‚ÄúI don‚Äôt like to work,‚Äù she mused. ‚ÄúYou see, mammy‚Äôs pappy was a king‚Äôs son, and kings don‚Äôt work. I don‚Äôt work; mostly I dreams. But I can work, and I will‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor the wonder things‚ÅÝ‚Äîand for you.‚Äù
So the summer yellowed and silvered into fall. All the vacation days Bles worked on the farm, and Zora read and dreamed and studied in the wood, until the land lay white with harvest. Then, without warning, she appeared in the cotton-field beside Bles, and picked.
It was hot, sore work. The sun blazed; her bent and untrained back pained, and the soft little hands bled. But no complaint passed her lips; her hands never wavered, and her eyes met his steadily and gravely. She bade him good night, cheerily, and then stole away to the wood, crouching beneath the great oak, and biting back the groans that trembled on her lips. Often, she fell supperless to sleep, with two great tears creeping down her tired cheeks.
When school-time came there was not yet money enough, for cotton-picking was not far