch out for them dogs!" his grandmother told Sandy hourly, for the days had come when the bright heat made gentle animals go mad. Bees were heavy with honey, great green flies humed through the air, yellow-black butterflies suckled at the rambling roses . . . and watermelons were on the market.
     The Royal African Knights and Ladies of King Solomon's Scepter were preparing a drill for the September Emancipation celebration, a "Drill of All Nations," in which Annjee was to represent Sweden. It was not to be given for a month or more, but the first rehearsal would take place tonight.
     "Sandy," his mother said, shaking him early in the morning as he lay on his pallet at the foot of Aunt Hager's bed, "listen here! I want you to come out to Mis' Rice's this evening and help me get through the dishes so's I can start home early, in time to wash and dress myself to go to the lodge hall. You hears me?"
     "Yes'm," said Sandy, keeping his eyes closed to the bright streams of morning sunlight entering the window. But half an hour later, when Jimboy kicked him and said: "Hey, bo! You wanta go fishin'?" he got up at once, slid into his pants; and together they went out in the garden to dig worms. It was seldom that his father took him anywhere, and, of course, he wanted to go. Sandy adored Jimboy, but Jimboy, amiable and indulgent though he was, did not often care to be bothered with his ten-year-old son on his fishing expeditions.
      Harriet had gone to her job, and Hager had long been at the tubs under the apple-tree when the two males emerged from the kitchen-door. "Huh! You aint working this mawnin', is you?" the old woman grunted, bending steadily down, then up, over the washboard.
     "Nope," her tall son-in-law answered. "Donahoe laid me off yesterday on account o' the white bricklayers said they couldn't lay bricks with a nigger."
     "Always something to keep you from workin'," panted Hager.
     "Sure is," agreed Jimboy pleasantly. "But don't worry, me and Sandy's gonna catch a mess o' fish for supper today. How's that, ma?"
     "Don't need no fish," the old woman answered. "An' don't come ma-in' me! Layin' round here fishin' when you ought to be out makin' money to take care o' this house an' that chile o' your'n." The suds rose foamy white about her black arms as the clothes pushed up and down on the zinc washboard. "Lawd deliver me from a lazy darky!"
     But Jimboy and Sandy were already behind the tall corn, digging for bait near the back fence.
     "Son't never let no one woman worry you," said the boy's father softly, picking the moist wriggling worms from the upturned loam. "Treat 'em like chickens, son. Throw 'em a little corn and they'll run after you, but don't give 'em too much. If you do, they'll stop layin' and expect you to wait on 'em."
     "Will they?" asked Sandy.

     The warm afternoon sun made the river a languid sheet of muddy gold, glittering away towards the bridge and the flour-mills a mile and a half off. Here in the quiet, on the end of a rotting jetty among the reeds, Jimboy and his son sat silently. A long string of small silver fish hung down into the water, keeping fresh, and the fishing-lines were flung far out into the stream, waiting for more bites. Not a breeze on the flat brown-gold river, not a ripple, not a sound. But once the train came by behind them, pouring out a great cloud of smoke and cinders and shaking the jetty.
     "That's Number Five," said Jimboy. "Sure is flyin'" as the train disappeared between rows of empty box-cars far down the track, sending back a hollow clatter as it shot past the flour-mill whose stacks could be dimly seen through the heat haze. Once the engine's whistle moaned shrilly.
     "She's gone now," said Jimboy, as the last click of the wheels died away. And, except for the drone of a green fly about the can of bait, there was again no sound to disturb the two fishermen.
     Jimboy gazed at his lines. Across the river Sandy could make out, in the brilliant sunlight, the gold of wheat-fields and the green of trees on the hills. He wondered if it would be nice to live over there in the country.
     "Man alive!" his father cried suddenly, hauling vigorously at one of the lines. "Sure got a real bite now . . . Look at this catfish." From the water he pulled a large flopping lead-colored creature, with a fierce white mouth bleeding and gaping over the hook.
     "He's on my line!" yelled Sandy. "I caught him!"
     "Pshaw!" laughed Jimboy. "You was setting there dreaming."
     "No, I wasn't!"
     But just then, at the mills, the five-o'clock whistles blew. "Oh, gee, dad!" cried the boy, frightened. "I was s'posed to go to Mis' Rice's to help mama, and I come near forgetting it. She wants to get through early this evenin' to go to lodge meeting. I gotta hurry and go help her."
     "Well, you better beat it then, and I'll look out for your line like I been doing and bring the fish home."
     So the little fellow balanced himself across the jetty, scrambled up the bank, and ran down the railroad track toward town. He was quite out of breath when he reached the foot of Penrose Street, with Mrs. Rice's house still ten blocks away, so he walked awhile, then ran again, down the long residential street, with its large houses sitting in green shady lawns far back from the sidewalk. Sometimes a sprinkler attached to a long rubber hose, sprayed fountain-like jets of cold water on the thirsty grass. In one yard three golden-haired little girsl were playing under an elm-tree, and in another a man and some children were having a leisurely game of croquet.
     Finally Sandy turned into a big yard. The delicious scent of frying beefsteak greeted the sweating youngster as he reached the screen of the white lady's kitchen-door. Inside, Annjee was standing over the hot stove seasoning something in a saucepan, beads of perspiration on her dark face, and large damp spots under the arms of her dress.
     "You better get here!" she said. "And me waiting for you for the last hour. Here, take this pick and break some ice for the tea." Sandy climbed up on a stool and raised the ice-box lid while his mother opened the oven and pulled out a pan of golden-brown biscuits. "Made these for your father," she remarked. "The white folks ain't asked for 'em, but they like 'em, too, so they can serve for both . . . Jimboy's crazy about biscuits . . . Did he work today?"
