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diff --git a/old/19810-0.txt b/old/19810-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 43e8a21..0000000 --- a/old/19810-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8576 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Ántonia by Willa Sibert Cather - - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under -the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or -online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license - - - -Title: My Ántonia - -Author: Willa Sibert Cather - -Release Date: November 14, 2006 [Ebook #19810] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ÁNTONIA*** - - - - - -My Ántonia - -By Willa Sibert Cather - - - Optima dies … prima fugit - Virgil - - -with illustrations by -W. T. Benda - - [Illustration: The Riverside Press] -Boston and New York -Houghton Mifflin Companys -The Riverside Press Cambridge - -1918 - - - - - - To - Carrie and Irene Miner - - _In memory of affections old and true_ - - - - - -CONTENTS - - -Introduction -Book I— The Shimerdas - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI - XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX -Book II—The Hired Girls - I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI - XII - XIII - XIV - XV -Book III—Lena Lingard - I - II - III - IV -Book IV—The Pioneer Woman’s Story - I - II - III - IV -Book V—Cuzak’s Boys - I - II - III - - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform -Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over -his shoulder -Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest -Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree -Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field -Illustration: Jim and Ántonia in the garden -Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings -Illustration: Ántonia driving her cattle home - - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -LAST summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of -intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion -James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I -are old friends—we grew up together in the same Nebraska town—and we had -much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending -miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak -groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the -woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The -dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were -talking about what it is like to spend one’s childhood in little towns -like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of -climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a -brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and -smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little -snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We -agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could -know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said. - -Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and are old friends, I do -not see much of him there. He is legal counsel for one of the great -Western railways, and is sometimes away from his New York office for weeks -together. That is one reason why we do not often meet. Another is that I -do not like his wife. - -When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, struggling to make his way in -New York, his career was suddenly advanced by a brilliant marriage. -Genevieve Whitney was the only daughter of a distinguished man. Her -marriage with young Burden was the subject of sharp comment at the time. -It was said she had been brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, -and that she married this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She -was a restless, headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her -friends. Later, when I knew her, she was always doing something -unexpected. She gave one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, -produced one of her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for -picketing during a garment-makers’ strike, etc. I am never able to believe -that she has much feeling for the causes to which she lends her name and -her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic, executive, but to me -she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally incapable of enthusiasm. -Her husband’s quiet tastes irritate her, I think, and she finds it worth -while to play the patroness to a group of young poets and painters of -advanced ideas and mediocre ability. She has her own fortune and lives her -own life. For some reason, she wishes to remain Mrs. James Burden. - -As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe enough to chill his -naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This disposition, though it -often made him seem very funny when he was a boy, has been one of the -strongest elements in his success. He loves with a personal passion the -great country through which his railway runs and branches. His faith in it -and his knowledge of it have played an important part in its development. -He is always able to raise capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or -Montana, and has helped young men out there to do remarkable things in -mines and timber and oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim -Burden’s attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the -wilds hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money -which means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose -himself in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets -new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood -friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color -and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and -his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is -Western and American. - -During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept -returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago -and whom both of us admired. More than any other person we remembered, -this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the whole -adventure of our childhood. To speak her name was to call up pictures of -people and places, to set a quiet drama going in one’s brain. I had lost -sight of her altogether, but Jim had found her again after long years, had -renewed a friendship that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy -life had set apart time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full -of her that day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all -my old affection for her. - -“I can’t see,” he said impetuously, “why you have never written anything -about Ántonia.” - -I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one—knew -her much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with -him; I would set down on paper all that I remembered of Ántonia if he -would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her. - -He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often -announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took -hold of him. “Maybe I will, maybe I will!” he declared. He stared out of -the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had -the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. “Of -course,” he said, “I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great -deal about myself. It’s through myself that I knew and felt her, and I’ve -had no practice in any other form of presentation.” - -I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most -wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little -girl who watched her come and go, had not. - - - -Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter -afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur -overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with -some pride as he stood warming his hands. - -“I finished it last night—the thing about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what -about yours?” - -I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes. - -“Notes? I did n’t make any.” He drank his tea all at once and put down the -cup. “I did n’t arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself -and myself and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose it has -n’t any form. It has n’t any title, either.” He went into the next room, -sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the -word, “Ántonia.” He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, -making it “My Ántonia.” That seemed to satisfy him. - -“Read it as soon as you can,” he said, rising, “but don’t let it influence -your own story.” - -My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim’s -manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. - - - - - - -BOOK I— THE SHIMERDAS - - - - -I - - -I FIRST heard of Ántonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey -across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; -I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia -relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I -traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the “hands” -on my father’s old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to -work for my grandfather. Jake’s experience of the world was not much wider -than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we -set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. - -We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with -each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered -him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a -“Life of Jesse James,” which I remember as one of the most satisfactory -books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a -friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we -were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our -confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been -almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of -distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of -different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons -were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an -Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the -immigrant car ahead there was a family from “across the water” whose -destination was the same as ours. - -“They can’t any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she -can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.’ She’s not much older than you, -twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as bright as a new dollar. Don’t you -want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, -too!” - -This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to -“Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to -get diseases from foreigners. - -I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long -day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so -many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about -Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. - -I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when -we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled -down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with -lanterns. I could n’t see any town, or even distant lights; we were -surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its -long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood -huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew -this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The -woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little -tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old -man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding -oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts. -Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting -and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time -I had ever heard a foreign tongue. - -Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: “Hello, are you -Mr. Burden’s folks? If you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto -Fuchs. I’m Mr. Burden’s hired man, and I’m to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, -ain’t you scared to come so far west?” - - [Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform] - -I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might -have stepped out of the pages of “Jesse James.” He wore a sombrero hat, -with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache -were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and -ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across -one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top -of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely -this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his -high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather -slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a -long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to -a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign -family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the -front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the -wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into -the empty darkness, and we followed them. - -I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon -began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed. -Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and -peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no -fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I -could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: -not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. -No, there was nothing but land—slightly undulating, I knew, because often -our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and -lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was -left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man’s -jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a -familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of -heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and -mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me -at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to -the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon -jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don’t think I was homesick. -If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and -that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: -here, I felt, what would be would be. - - - - -II - - -I DO not remember our arrival at my grandfather’s farm sometime before -daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. -When I awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely -larger than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was -flapping softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and -black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my -grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes -she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed. - -“Had a good sleep, Jimmy?” she asked briskly. Then in a very different -tone she said, as if to herself, “My, how you do look like your father!” I -remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have -come to wake him like this when he overslept. “Here are your clean -clothes,” she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she -talked. “But first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice -warm bath behind the stove. Bring your things; there’s nobody about.” - -“Down to the kitchen” struck me as curious; it was always “out in the -kitchen” at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her -through the living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This -basement was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a -kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed—the