Ever since Hazel had spun the cotton she had wanted to weave it, but her grandmother’s loom was too large for her to handle. Granny had solved the difficulty by saying they could do it together, Hazel throwing the shuttle while she pushed the frame. In this fashion they had woven their cloth. “It’s your work, honey,” Granny had insisted. “You’re doing the weaving, not me.”
“Isn’t it hot!” Hazel said, after they had worked for an hour. “April in the South is as warm as June at home. Is it hotter than this in the summer?”
“I expect it is,” said Granny, looking at the child’s moist curls. “Don’t do any more now.”
They went out on the porch to get cool.
“I’ve thought a great deal about my weaving,” said Hazel, very seriously, “and, Granny, I’ve decided to cut some of the cloth into wash-rags so that I can make presents to a number of my friends. I can hem them, can’t I?”
“Yes, dearie.”
“And then I shall make ten pieces at least. Granny, who is that coming down the road?”
Granny stood up and saw a young white lady coming toward them on horseback, who pulled up her horse as she reached the porch.
“Does Hazel Tyler live here?” she asked.
“Yes,” Hazel replied, going out to her, “I am Hazel Tyler.”