II + 

On a day when the corn was nearly ripe, she went to work in the field. Tiring, she sat down to rest where she could watch two stalks, with their silk just showing against the sky. Low on the horizon the beginnings of a storm darkened the blue. She called Laughing Boy. + 

“Show me how they draw the corn in the sand-pictures.” + 

“I do not think I should show you that. You are a woman, and you have never seen the true gods in the Night Chant.” + 

“Perhaps you are right.” + 

He was making a decision. + 

“I shall show you.” He drew in the sand. “We do it like this. Here is blue, here yellow. Here are the tassels, the silk.” + 

“Why do you show me?” + 

“You are not like ordinary people, you have a strength of your own. I do not think any harm will come to you.” + 

She looked from the conventionalization to the growing stalks; she divided the threatening sky into a design. Her first, elaborate blanket had been a built-up, borrowed idea, her later ones were uninteresting accidents. Now she saw her work complete, loving it and the task of making it. Now she really had something to tell her loom. + 

She was impatiently patient with the dyeing and spinning, needlessly afraid that she would lose her inspiration. When she was ready, she worked so steadily that Laughing Boy warned her of the fate of women who wove too much, and forced her to let a day go by. Her muscles were much tougher now, and her fingers had grown clever and hard among the strands. + 

She managed for him to be away with his horses during the last two days, when she finished it. He had not yet returned when, a little despondently, she locked in the selvage, unrolled it on the frame, and sat back on her heels to smoke and look. She did not see what she had conceived. She did not see a living design, balanced and simple, with mated colours. She saw thin, messy workmanship, irregular lines, blunders, coarsenesses. At one place she had forgotten to lock the blue into the green weft, sunlight showed through. The counting of stitches was uneven. The blanket was not even a rectangle. + 

She went quickly away from the house, walking hurriedly and smoking fiercely. + 

“I am not a Navajo; it is not given to me to do these things. Mother was happy when she wove, she was beautiful then. I cannot make anything, and he is gifted. He will despise me in the end. Being able to make something beautiful is important to him. He will feel his house empty without the sound of weaving. They said I was gifted, that man who came that time. ‘My child, just stick to the things of your people and you will do something. You have it.’ ‘Mr. Waters is a very famous artist, you must pay attention to what he says, my dear. He expressed himself much pleased with your pictures. I am sure the whole class is proud of Lillian today.’ Those crayons were easy. Perhaps he would like that. But I want to weave. There is nothing the matter with me. No use. God damn it to hell! God damn me! Chindi, mai, shash, Jee-Cri! Well, let’s go and look at it. There’s his pony in front of the house. Come on.” + 

He had taken down the blanket and was pegging it out carefully. All he said was, + 

“Where are your wool cards?” + 

She brought them, two implements like very sharp currycombs, used to prepare the wool for spinning. She sat down to watch him, thinking, Perhaps I shall get very drunk. That might help. + 

He carded the face of the blanket energetically, so roughly that it seemed a gratuitous insult even to her poor work. The very coarseness of her spinning served his purpose, as the sharp teeth scraped and tore across the design. She wondered if he were trying to efface it. He stood up. + 

“Now come here and look.” He put his arm over her shoulder. “You have thought well. The picture is beautiful.” + 

The scraping had torn loose a long wool nap, almost a fur, fluffy and fine, that covered all the errors of the weaving. The sharp edges were lost, but the lovely combination she had dreamed of was there, soft and blurred, as though one saw it through tears. She could see how good her conception had been, how true and sure. She had made a beautiful thing. She looked and looked. + 

He loosened the pegs and turned up the untouched side. As he turned it, he jerked at the corners, throwing the uncertain weave out of shape. It looked like a child’s work. + 

“I am not telling you a lot of things. I am just letting you see something. I think you understand it.” + 

“I understand. You will be able to put my next blanket under your saddle, and be proud of it. Thank you.” + 