     "No'm," said Sandy, jabbing at the ice. "We went fishing."
     At that moment Mrs. Rice came into the kitchen, tall and blond, in a thin flowered gown. She was a middle-aged white woman with a sharp nasal voice.
     "Annjee, I'd like the potatoes served just as they are in the casserole. And make several slices of very thin toast for my father. Now, be sure they are thin!"
     "Yes, m'am," said Annjee stirring a spoonful of flour into the frying-pan, making a thick brown gravy.
     "Old thin toast," muttered Annjee when Mrs. Rice had gone back to the front. "Always bothering round the kitchen! Here 'tis lodge-meeting night--dinner late anyhow--and she coming telling me to stop and make toast for the old man! He ain't too indigestible to eat biscuits like the rest of 'em. . . .White folks sure is a case!" She laid three slices of bread on top of the stove. "So spoiled with colored folks waiting on 'em all their days! Don't know what they'll do in heaven, 'cause I'm gonna sit down up there myself."
     Annjee took the biscuits, light and brown, and placed some on a pink plate she had warmed. She carried them, with the butter and jelly, into the dining-room. Then she took the steak from the warmer, dished up the vegetables into gold-rimmed serving-dishes, and poured the gravy, which smelled deliciously onion-flavored.
     "Gee, I'm hungry," said the child, with his eyes on the big steak ready to go in to the white people.
     "Well, just wait," replied his mother. "You come to work, not to eat . . . Whee! but it's hot today!" She wiped her wet face and put on a large white bungalow apron that had been hanging behind the door. Then she went with the iced tea and a pitcher of water into the dining-room, struck a Chinese gong, and came back to the kitchen to get the dishes of steaming food, which she carried in to the table.
     It was some time before she returned from waiting on the table; so Sandy, to help her, began to scrape out the empty pans and put them to soak in the sink. He ate the stewed corn that had stuck in the bottom of one, and rubbed a piece of bread in the frying-pan where the gravy had been. His mtoher came out with the water pitcher, broke some ice for it, and returned to the dining-room where Sandy could hear laughter, and the clinking of spoons in tea-glasses, and women talking. When Annjee came back into the kitche, she tooks four custards from the ice-box and placed them on gold-rimmed plates.
     "They're about through," she said to her son. "Sit down and I'll fix you up."
     Sandy was very hungry and he hoped Mrs. Rice's family hadn't eaten all the steak, which ahd looked so good with its brown gravy and onions.
     Shortly, his mother returned carrying the dishes that had been filled with hot food. She placed them on the kitchen-table in front of Sandy, but they were no longer full and no longer hot. The corn had thickened to a paste, and the potatoes were about gone; but there was still a ragged piece of steak left on the platter.
     "Don't eat it all," said Annjee warningly. "I want to take some home to your father."
     The bell rang in the dining-room. Annjee went through the swinging door and returned bearing a custard that had been but little touched.
     "Here, sonny--the old man says it's too sweet for his stomach, so you can have this." She set the yellow cornstarch before Sandy. "He's seen these ripe peaches out here today and he wants some, that's all. More trouble than he's worth, po' old soul, and me in a hurry!" She began to peel the fruit. "Just like a chile, 'deed he is!" she added, carrying the sliced peaches into the dining-room and leaving Sandy with a plate of food before him, eating slowly. "When rushing to get out, seems like white folds tries theirselves."
     In a moment, she returned, ill-tempered, and began to scold Sandy for taking so long with his meal.
     "I asked you to help me so's I can get to the lodge on time, and you just set and chew and eat! . . . Here, wipe these dishes, boy!" Annjee began hurriedly to lay plates in a steaming row on the shelf of the sink; so Sandy got up and, between mouthfuls of pudding, wiped them with a large dish-towel.
     Soon Mrs. Rice came into the kitchen again, briskly, through the swinging door and glanced about her. Sandy felt ashamed for the white woman to see him eating a left-over pudding from her table, so he put the spoon down.
     "Annjee," the mistress said sharply. "I wish you wouldn't put quite so much onion in your sauce for the steak. I've mentioned it to you several times before, and you know very well we don't like it."
     "Yes, m'am," said Annjee.
     "And do please be careful that our drinking water is cold before meals are served . . . You were certainly careless tonight. You must be thinking more about what you are doing, Annjee."
     Mrs. Rice went out again through the swinging door, but Sandy stood near the sink with a burning face and eyes that had suddenly filled with angry tears. He couldn't help it--hearing his sweating mother reprimanded by this tall white woman in the flowered dress. Black, hard-working Annjee answered: "Yes, m'am," and that was all--but Sandy cried.
     "Dry up," his mother said crossly whe she saw him, thinking he was crying because she had asked him to work. "What's come over you, anyway?--can't even wipe a few plates for me and act nice about it!"
     He didn't answer. When the dining-room had been cleared and the kitchen put in order, Annjee told him to empty the garbage while she wrapped in newspapers several little bundles of food to carry to Jimboy. Then they went out the back door, around the big house to the street, and trudged the fourteen blocks to Aunt Hager's, taking short cuts through alleys, passing under arc-lights that sputtered whitely in the deepening twilight, and greeting with an occasional "Howdy" other poor colored folks also coming home from work.
     "How are you, Sister Jones?"
     "Right smart, I thank yuh!" as they passed.
     Once Annjee spoke to her son. "Evening's the only time we niggers have to ourselves!" she said. "Thank God for night . . . 'cause all day you gives to white folks."