plaster -laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts. The floor -was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling there were little -half-windows with white curtains, and pots of geraniums and wandering Jew -in the deep sills. As I entered the kitchen I sniffed a pleasant smell of -gingerbread baking. The stove was very large, with bright nickel -trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden bench against the wall, -and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and cold water. When -she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was used to taking my -bath without help. - -“Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure? Well, now, I call you a right -smart little boy.” - -It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone into my bath-water -through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat came up and rubbed -himself against the tub, watching me curiously. While I scrubbed, my -grandmother busied herself in the dining-room until I called anxiously, -“Grandmother, I’m afraid the cakes are burning!” Then she came laughing, -waving her apron before her as if she were shooing chickens. - -She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and she was apt to carry -her head thrust forward in an attitude of attention, as if she were -looking at something, or listening to something, far away. As I grew -older, I came to believe that it was only because she was so often -thinking of things that were far away. She was quick-footed and energetic -in all her movements. Her voice was high and rather shrill, and she often -spoke with an anxious inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous that -everything should go with due order and decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, -and perhaps a little strident, but there was a lively intelligence in it. -She was then fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance. - -After I was dressed I explored the long cellar next the kitchen. It was -dug out under the wing of the house, was plastered and cemented, with a -stairway and an outside door by which the men came and went. Under one of -the windows there was a place for them to wash when they came in from -work. - -While my grandmother was busy about supper I settled myself on the wooden -bench behind the stove and got acquainted with the cat—he caught not only -rats and mice, but gophers, I was told. The patch of yellow sunlight on -the floor traveled back toward the stairway, and grandmother and I talked -about my journey, and about the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she -said they were to be our nearest neighbors. We did not talk about the farm -in Virginia, which had been her home for so many years. But after the men -came in from the fields, and we were all seated at the supper-table, then -she asked Jake about the old place and about our friends and neighbors -there. - -My grandfather said little. When he first came in he kissed me and spoke -kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt at once his -deliberateness and personal dignity, and was a little in awe of him. The -thing one immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, -snow-white beard. I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of -an Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive. - -Grandfather’s eyes were not at all like those of an old man; they were -bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle. His teeth were white and -regular—so sound that he had never been to a dentist in his life. He had a -delicate skin, easily roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man -his hair and beard were red; his eyebrows were still coppery. - -As we sat at the table Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing covert glances at -each other. Grandmother had told me while she was getting supper that he -was an Austrian who came to this country a young boy and had led an -adventurous life in the Far West among mining-camps and cow outfits. His -iron constitution was somewhat broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had -drifted back to live in a milder country for a while. He had relatives in -Bismarck, a German settlement to the north of us, but for a year now he -had been working for grandfather. - -The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the kitchen to whisper to me -about a pony down in the barn that had been bought for me at a sale; he -had been riding him to find out whether he had any bad tricks, but he was -a “perfect gentleman,” and his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I -wanted to know: how he had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was -a stage-driver, and how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for -me before sundown next day. He got out his “chaps” and silver spurs to -show them to Jake and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops stitched in -bold design—roses, and true-lover’s knots, and undraped female figures. -These, he solemnly explained, were angels. - -Before we went to bed Jake and Otto were called up to the living-room for -prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed spectacles and read several -Psalms. His voice was so sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I -wished he had chosen one of my favorite chapters in the Book of Kings. I -was awed by his intonation of the word “Selah.” “_He shall choose our -inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom He loved. Selah._” I had -no idea what the word meant; perhaps he had not. But, as he uttered it, it -became oracular, the most sacred of words. - -Early the next morning I ran out of doors to look about me. I had been -told that ours was the only wooden house west of Black Hawk—until you came -to the Norwegian settlement, where there were several. Our neighbors lived -in sod houses and dugouts—comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame -house, with a story and half-story above the basement, stood at the east -end of what I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the -kitchen door. From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the -barns and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, -and washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, at -the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow -bushes growing about it. The road from the post-office came directly by -our door, crossed the farmyard, and curved round this little pond, beyond -which it began to climb the gentle swell of unbroken prairie to the west. -There, along the western sky-line, it skirted a great cornfield, much -larger than any field I had ever seen. This cornfield, and the sorghum -patch behind the barn, were the only broken land in sight. Everywhere, as -far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but rough, shaggy, red -grass, most of it as tall as I. - -North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks, grew a thick-set -strip of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves already turning -yellow. This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but I had to look -very hard to see it at all. The little trees were insignificant against -the grass. It seemed as if the grass were about to run over them, and over -the plum-patch behind the sod chicken-house. - -As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the country, as the water -is the sea. The red of the grass made all the great prairie the color of -wine-stains, or of certain seaweeds when they are first washed up. And -there was so much motion in it; the whole country seemed, somehow, to be -running. - -I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when she came out, her -sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and asked me if I did not -want to go to the garden with her to dig potatoes for dinner. The garden, -curiously enough, was a quarter of a mile from the house, and the way to -it led up a shallow draw past the cattle corral. Grandmother called my -attention to a stout hickory cane, tipped with copper, which hung by a -leather thong from her belt. This, she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I -must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had -killed a good many rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who -lived on the Black Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all -summer. - -I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my -grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning. -Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more than -anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing -morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort -of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, -galloping … - -Alone, I should never have found the garden—except, perhaps, for the big -yellow pumpkins that lay about unprotected by their withering vines—and I -felt very little interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk -straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which -could not be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world -ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a -little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float off -into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow -shadows on the grass. While grandmother took the pitchfork we found -standing in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked them up out -of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag, I kept looking up at -the hawks that were doing what I might so easily do. - -When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like to stay up there in -the garden awhile. - -She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet. “Are n’t you afraid of -snakes?” - -“A little,” I admitted, “but I’d like to stay anyhow.” - -“Well, if you see one, don’t have anything to do with him. The big yellow -and brown ones won’t hurt you; they’re bull-snakes and help to keep the -gophers down. Don’t be scared if you see anything look out of that hole in -the bank over there. That’s a badger hole. He’s about as big as a big -’possum, and his face is striped, black and white. He takes a chicken once -in a while, but I won’t let the men harm him. In a new country a body -feels friendly to the animals. I like to have him come out and watch me -when I’m at work.” - -Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder and went down the -path, leaning forward a little. The road followed the windings of the -draw; when she came to the first bend she waved at me and disappeared. I -was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content. - -I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely -approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin. There -were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows, full of fruit. I -turned back the papery triangular sheaths that protected the berries and -ate a few. All about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever -seen, were doing acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers -scurried up and down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered -draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I could hear it singing -its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall grasses wave. -The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. -Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. -Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as -I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was -something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did -not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like -that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun -and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be -dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it -comes as naturally as sleep. - - - - -III - - -ON Sunday morning Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance -of our new Bohemian neighbors. We were taking them some provisions, as -they had come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or -chicken-house, and very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of -potatoes and a piece of cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother packed -some loaves of Saturday’s bread, a jar of butter, and several pumpkin pies -in the straw of the wagon-box. We clambered up to the front seat and -jolted off past the little pond and along the road that climbed to the big -cornfield. - -I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield; but there was -only red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high -wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The road ran about like a wild -thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and -shallow. And all along it, wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; -some of them were as big as little trees, with great rough leaves and many -branches which bore dozens of blossoms. They made a gold ribbon across the -prairie. Occasionally one of the horses would tear off with his teeth a -plant full of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in -time to his bites as he ate down toward them. - -The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the -homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more -than it was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the -old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. -Shimerda. The Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this -part of the county. Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell -them anything he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for -advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs -said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father -was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by -trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. -He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much use here, -though he used to pick up money by it at home. - -“If they’re nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in -that cave of Krajiek’s,” said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger -hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty -dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.” - -“Yes’m,” said Otto; “and he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old -horses for the price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the -horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d ’a’ thought it would -do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians.” - -Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is that, Otto?” - -Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, ma’m, it’s politics. It would -take me a long while to explain.” - -The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw -Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas’ place and made the -land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy -clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering -tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some -of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining -white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. - -As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I could still see nothing but -rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging -out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those -banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass -that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had -no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a -door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a -woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A -little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same -embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted -from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not -young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little -eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand energetically. - -“Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the -bank out of which she had emerged and said, “House no good, house no -good!” - -Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll get fixed up comfortable after -while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house.” - -My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they -were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our -visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled -them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, -much thank!”