Friday’s child is loving in giving;
And Saturday’s child must work for its living.
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is blithe and bonnie and good and gay.”
“I was born on Tuesday. What day were you born on, Granny?” Hazel asked.
“What day was I born on, sugar? I don’t know the year I was born on much less the day.”
“Why, Granny,” said Hazel, startled, “Haven’t you a birthday?”
“I suppose I has, child. But I knows no more when I come into the world than I knows when the Lord ’ll take me out of it. You see, I was sold down here when I was about four year old. That I knows. I can recollect when I first come here. The violets were blooming, and my mistress clapped her hands when she see me picking the little blossoms. That were in the spring of ’46. But whether I were just four, or most five, or only three maybe, I don’t rightly know.”
Granny saw the tears standing in Hazel’s eyes. “Your mother?” the child said.
“We never found one another; and there’s thousands like that. Every day in the year there was children sent from their folks to the bottom lands. But don’t think about it, sugar. It ain’t no use fretting about what’s past. Howsomever, that’s why I can’t tell whether I’s a Monday or a Tuesday or a Saturday child. The Lord alone can reckon my days.”