“Shut that door, Scip,” Granny called out, “and come in here. Never mind your clothes, child. We’s had working folks here before, and a little water won’t spoil this floor. Come get warm and drink this cocoa. Our Boston lady,” Granny said this with mock grandeur, “she done try make me believe cocoa beats coffee; she don’t know everything yet, Scip. But you can manage to drink the stuff, I reckon. Set here now, on this stool, close to the blaze. Don’t act like you thought you’d outen the fire. Hazel, pass that cornbread and give Scip a big plate for himself. Our guests always has big plates. And you, Scip, do your best by the bananas we boughten yesterday. Our Boston lady thinks they’s mighty fine, and the Lord certainly done do them up in pretty yellow husks. See me shell one, Scip.” And so Granny talked on until Scip, with his big plate on his lap, seated by the warm fire, felt at home. When supper was over Granny made the shadows on the wall that Hazel loved, and after she was through Scip made still cleverer ones, Hazel thought. Then they all sat very still while Hazel recited poetry and read out of the book the minister gave her. It was a jolly evening. When Scipio had said good-night, and with many invitations to come again, had gone out into the rain, Hazel brought the pitcher-plants in to her grandmother. “Do they grow near here?” she asked. “No, they come from the swamp, three miles south.” “I quarrelled with Scipio, Granny,” Hazel pursued, her cheeks hot, “because I saw him beat his little brother Tom.” “Tom ain’t good for much,” said Granny dryly. “He’s lazy.” “But he’s so little,” Hazel pleaded. She put down the flowers and, stooping, picked up the kitten playing on the hearth. “He’s little, like a kitten.” Granny smiled sadly as she replied: “I’s afraid the children here has to learn to catch mice mighty young. Scip has worked ever since he could toddle to the cotton fields. He thinks Tom might naturally help him.” “They ought both to be at play,” Hazel said with a little catch in her breath. “You said so this morning. It’s spring.” CHAPTER XI CHOOSING A BIRTHDAY “Monday’s child is fair of face; Tuesday’s child is full of grace; Wednesday’s child is happy and glad; Thursday’s child is sour and sad; 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?”