—and again she wrung grandmother’s hand. - -The oldest son, Ambrož,—they called it Ambrosch,—came out of the cave and -stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and -broad-backed, with a close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His -hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like his mother’s, but more sly and -suspicious; they fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on -corncakes and sorghum molasses for three days. - -The little girl was pretty, but Án-tonia— they accented the name thus, -strongly, when they spoke to her—was still prettier. I remembered what the -conductor had said about her eyes. They were big and warm and full of -light, like the sun shining on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was -brown, too, and in her cheeks she had a glow of rich, dark color. Her -brown hair was curly and wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called -Yulka (Julka), was fair, and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood -awkwardly confronting the two girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see -what was going on. With him was another Shimerda son. Even from a distance -one could see that there was something strange about this boy. As he -approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands to -show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck’s -foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow delightedly, “Hoo, -hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!” like a rooster. His mother scowled and said sternly, -“Marek!” then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian. - -“She wants me to tell you he won’t hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born -like that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer.” He struck -Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly. - -At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no -hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed straight back from his -forehead. It was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him -look like the old portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and -slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly, -then took grandmother’s hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and -well-shaped his own hands were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. -His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face -was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes—like something from which -all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old man was -in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. Under his -coat he wore a knitted gray vest, and, instead of a collar, a silk scarf -of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held together by a red coral -pin. While Krajiek was translating for Mr. Shimerda, Ántonia came up to me -and held out her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were running up the steep -drawside together, Yulka trotting after us. - -When we reached the level and could see the gold tree-tops, I pointed -toward them, and Ántonia laughed and squeezed my hand as if to tell me how -glad she was I had come. We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop -until the ground itself stopped—fell away before us so abruptly that the -next step would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the -edge of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below -us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the girls’ -skirts were blown out before them. Ántonia seemed to like it; she held her -little sister by the hand and chattered away in that language which seemed -to me spoken so much more rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes -fairly blazing with things she could not say. - -“Name? What name?” she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my -name, and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into -the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, “What -name?” - -We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a -baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky -and questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not -satisfied and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, -making it sound like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, -then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she -distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees -and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then -to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. - -“Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue sky.” - -She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, blue eyes,” as if it amused -her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of -words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we -could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of -us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over -and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on -her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite -sternly. I did n’t want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless -and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never -seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was -how they behaved. - -While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, -“Án-tonia, Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. “Tatinek, Tatinek!” she -shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Ántonia -reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched -my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. -I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted -by my elders. - -We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was -waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his -pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English -and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother’s hands, -looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall -never forget, “Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!” - - - - -IV - - -ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, -under Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the -post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time -by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or -to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I -was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after -working hours. - -All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first -glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences -in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, -trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the -sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were -introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the -persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to -find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of -the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered -sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of -wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the -sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake’s -story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. -Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered -roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. - -I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the -damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon -turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like -cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to -visit our German neighbors and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see -the big elm tree that grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a -hawk’s nest in its branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they -had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about -them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the -scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious. - -Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to watch the brown, -earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests -underground with the dogs. Ántonia Shimerda liked to go with me, and we -used to wonder a great deal about these birds of subterranean habit. We -had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes were always lurking about. -They came to pick up an easy living among the dogs and owls, which were -quite defenseless against them; took possession of their comfortable -houses and ate the eggs and puppies. We felt sorry for the owls. It was -always mournful to see them come flying home at sunset and disappear under -the earth. But, after all, we felt, winged things who would live like that -must be rather degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any -pond or creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the -desert where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that -some of the holes must go down to water—nearly two hundred feet, -hereabouts. Ántonia said she did n’t believe it; that the dogs probably -lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits. - -Ántonia had opinions about everything, and she was soon able to make them -known. Almost every day she came running across the prairie to have her -reading lesson with me. Mrs. Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was -important that one member of the family should learn English. When the -lesson was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the -garden. I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the -hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The -white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with -curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set in, -and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the Shimerdas were -famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for miles along the edge of -the cornfields, hunting for ground-cherries. - -Ántonia loved to help grandmother in the kitchen and to learn about -cooking and housekeeping. She would stand beside her, watching her every -movement. We were willing to believe that Mrs. Shimerda was a good -housewife in her own country, but she managed poorly under new conditions: -the conditions were bad enough, certainly! - -I remember how horrified we were at the sour, ashy-gray bread she gave her -family to eat. She mixed her dough, we discovered, in an old tin -peck-measure that Krajiek had used about the barn. When she took the paste -out to bake it, she left smears of dough sticking to the sides of the -measure, put the measure on the shelf behind the stove, and let this -residue ferment. The next time she made bread, she scraped this sour stuff -down into the fresh dough to serve as yeast. - -During those first months the Shimerdas never went to town. Krajiek -encouraged them in the belief that in Black Hawk they would somehow be -mysteriously separated from their money. They hated Krajiek, but they -clung to him because he was the only human being with whom they could talk -or from whom they could get information. He slept with the old man and the -two boys in the dugout barn, along with the oxen. They kept him in their -hole and fed him for the same reason that the prairie dogs and the brown -owls housed the rattlesnakes—because they did not know how to get rid of -him. - - - - -V - - -WE knew that things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two -girls were light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to -forget their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, -scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail. - -I remember Ántonia’s excitement when she came into our kitchen one -afternoon and announced: “My papa find friends up north, with Russian -mans. Last night he take me for see, and I can understand very much talk. -Nice mans, Mrs. Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody -laugh. The first time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very -nice!” - -I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived up by the big -dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them when I was riding in -that direction, but one of them was a wild-looking fellow and I was a -little afraid of him. Russia seemed to me more remote than any other -country—farther away than China, almost as far as the North Pole. Of all -the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two men were -the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were unpronounceable, -so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about making signs to -people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no friends. Krajiek could -understand them a little, but he had cheated them in a trade, so they -avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to be an anarchist; since he -had no means of imparting his opinions, probably his wild gesticulations -and his generally excited and rebellious manner gave rise to this -supposition. He must once have been a very strong man, but now his great -frame, with big, knotty joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn -tight over his high cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always -had a cough. - -Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of fellow; short, -bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed pleased when he met -people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to every one, men as well -as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he looked like an old man; his hair -and beard were of such a pale flaxen color that they seemed white in the -sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face, with its -snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its leaves. He was -usually called “Curly Peter,” or “Rooshian Peter.” - -The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer they worked out -together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they told how Peter -always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other bachelor -homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes Peter came to -church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw him, sitting on a -low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands, his bare feet tucked -apologetically under the seat. - -After Mr. Shimerda discovered the Russians, he went to see them almost -every evening, and sometimes took Ántonia with him. She said they came -from a part of Russia where the language was not very different from -Bohemian, and if I wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for -me. One afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there -together on my pony. - -The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy slope, with a windlass -well beside the door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, -and a garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We -found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was working -so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved up and down -as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with his shaggy head -and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to greet us, drops of -perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down on to his curly beard. -Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave his washing. He took us -down to see his chickens, and his cow that was grazing on the hillside. He -told Ántonia that in his country only rich people had cows, but here any -man could have one who would take care of her. The milk was good for -Pavel, who was often sick, and he could make butter by beating sour cream -with a wooden spoon. Peter was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks -and talked to her in Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it -in a new place. - -After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a load of watermelons up -the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at home. He was off somewhere -helping to dig a well. The house I thought very comfortable for two men -who were “batching.” Besides the kitchen, there was a living-room, with a -wide double bed built against the wall, properly made up with blue gingham -sheets and pillows. There was a little storeroom, too, with a window, -where they kept guns and saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That -day the floor was covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and -beans and fat yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in -the house, and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies -and sunshine alike. - -Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered table and stood over -them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the blade got fairly into them, -they split of their own ripeness, with a delicious sound. He gave us -knives, but no plates, and the top of the table was soon swimming with -juice and seeds. I had never seen any one eat so many melons as Peter ate. -He assured us that they were good for one—better than medicine; in his -country people lived on them at this time of year. He was very hospitable -and jolly. Once, while he was looking at Ántonia, he sighed and told us -that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would have -had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him. He said -he had left his country because of a “great trouble.” - -When we got up to go, Peter looked about in perplexity for something that -would entertain us. He ran into the storeroom and brought out a gaudily -painted harmonica, sat down on a bench, and spreading his fat legs apart -began to play like a whole band. The tunes were either very lively or very -doleful, and he sang words to some of them. - -Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack for Mrs. Shimerda and -gave us a lard-pail full of milk to cook them in. I had never heard of -cooking cucumbers, but Ántonia assured me they were very good. We had to -walk the pony all the way home to keep from spilling the milk. - - - - -VI - - -ONE afternoon we were having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank -where the badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a -shiver of coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little -horse-pond that morning, and as we went through the garden we found the -tall asparagus, with its red berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy -green. - -Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton dress and was -comfortable only when we were tucked down on the baked earth, in the full -blaze of the sun. She could talk to me about almost anything by this time. -That afternoon she was telling me how highly esteemed our friend the -badger was in her part of the world, and how men kept a special kind of -dog, with very short legs, to hunt him. Those dogs, she said, went down -into the hole after the badger and killed him there in a terrific struggle -underground; you could hear the barks and yelps outside. Then the dog -dragged himself back, covered with bites and scratches, to be rewarded and -petted by his master. She knew a dog who had a star on his collar for -every badger he had killed. - -The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They kept starting up all -about us, and dashing off down the draw as if they were playing a game of -some kind. But the little buzzing things that lived in the grass were all -dead—all but one. While we were lying there against the warm bank, a -little insect of the palest, frailest green hopped painfully out of the -buffalo grass and tried to leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, -fell back, and sat with his head sunk between his long legs, his antennæ -quivering, as if he were waiting for something to come and finish him. -Tony made a warm nest for him in her hands; talked to him gayly and -indulgently in Bohemian. Presently he began to sing for us—a thin, rusty -little chirp. She held him close to her ear and laughed, but a moment -afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told me that in her -village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about selling herbs -and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and gave her a -warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children in a cracked -voice, like this. Old Hata, she was called, and the children loved to see -her coming and saved their cakes and sweets for her. - -When the bank on the other side of the draw began to throw a narrow shelf -of shadow, we knew we ought to be starting homeward; the chill came on -quickly when the sun got low, and Ántonia’s dress was thin. What were we -to do with the frail little creature we had lured back to life by false -pretenses? I offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put -the green insect in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over -her curls. I said I would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek, and -then turn and run home. We drifted along lazily, very happy, through the -magical light of the late afternoon. - -All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never got used to them. As -far as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in -sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. -The blond cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw -long shadows. The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire -and was not consumed. That hour always had the exultation of victory, of -triumphant ending, like a hero’s death—heroes who died young and -gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day. - -How many an afternoon Ántonia and I have trailed along the prairie under -that magnificence! And always two long black shadows flitted before us or -followed after, dark spots on the ruddy grass. - -We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the sun sank nearer and -nearer the prairie floor, when we saw a figure moving on the edge of the -upland, a gun over his shoulder. He was walking slowly, dragging his feet -along as if he had no purpose. We broke into a run to overtake him. - -“My papa sick all the time,” Tony panted as we flew. “He not look good, -Jim.” - -As we neared Mr. Shimerda she shouted, and he lifted his head and peered -about. Tony ran up to him, caught his hand and pressed it against her -cheek. She was the only one of his family who could rouse the old man from -the torpor in which he seemed to live. He took the bag from his belt and -showed us three rabbits he had shot, looked at Ántonia with a wintry -flicker of a smile and began to tell her something. She turned to me. - -“My tatinek make me little hat with the skins, little hat for win-ter!” -she exclaimed joyfully. “Meat for eat, skin for hat,”—she told off these -benefits on her fingers. - -Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught his wrist and lifted -it carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I heard the name of old Hata. -He untied the handkerchief, separated her hair with his fingers, and stood -looking down at the green insect. When it began to chirp faintly, he -listened as if it were a beautiful sound. - -I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece from the old country, -short and heavy, with a stag’s head on the cock. When he saw me examining -it, he turned to me with his far-away look that always made me feel as if -I were down at the bottom of a well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and -Ántonia translated:— - -“My tatinek say when you are big boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from -Bohemie. It was belong to a great man, very rich, like what you not got -here; many fields, many forests, many big house. My papa play for his -wedding, and he give my papa fine gun, and my papa give you.” - -[Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over - his shoulder] - -I was glad that this project was one of futurity. There never were such -people as the Shimerdas for wanting to give away everything they had. Even -the mother was always offering me things, though I knew she expected -substantial presents in return. We stood there in friendly silence, while -the feeble minstrel sheltered in Ántonia’s hair went on with its scratchy -chirp. The old man’s smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of -pity for things, that I never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there -came a sudden coolness and the strong smell of earth and drying grass. -Ántonia and her father went off hand in hand, and I buttoned up my jacket -and raced my shadow home. - - - - -VII - - -MUCH as I liked Ántonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took -with me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of -the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her -protecting manner. Before the autumn was over she began to treat me more -like an equal and to defer to me in other things than reading lessons. -This change came about from an adventure we had together. - -One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas’ I found Ántonia starting off on -foot for Russian Peter’s house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I -offered to take her on the pony, and she got up behind me. There had been -another black frost the night before, and the air was clear and heady as -wine. Within a week all the blooming roads had been despoiled—hundreds of -miles of yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, -burry stalks. - -We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were glad to go in and get -warm by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons, -heaped in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade, -Ántonia suggested that we stop at the prairie-dog town and dig into one of -the holes. We could find out whether they ran straight down, or were -horizontal, like mole-holes; whether they had underground connections; -whether the owls had nests down there, lined with feathers. We might get -some puppies, or owl eggs, or snake-skins. - -The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres. The grass had been -nibbled short and even, so this stretch was not shaggy and red like the -surrounding country, but gray and velvety. The holes were several yards -apart, and were disposed with a good deal of regularity, almost as if the -town had been laid out in streets and avenues. One always felt that an -orderly and very sociable kind of life was going on there. I picketed Dude -down in a draw, and we went wandering about, looking for a hole that would -be easy to dig. The dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on -their hind legs over the doors of their houses. As we approached, they -barked, shook their tails at us, and scurried underground. Before the -mouths of the holes were little patches of sand and gravel, scratched up, -we supposed, from a long way below the surface. Here and there, in the -town, we came on larger gravel patches, several yards away from any hole. -If the dogs had scratched the sand up in excavating, how had they carried -it so far? It was on one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure. - -We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The burrow sloped into -the ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see where the two corridors -united, and the floor was dusty from use, like a little highway over which -much travel went. I was walking backward, in a crouching position, when I -heard Ántonia scream. She was standing opposite me, pointing behind me and -shouting something in Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of -those dry gravel beds, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was -sunning himself, after the cold night, and he must have been asleep when -Ántonia screamed. When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a -letter “W.” He twitched and began to coil slowly. He was not merely a big -snake, I thought—he was a circus monstrosity. His abominable muscularity, -his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow made me sick. He was as thick as my -leg, and looked as if millstones could n’t crush the disgusting vitality -out of him. He lifted his hideous little head, and rattled. I did n’t run -because I did n’t think of it—if my back had been against a stone wall I -could n’t have felt more cornered. I saw his coils tighten—now he would -spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up and drove at his head -with my spade, struck him fairly across the neck, and in a minute he was -all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck now from hate. Ántonia, -barefooted as she was, ran up behind me. Even after I had pounded his ugly -head flat, his body kept on coiling and winding, doubling and falling back -on itself. I walked away and turned my back. I felt seasick. Ántonia came -after me, crying, “O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you not run -when I say?” - -“What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have told me there was a snake -behind me!” I said petulantly. - -“I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so scared.” She took my handkerchief -from my pocket and tried to wipe my face with it, but I snatched it away -from her. I suppose I looked as sick as I felt. - -“I never know you was so brave, Jim,” she went on comfortingly. “You is -just like big mans; you wait for him lift his head and then you go for -him. Ain’t you feel scared a bit? Now we take that snake home and show -everybody. Nobody ain’t seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you -kill.” - -She went on in this strain until I began to think that I had longed for -this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy. Cautiously we went back to -the snake; he was still groping with his tail, turning up his ugly belly -in the light. A faint, fetid smell came from him, and a thread of green -liquid oozed from his crushed head. - -“Look, Tony, that’s his poison,” I said. - -I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she lifted his head with -the spade while I tied a noose around it. We pulled him out straight and -measured him by my riding-quirt; he was about five and a half feet long. -He had twelve rattles, but they were broken off before they began to -taper, so I insisted that he must once have had twenty-four. I explained -to Ántonia how this meant that he was twenty-four years old, that he must -have been there when white men first came, left on from buffalo and Indian -times. As I turned him over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind -of respect for his age and size. He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. -Certainly his kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all -warm-blooded life. When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off -to the end of his tether and shivered all over—would n’t let us come near -him. - -We decided that Ántonia should ride Dude home, and I would walk. As she -rode along slowly, her bare legs swinging against the pony’s sides, she -kept shouting back to me about how astonished everybody would be. I -followed with the spade over my shoulder, dragging my snake. Her -exultation was contagious. The great land had never looked to me so big -and free. If the red grass were full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. -Nevertheless, I stole furtive glances behind me now and then to see that -no avenging mate, older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the -rear. - -The sun had set when we reached our garden and went down the draw toward -the house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge -of the cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. Ántonia called him -to come quick and look. He did not say anything for a minute, but -scratched his head and turned the snake over with his boot. - -“Where did you run onto that beauty, Jim?” - -“Up at the dog-town,” I answered laconically. - -“Kill him yourself? How come you to have a weepon?” - -“We’d been up to Russian Peter’s, to borrow a spade for Ambrosch.” - -Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted down to count the -rattles. “It was just luck you had a tool,” he said cautiously. “Gosh! I -would n’t want to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a -fence-post along. Your grandmother’s snake-cane would n’t more than tickle -him. He could stand right up and talk to you, he could. Did he fight -hard?” - -Ántonia broke in: “He fight something awful! He is all over Jimmy’s boots. -I scream for him to run, but he just hit and hit that snake like he was -crazy.” - -Otto winked at me. After Ántonia rode on he said: “Got him in the head -first crack, did n’t you? That was just as well.” - -We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down to the kitchen I -found Ántonia standing in the middle of the floor, telling the story with -a great deal of color. - -Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me that my first encounter -was fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler was old, and had led too -easy a life; there was not much fight in him. He had probably lived there -for years, with a fat prairie dog for breakfast whenever he felt like it, -a sheltered home, even an owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that -the world does n’t owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting -trim, would be more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a mock -adventure; the game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably was for -many a dragon-slayer. I had been adequately armed by Russian Peter; the -snake was old and lazy; and I had Ántonia beside me, to appreciate and -admire. - -That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; some of the -neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the biggest rattler ever -killed in those parts. This was enough for Ántonia. She liked me better -from that time on, and she never took a supercilious air with me again. I -had killed a big snake—I was now a big fellow. - - - - -VIII - - -WHILE the autumn color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, -things went badly with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles -to Mr. Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first -of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a -mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow. His creditor was -Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk money-lender, a man of evil name -throughout the county, of whom I shall have more to say later. Peter could -give no very clear account of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew -that he had first borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then -fifty—that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew -faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with -mortgages. - -Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers -for a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood -from the lungs that his fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. -They hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill -indeed. Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the -log house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The -Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to -put them out of mind. - -One afternoon Ántonia and her father came over to our house to get -buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low. Just -as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove up. Pavel was very bad, he said, -and wanted to talk to Mr. Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch -them. When Ántonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated -grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my supper, I -would sleep in the Shimerdas’ barn and run home in the morning. My plan -must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was often large-minded about -humoring the desires of other people. She asked Peter to wait a moment, -and when she came back from the kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches -and doughnuts for us. - -Mr. Shimerda and Peter were on the front seat; Ántonia and I sat in the -straw behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a -cold wind sprang up and moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the -weather had come sooner, I should not have got away. We burrowed down in -the straw and curled up close together, watching the angry red die out of -the west and the stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept -sighing and groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would -never get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew -magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of the -world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those shining -groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to be. Perhaps -Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had brought from his -land, too, some such belief. - -The little house on the hillside was so much the color of the night that -we could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows guided -us—the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning. - -We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and I -sat down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in -front of us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the -thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept -moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then -swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it bore -down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They made me -think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were trying -desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on. Presently, in -one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the coyotes tuned up -with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all together—to tell us -that winter was coming. This sound brought an answer from the bed,—a long -complaining cry,—as if Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some -old misery. Peter listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor -by the kitchen stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap—then the -high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his elbow. - -“He is scared of the wolves,” Ántonia whispered to me. “In his country -there are very many, and they eat men and women.” We slid closer together -along the bench. - -I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging -open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell -horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the -tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell of -spirits went through the room. - -Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle and -slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted -some one. His eyes followed Peter about the room with a contemptuous, -unfriendly expression. It seemed to me that he despised him for being so -simple and docile. - -Presently Pavel began to talk to Mr. Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. -He was telling a long story, and as he went on, Ántonia took my hand under -the table and held it tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to -hear him. He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his -bed, as if there were things there and he wanted Mr. Shimerda to see them. - -“It’s wolves, Jimmy,” Ántonia whispered. “It’s awful, what he says!” - -The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to be cursing people who -had wronged him. Mr. Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could -hardly hold him in bed. At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which -fairly choked him. He pulled a cloth from under his pillow and held it to -his mouth. Quickly it was covered with bright red spots—I thought I had -never seen any blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to -the wall, all the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for -breath, like a child with croup. Ántonia’s father uncovered one of his -long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we could see -what a hollow case his body was. His spine and shoulder-blades stood out -like the bones under the hide of a dead steer left in the fields. That -sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay on it. - -Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, the worst was over. -Mr. Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep. Without a word Peter got -up and lit his lantern. He was going out to get his team to drive us home. -Mr. Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the long bowed back under -the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe. - -On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and -rattling Ántonia told me as much of the story as she could. What she did -not tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days -afterward. - - - -When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were -asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another -village. It was in the dead of winter and the groom’s party went over to -the wedding in sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom’s sledge, and -six sledges followed with all his relatives and friends. - -After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the -parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a -supper and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and -drinking. At midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and -blessed her. The groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his -sledge and tucked her under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and -Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. -The party set out with singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom’s -sledge going first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for -merry-making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride. - -The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew it, yet when they -heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too -much good food and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and -echoed and with quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. -There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove -came up over the hill behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like -streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were -hundreds of them. - -Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control,—he was -probably very drunk,—the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a -clump of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, -and the fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed -made everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The -groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest—all the others carried -from six to a dozen people. - -Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible -to hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the -wolves. It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who -were falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. -The little bride hid her face on the groom’s shoulder and sobbed. Pavel -sat still and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the -groom’s three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm -and to guide them carefully. - -At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked -back. “There are only three sledges left,” he whispered. - -“And the wolves?” Pavel asked. - -“Enough! Enough for all of us.” - -Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down -the other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a -whirling black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his -father’s sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as -if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even -then too late. The black ground-shadows were already crowding over the -heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness -hanging to him, wolves at his heels. But the groom’s movement had given -Pavel an idea. - -They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left -out of six was not very far behind them, and Pavel’s middle horse was -failing. Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; -Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the -horses went crazy. They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in -the harness, and overturned the sledge. - -When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone -upon the familiar road. “They still come?” he asked Peter. - -“Yes.” - -“How many?” - -“Twenty, thirty—enough.” - -Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave -Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He -called to the groom that they must lighten—and pointed to the bride. The -young man cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. -In the struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the -sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly -how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front -seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound -that broke into the clear air, louder than they had ever heard it -before—the bell of the monastery of their own village, ringing for early -prayers. - -Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever -since. They were run out of their village. Pavel’s own mother would not -look at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned -where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who -had fed the bride to the wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed -them. It took them five years to save money enough to come to America. -They worked in Chicago, Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always -unfortunate. When Pavel’s health grew so bad, they decided to try farming. - -Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to Mr. Shimerda, and -was buried in the Norwegian graveyard. Peter sold off everything, and left -the country—went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of -Russians were employed. - -At his sale we bought Peter’s wheelbarrow and some of his harness. During -the auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. -He seemed not to care about anything. The Black Hawk money-lender who held -mortgages on Peter’s live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes -at about fifty cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow -before she was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but -this I know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans -had been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and -bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the melons -that he had put away for winter. When Mr. Shimerda and Krajiek drove up in -their wagon to take Peter to the train, they found him with a dripping -beard, surrounded by heaps of melon rinds. - -The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old Mr. Shimerda. -When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit -there, brooding. This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows -penned him in his cave. For Ántonia and me, the story of the wedding party -was never at an end. We did not tell Pavel’s secret to any one, but -guarded it jealously—as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that -night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a -painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I often -found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through a country -that looked something like Nebraska and something like Virginia. - - - - -IX - - -THE first snowfall came early in December. I remember how the world looked -from our sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: -the low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out -into ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff -willow bushes. Big white flakes were whirling over everything and -disappearing in the red grass. - -Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the cornfield, there was, -faintly marked in the grass, a great circle where the Indians used to -ride. Jake and Otto were sure that when they galloped round that ring the -Indians tortured prisoners, bound to a stake in the center; but -grandfather thought they merely ran races or trained horses there. -Whenever one looked at this slope against the setting sun, the circle -showed like a pattern in the grass; and this morning, when the first light -spray of snow lay over it, it came out with wonderful distinctness, like -strokes of Chinese white on canvas. The old figure stirred me as it had -never done before and seemed a good omen for the winter. - -As soon as the snow had packed hard I began to drive about the country in -a clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by fastening a wooden -goods-box on bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a cabinet-maker in the -old country and was very handy with tools. He would have done a better job -if I had n’t hurried him. My first trip was to the post-office, and the -next day I went over to take Yulka and Ántonia for a sleigh-ride. - -It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo robes into the box, -and took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets. When I got to the -Shimerdas’ I did not go up to the house, but sat in my sleigh at the -bottom of the draw and called. Ántonia and Yulka came running out, wearing -little rabbit-skin hats their father had made for them. They had heard -about my sledge from Ambrosch and knew why I had come. They tumbled in -beside me and we set off toward the north, along a road that happened to -be broken. - -The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the glittering white -stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As Ántonia said, the whole world -was changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for familiar landmarks. -The deep arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound was now only a cleft -between snow-drifts—very blue when one looked down into it. The tree-tops -that had been gold all the autumn were dwarfed and twisted, as if they -would never have any life in them again. The few little cedars, which were -so dull and dingy before, now stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind -had the burning taste of fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if -some one had opened a hartshorn bottle. The cold stung, and at the same -time delighted one. My horse’s breath rose like steam, and whenever we -stopped he smoked all over. The cornfields got back a little of their -color under the dazzling light, and stood the palest possible gold in the -sun and snow. All about us the snow was crusted in shallow terraces, with -tracings like ripple-marks at the edges, curly waves that were the actual -impression of the stinging lash in the wind. - -The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls; they kept shivering -beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other for warmth. But they were -so glad to get away from their ugly cave and their mother’s scolding that -they begged me to go on and on, as far as Russian Peter’s house. The great -fresh open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like -wild things. They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go -home again. Could n’t we settle down and live in Russian Peter’s house, -Yulka asked, and could n’t I go to town and buy things for us to keep -house with? - -All the way to Russian Peter’s we were extravagantly happy, but when we -turned back,—it must have been about four o’clock,—the east wind grew -stronger and began to howl; the sun lost its heartening power and the sky -became gray and somber. I took off my long woolen comforter and wound it -around Yulka’s throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her head -under the buffalo robe. Ántonia and I sat erect, but I held the reins -clumsily, and my eyes were blinded by the wind a good deal of the time. It -was growing dark when we got to their house, but I refused to go in with -them and get warm. I knew my hands would ache terribly if I went near a -fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my comforter, and I had to drive home -directly against the wind. The next day I came down with an attack of -quinsy, which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks. - -The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in those days—like a -tight little boat in a winter sea. The men were out in the fields all day, -husking corn, and when they came in at noon, with long caps pulled down -over their ears and their feet in red-lined overshoes, I used to think -they were like Arctic explorers. - -In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs darning, or making -husking-gloves, I read “The Swiss Family Robinson” aloud to her, and I -felt that the Swiss family had no advantages over us in the way of an -adventurous life. I was convinced that man’s strongest antagonist is the -cold. I admired the cheerful zest with which grandmother went about -keeping us warm and comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when -she was preparing for the return of the hungry men, that this country was -not like Virginia, and that here a cook had, as she said, “very little to -do with.” On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as we could eat, and on -other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat. She baked either pies or -cake for us every day, unless, for a change, she made my favorite pudding, -striped with currants and boiled in a bag. - -Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and supper were the most -interesting things we had to think about. Our lives centered around warmth -and food and the return of the men at nightfall. I used to wonder, when -they came in tired from the fields, their feet numb and their hands -cracked and sore, how they could do all the chores so conscientiously: -feed and water and bed the horses, milk the cows, and look after the pigs. -When supper was over, it took them a long while to get the cold out of -their bones. While grandmother and I washed the dishes and grandfather -read his paper upstairs, Jake and Otto sat on the long bench behind the -stove, “easing” their inside boots, or rubbing mutton tallow into their -cracked hands. - -Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy, and Otto Fuchs used to -sing, “For I Am a Cowboy and Know I’ve Done Wrong,” or, “Bury Me Not on -the Lone Prairee.” He had a good baritone voice and always led the singing -when we went to church services at the sod schoolhouse. - -I can still see those two men sitting on the bench; Otto’s close-clipped -head and Jake’s shaggy hair slicked flat in front by a wet comb. I can see -the sag of their tired shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good -fellows they were, how much they knew, and how many things they had kept -faith with! - -Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a bar-tender, a miner; had -wandered all over that great Western country and done hard work -everywhere, though, as grandmother said, he had nothing to show for it. -Jake was duller than Otto. He could scarcely read, wrote even his name -with difficulty, and he had a violent temper which sometimes made him -behave like a crazy man—tore him all to pieces and actually made him ill. -But he was so soft-hearted that any one could impose upon him. If he, as -he said, “forgot himself” and swore before grandmother, he went about -depressed and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial about the -cold in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime and -to meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare -themselves. Yet they were the sort of men who never get on, somehow, or do -anything but work hard for a dollar or two a day. - -On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the old stove that fed -us and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could hear the coyotes howling -down by the corrals, and their hungry, wintry cry used to remind the boys -of wonderful animal stories; about gray wolves and bears in the Rockies, -wildcats and panthers in the Virginia mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be -persuaded to talk about the outlaws and desperate characters he had known. -I remember one funny story about himself that made grandmother, who was -working her bread on the bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with -her bare arm, her hands being floury. It was like this:— - -When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was asked by one of his -relatives to look after a woman who was crossing on the same boat, to join -her husband in Chicago. The woman started off with two children, but it -was clear that her family might grow larger on the journey. Fuchs said he -“got on fine with the kids,” and liked the mother, though she played a -sorry trick on him. In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but -three! This event made Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he -was traveling with her. The steerage stewardess was indignant with him, -the doctor regarded him with suspicion. The first-cabin passengers, who -made up a purse for the woman, took an embarrassing interest in Otto, and -often inquired of him about his charge. When the triplets were taken -ashore at New York, he had, as he said, “to carry some of them.” The trip -to Chicago was even worse than the ocean voyage. On the train it was very -difficult to get milk for the babies and to keep their bottles clean. The -mother did her best, but no woman, out of her natural resources, could -feed three babies. The husband, in Chicago, was working in a furniture -factory for modest wages, and when he met his family at the station he was -rather crushed by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in -some fashion to blame. “I was sure glad,” Otto concluded, “that he did n’t -take his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he had a sullen eye for -me, all right! Now, did you ever hear of a young feller’s having such hard -luck, Mrs. Burden?” - -Grandmother told him she was sure the Lord had remembered these things to -his credit, and had helped him out of many a scrape when he did n’t -realize that he was being protected by Providence. - - - - -X - - -FOR several weeks after my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the -Shimerdas. My sore throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold -which made the housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to -have a day of rest. One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen Mr. -Shimerda out hunting. - -“He’s made himself a rabbit-skin cap, Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that -he buttons on outside his coat. They ain’t got but one overcoat among ’em -over there, and they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of -cold, and stick in that hole in the bank like badgers.” - -“All but the crazy boy,” Jake put in. “He never wears the coat. Krajiek -says he’s turrible strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be -getting scarce in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield -yesterday where I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he’d shot. -He asked me if they was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on, -to scare him, but he just looked like he was smarter’n me and put ’em back -in his sack and walked off.” - -Grandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to grandfather. “Josiah, you -don’t suppose Krajiek would let them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do -you?” - -“You had better go over and see our neighbors to-morrow, Emmaline,” he -replied gravely. - -Fuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs were clean beasts and -ought to be good for food, but their family connections were against them. -I asked what he meant, and he grinned and said they belonged to the rat -family. - -When I went downstairs in the morning, I found grandmother and Jake -packing a hamper basket in the kitchen. - -“Now, Jake,” grandmother was saying, “if you can find that old rooster -that got his comb froze, just give his neck a twist, and we’ll take him -along. There’s no good reason why Mrs. Shimerda could n’t have got hens -from her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I reckon she -was confused and did n’t know where to begin. I’ve come strange to a new -country myself, but I never forgot hens are a good thing to have, no -matter what you don’t have.” - -“Just as you say, mam,” said Jake, “but I hate to think of Krajiek getting -a leg of that old rooster.” He tramped out through the long cellar and -dropped the heavy door behind him. - -After breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled ourselves up and -climbed into the cold front wagon-seat. As we approached the Shimerdas’ we -heard the frosty whine of the pump and saw Ántonia, her head tied up and -her cotton dress blown about her, throwing all her weight on the -pump-handle as it went up and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over -her shoulder, and catching up her pail of water, started at a run for the -hole in the bank. - -Jake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he would bring the -provisions after he had blanketed his horses. We went slowly up the icy -path toward the door sunk in the drawside. Blue puffs of smoke came from -the stovepipe that stuck out through the grass and snow, but the wind -whisked them roughly away. - -Mrs. Shimerda opened the door before we knocked and seized grandmother’s -hand. She did not say “How do!” as usual, but at once began to cry, -talking very fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were -tied up in rags, and looking about accusingly at every one. - -The old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove, crouching over as if -he were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the floor at his feet, her -kitten in her lap. She peeped out at me and smiled, but, glancing up at -her mother, hid again. Ántonia was washing pans and dishes in a dark -corner. The crazy boy lay under the only window, stretched on a gunnysack -stuffed with straw. As soon as we entered he threw a grainsack over the -crack at the bottom of the door. The air in the cave was stifling, and it -was very dark, too. A lighted lantern, hung over the stove, threw out a -feeble yellow glimmer. - -Mrs. Shimerda snatched off the covers of two barrels behind the door, and -made us look into them. In one there were some potatoes that had been -frozen and were rotting, in the other was a little pile of flour. -Grandmother murmured something in embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman -laughed scornfully, a kind of whinny-laugh, and catching up an empty -coffee-pot from the shelf, shook it at us with a look positively -vindictive. - -Grandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia way, not admitting -their stark need or her own remissness, until Jake arrived with the -hamper, as if in direct answer to Mrs. Shimerda’s reproaches. Then the -poor woman broke down. She dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid -her face on her knees, and sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed -to her, but called Ántonia to come and help empty the basket. Tony left -her corner reluctantly. I had never seen her crushed like this before. - -“You not mind my poor mamenka, Mrs. Burden. She is so sad,” she whispered, -as she wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things grandmother -handed her. - -The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft, gurgling noises and -stroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time with a sack of -potatoes. Grandmother looked about in perplexity. - -“Have n’t you got any sort of cave or cellar outside, Ántonia? This is no -place to keep vegetables. How did your potatoes get frozen?” - -“We get from Mr. Bushy, at the post-office,—what he throw out. We got no -potatoes, Mrs. Burden,” Tony admitted mournfully. - -When Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and stuffed up the -door-crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow, Mr. Shimerda came out from -behind the stove. He stood brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as -if he were trying to clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and -neat as usual, with his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took -grandmother’s arm and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room. -In the rear wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger -than an oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth. When I got up on one -of the stools and peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw. -The old man held the lantern. “Yulka,” he said in a low, despairing voice, -“Yulka; my Ántonia!” - -Grandmother drew back. “You mean they sleep in there,—your girls?” He -bowed his head. - -Tony slipped under his arm. “It is very cold on the floor, and this is -warm like the badger hole. I like for sleep there,” she insisted eagerly. -“My mamenka have nice bed, with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie. -See, Jim?” She pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against -the wall for himself before the Shimerdas came. - -Grandmother sighed. “Sure enough, where _would_ you sleep, dear! I don’t -doubt you’re warm there. You’ll have a better house after while, Ántonia, -and then you’ll forget these hard times.” - -Mr. Shimerda made grandmother sit down on the only chair and pointed his -wife to a stool beside her. Standing before them with his hand on -Ántonia’s shoulder, he talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated. -He wanted us to know that they were not beggars in the old country; he -made good wages, and his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with -more than a thousand dollars in savings, after their passage money was -paid. He had in some way lost on exchange in New York, and the railway -fare to Nebraska was more than they had expected. By the time they paid -Krajiek for the land, and bought his horses and oxen and some old farm -machinery, they had very little money left. He wished grandmother to know, -however, that he still had some money. If they could get through until -spring came, they would buy a cow and chickens and plant a garden, and -would then do very well. Ambrosch and Ántonia were both old enough to work -in the fields, and they were willing to work. But the snow and the bitter -weather had disheartened them all. - -Ántonia explained that her father meant to build a new house for them in -the spring; he and Ambrosch had already split the logs for it, but the -logs were all buried in the snow, along the creek where they had been -felled. - -While grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I sat down on the floor -with Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek slid cautiously toward us -and began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I knew he wanted to make his -queer noises for me—to bark like a dog or whinny like a horse,—but he did -not dare in the presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be -agreeable, poor fellow, as if he had it on his mind that he must make up -for his deficiencies. - -Mrs. Shimerda grew more calm and reasonable before our visit was over, -and, while Ántonia translated, put in a word now and then on her own -account. The woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases whenever she -heard English spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her wooden chest and -brought out a bag made of bed-ticking, about as long as a flour sack and -half as wide, stuffed full of something. At sight of it, the crazy boy -began to smack his lips. When Mrs. Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the -contents with her hand, it gave out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent, -even among the other odors of that cave. She measured a teacup full, tied -it up in a bit of sacking, and presented it ceremoniously to grandmother. - -“For cook,” she announced. “Little now; be very much when cook,” spreading -out her hands as if to indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon. -“Very good. You no have in this country. All things for eat better in my -country.” - -“Maybe so, Mrs. Shimerda,” grandmother said drily. “I can’t say but I -prefer our bread to yours, myself.” - - [Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest] - -Ántonia undertook to explain. “This very good, Mrs. Burden,”—she clasped -her hands as if she could not express how good,—“it make very much when -you cook, like what my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in -the gravy,—oh, so good!” - -All the way home grandmother and Jake talked about how easily good -Christian people could forget they were their brothers’ keepers. - -“I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and sisters are hard to keep. -Where’s a body to begin, with these people? They’re wanting in everything, -and most of all in horse-sense. Nobody can give ’em that, I guess. Jimmy, -here, is about as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon -that boy Ambrosch has any real push in him?” - -“He’s a worker, all right, mam, and he’s got some ketch-on about him; but -he’s a mean one. Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and -then, ag’in, they can be too mean.” - -That night, while grandmother was getting supper, we opened the package -Mrs. Shimerda had given her. It was full of little brown chips that looked -like the shavings of some root. They were as light as feathers, and the -most noticeable thing about them was their penetrating, earthy odor. We -could not determine whether they were animal or vegetable. - -“They might be dried meat from some queer beast, Jim. They ain’t dried -fish, and they never grew on stalk or vine. I’m afraid of ’em. Anyhow, I -should n’t want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with old -clothes and goose pillows.” - -She threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a corner of one of the -chips I held in my hand, and chewed it tentatively. I never forgot the -strange taste; though it was many years before I knew that those little -brown shavings, which the Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so -jealously, were dried mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some -deep Bohemian forest … - - - - -XI - - -DURING the week before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of -our household, for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. -But on the 21st of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down -so thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the -windmill—its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a shadow. The -snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed. The -cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless. The men could -not go farther than the barns and corral. They sat about the house most of -the day as if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their -suspenders, plaiting whiplashes. - -On the morning of the 22d, grandfather announced at breakfast that it -would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for Christmas purchases. Jake was -sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in -saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and -a newcomer in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would -never allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain. - -We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town. I had -wanted to get some picture-books for Yulka and Ántonia; even Yulka was -able to read a little now. Grandmother took me into the ice-cold -storeroom, where she had some bolts of gingham and sheeting. She cut -squares of cotton cloth and we sewed them together into a book. We bound -it between pasteboards, which I covered with brilliant calico, -representing scenes from a circus. For two days I sat at the dining-room -table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka. We had files of those -good old family magazines which used to publish colored lithographs of -popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these. I took -“Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine” for my frontispiece. On the -white pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I -had brought from my “old country.” Fuchs got out the old candle-moulds and -made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake-cutters and -baked gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar -and red cinnamon drops. - -On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the -Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on grandfather’s gray gelding. -When he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung -to his belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was -planning a surprise for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from -the sitting-room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west -hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a -coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through. I put on my -cap and ran out to meet Jake. When I got to the pond I could see that he -was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel. He used to help my -father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten -how much I liked them. - -By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling little tree in a corner -of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas Eve. After supper we all -gathered there, and even grandfather, reading his paper by the table, -looked up with friendly interest now and then. The cedar was about five -feet high and very shapely. We hung it with the gingerbread animals, -strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which Fuchs had fitted into -pasteboard sockets. Its real splendors, however, came from the most -unlikely place in the world—from Otto’s cowboy trunk. I had never seen -anything in that trunk but old boots and spurs and pistols, and a -fascinating mixture of yellow leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker’s -wax. From under the lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly -colored paper figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand -alone. They had been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in -Austria. There was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were -the three kings, gorgeously appareled, and the ox and the ass and the -shepherds; there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, -singing; there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the -three kings. Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends -and stories nestled like birds in its branches. Grandmother said it -reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool under -it for a snow-field, and Jake’s pocket-mirror for a frozen lake. - -I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the -lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face -seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half-ear and the savage scar -that made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted mustache. As -I remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness -and violence made them defenseless. These boys had no practiced manner -behind which they could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had -only their hard fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of -those drifting, case-hardened laborers who never marry or have children of -their own. Yet he was so fond of children! - - - - -XII - - -ON Christmas morning, when I got down to the kitchen, the men were just -coming in from their morning chores—the horses and pigs always had their -breakfast before we did. Jake and Otto shouted “Merry Christmas”! to me, -and winked at each other when they saw the waffle-irons on the stove. -Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday coat. Morning -prayers were longer than usual. He read the chapters from St. Matthew -about the birth of Christ, and as we listened it all seemed like something -that had happened lately, and near at hand. In his prayer he thanked the -Lord for the first Christmas, and for all that it had meant to the world -ever since. He gave thanks for our food and comfort, and prayed for the -poor and destitute in great cities, where the struggle for life was harder -than it was here with us. Grandfather’s prayers were often very -interesting. He had the gift of simple and moving expression. Because he -talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not worn dull -from constant use. His prayers reflected what he was thinking about at the -time, and it was chiefly through them that we got to know his feelings and -his views about things. - -After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake told us how pleased the -Shimerdas had been with their presents; even Ambrosch was friendly and -went to the creek with him to cut the Christmas tree. It was a soft gray -day outside, with heavy clouds working across the sky, and occasional -squalls of snow. There were always odd jobs to be done about the barn on -holidays, and the men were busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played -dominoes, while Otto wrote a long letter home to his mother. He always -wrote to her on Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he was, and no -matter how long it had been since his last letter. All afternoon he sat in -the dining-room. He would write for a while, then sit idle, his clenched -fist lying on the table, his eyes following the pattern of the oilcloth. -He spoke and wrote his own language so seldom that it came to him -awkwardly. His effort to remember entirely absorbed him. - -At about four o’clock a visitor appeared: Mr. Shimerda, wearing his -rabbit-skin cap and collar, and new mittens his wife had knitted. He had -come to thank us for the presents, and for all grandmother’s kindness to -his family. Jake and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat about the -stove, enjoying the deepening gray of the winter afternoon and the -atmosphere of comfort and security in my grandfather’s house. This feeling -seemed completely to take possession of Mr. Shimerda. I suppose, in the -crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to believe that peace -and order had vanished from the earth, or existed only in the old world he -had left so far behind. He sat still and passive, his head resting against -the back of the wooden rocking-chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms. His -face had a look of weariness and pleasure, like that of sick people when -they feel relief from pain. Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass -of Virginia apple-brandy after his long walk in the cold, and when a faint -flush came up in his cheeks, his features might have been cut out of a -shell, they were so transparent. He said almost nothing, and smiled -rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense of his utter content. - - [Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree] - -As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the Christmas tree before -the lamp was brought. When the candle ends sent up their conical yellow -flames, all the colored figures from Austria stood out clear and full of -meaning against the green boughs. Mr. Shimerda rose, crossed himself, and -quietly knelt down before the tree, his head sunk forward. His long body -formed a letter “S.” I saw grandmother look apprehensively at grandfather. -He was rather narrow in religious matters, and sometimes spoke out and -hurt people’s feelings. There had been nothing strange about the tree -before, but now, with some one kneeling before it,—images, candles, … -Grandfather merely put his finger-tips to his brow and bowed his venerable -head, thus Protestantizing the atmosphere. - -We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He needed little -urging. As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me that he liked to -look at us, and that our faces were open books to him. When his -deep-seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were looking far ahead into -the future for me, down the road I would have to travel. - -At nine o’clock Mr. Shimerda lighted one of our lanterns and put on his -overcoat and fur collar. He stood in the little entry hall, the lantern -and his fur cap under his arm, shaking hands with us. When he took -grandmother’s hand, he bent over it as he always did, and said slowly, -“Good wo-man!” He made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap and -went off in the dark. As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfather -looked at me searchingly. “The prayers of all good people are good,” he -said quietly. - - - - -XIII - - -THE week following Christmas brought in a thaw, and by New Year’s Day all -the world about us was a broth of gray slush, and the guttered slope -between the windmill and the barn was running black water. The soft black -earth stood out in patches along the roadsides. I resumed all my chores, -carried in the cobs and wood and water, and spent the afternoons at the -barn, watching Jake shell corn with a hand-sheller. - -One morning, during this interval of fine weather, Ántonia and her mother -rode over on one of their shaggy old horses to pay us a visit. It was the -first time Mrs. Shimerda had been to our house, and she ran about -examining our carpets and curtains and furniture, all the while commenting -upon them to her daughter in an envious, complaining tone. In the kitchen -she caught up an iron pot that stood on the back of the stove and said: -“You got many, Shimerdas no got.” I thought it weak-minded of grandmother -to give the pot to her. - -After dinner, when she was helping to wash the dishes, she said, tossing -her head: “You got many things for cook. If I got all things like you, I -make much better.” - -She was a conceited, boastful old thing, and even misfortune could not -humble her. I was so annoyed that I felt coldly even toward Ántonia and -listened unsympathetically when she told me her father was not well. - -“My papa sad for the old country. He not look good. He never make music -any more. At home he play violin all the time; for weddings and for dance. -Here never. When I beg him for play, he shake his head no. Some days he -take his violin out of his box and make with his fingers on the strings, -like this, but never he make the music. He don’t like this kawn-tree.” - -“People who don’t like this country ought to stay at home,” I said -severely. “We don’t make them come here.” - -“He not want to come, nev-er!” she burst out. “My mamenka make him come. -All the time she say: ‘America big country; much money, much land for my -boys, much husband for my girls.’ My papa, he cry for leave his old -friends what make music with him. He love very much the man what play the -long horn like this”—she indicated a slide trombone. “They go to school -together and are friends from boys. But my mama, she want Ambrosch for be -rich, with many cattle.” - -“Your mama,” I said angrily, “wants other people’s things.” - -“Your grandfather is rich,” she retorted fiercely. “Why he not help my -papa? Ambrosch be rich, too, after while, and he pay back. He is very -smart boy. For Ambrosch my mama come here.” - -Ambrosch was considered the important person in the family. Mrs. Shimerda -and Ántonia always deferred to him, though he was often surly with them -and contemptuous toward his father. Ambrosch and his mother had everything -their own way. Though Ántonia loved her father more than she did any one -else, she stood in awe of her elder brother. - -After I watched Ántonia and her mother go over the hill on their miserable -horse, carrying our iron pot with them, I turned to grandmother, who had -taken up her darning, and said I hoped that snooping old woman would n’t -come to see us any more. - -Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright needle across a hole in Otto’s -sock. “She’s not old, Jim, though I expect she seems old to you. No, I -would n’t mourn if she never came again. But, you see, a body never knows -what traits poverty might bring out in ’em. It makes a woman grasping to -see her children want for things. Now read me a chapter in ‘The Prince of -the House of David.’ Let’s forget the Bohemians.” - -We had three weeks of this mild, open weather. The cattle in the corral -ate corn almost as fast as the men could shell it for them, and we hoped -they would be ready for an early market. One morning the two big bulls, -Gladstone and Brigham Young, thought spring had come, and they began to -tease and butt at each other across the barbed wire that separated them. -Soon they got angry. They bellowed and pawed up the soft earth with their -hoofs, rolling their eyes and tossing their heads. Each withdrew to a far -corner of his own corral, and then they made for each other at a gallop. -Thud, thud, we could hear the impact of their great heads, and their -bellowing shook the pans on the kitchen shelves. Had they not been -dehorned, they would have torn each other to pieces. Pretty soon the fat -steers took it up and began butting and horning each other. Clearly, the -affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and watched admiringly while -Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork and prodded the bulls again -and again, finally driving them apart. - -The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh birthday, the 20th of -January. When I went down to breakfast that morning, Jake and Otto came in -white as snow-men, beating their hands and stamping their feet. They began -to laugh boisterously when they saw me, calling:— - -“You’ve got a birthday present this time, Jim, and no mistake. They was a -full-grown blizzard ordered for you.” - -All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this time, it simply -spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds being emptied. That -afternoon the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the men brought in their tools -and made two great wooden shovels with long handles. Neither grandmother -nor I could go out in the storm, so Jake fed the chickens and brought in a -pitiful contribution of eggs. - -Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach the barn—and the snow -was still falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my -grandfather had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not try -to reach the cattle—they were fat enough to go without their corn for a -day or two; but to-morrow we must feed them and thaw out their water-tap -so that they could drink. We could not so much as see the corrals, but we -knew the steers were over there, huddled together under the north bank. -Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by this time, were probably warming -each other’s backs. “This’ll take the bile out of ’em!” Fuchs remarked -gleefully. - -At noon that day the hens had not been heard from. After dinner Jake and -Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them, stretched their stiff arms and -plunged again into the drifts. They made a tunnel under the snow to the -henhouse, with walls so solid that grandmother and I could walk back and -forth in it. We found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had -come to stay. One old rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid -lump of ice in their water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, -the hens set up a great cackling and flew about clumsily, scattering -down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always resentful of -captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried to poke their -ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five o’clock the chores -were done—just when it was time to begin them all over again! That was a -strange, unnatural sort of day. - - - - -XIV - - -ON the morning of the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, -I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in -the kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must be almost -beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What -could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn -had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was -lost in the storm. - -Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his -hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing -their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both -looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with -a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed -reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips -were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: “Oh, dear -Saviour!” “Lord, Thou knowest!” - -Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: “Jimmy, we will not have -prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda -is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in -the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys -have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That -is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.” - -After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to -talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s warning glances. I held my -tongue, but I listened with all my ears. - -“No, sir,” Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, “nobody -heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a -road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch -come in it was dark and he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of -queer. One of ’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out of -the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a -lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him.” - -“Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother groaned. “I’d like to think he never -done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How -could he forget himself and bring this on us!” - -“I don’t think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden,” Fuchs -declared. “He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of -fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed -hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the -water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he -was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he -was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn -and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, -where he always slept. When we found him, everything was decent -except,”—Fuchs wrinkled his brow and hesitated,—“except what he could n’t -nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the -bed. He’d took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it -smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the neck -and rolled up his sleeves.” - -“I don’t see how he could do it!” grandmother kept saying. - -Otto misunderstood her. “Why, mam, it was simple enough; he pulled the -trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the -barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He -found it all right!” - -“Maybe he did,” said Jake grimly. “There’s something mighty queer about -it.” - -“Now what do you mean, Jake?” grandmother asked sharply. - -“Well, mam, I found Krajiek’s axe under the manger, and I picks it up and -carries it over to the corpse, and I take my oath it just fit the gash in -the front of the old man’s face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin’ -round, pale and quiet, and when he seen me examinin’ the axe, he begun -whimperin’, ‘My God, man, don’t do that!’ ‘I reckon I’m a-goin’ to look -into this,’ says I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about -wringin’ his hands. ‘They’ll hang me!’ says he. ‘My God, they’ll hang me -sure!’” - -Fuchs spoke up impatiently. “Krajiek’s gone silly, Jake, and so have you. -The old man would n’t have made all them preparations for Krajiek to -murder him, would he? It don’t hang together. The gun was right beside him -when Ambrosch found him.” - -“Krajiek could ’a’ put it there, could n’t he?” Jake demanded. - -Grandmother broke in excitedly: “See here, Jake Marpole, don’t you go -trying to add murder to suicide. We’re deep enough in trouble. Otto reads -you too many of them detective stories.” - -“It will be easy to decide all that, Emmaline,” said grandfather quietly. -“If he shot himself in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the -inside outward.” - -“Just so it is, Mr. Burden,” Otto affirmed. “I seen bunches of hair and -stuff sticking to the poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up -there by gunshot, no question.” - -Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the Shimerdas with -him. - -“There is nothing you can do,” he said doubtfully. “The body can’t be -touched until we get the coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a -matter of several days, this weather.” - -“Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, and say a word of comfort to -them poor little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a -right hand to him. He might have thought of her. He’s left her alone in a -hard world.” She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was now eating his -breakfast at the kitchen table. - -Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all night, was going to -make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the priest and the coroner. On -the gray gelding, our best horse, he would try to pick his way across the -country with no roads to guide him. - -“Don’t you worry about me, Mrs. Burden,” he said cheerfully, as he put on -a second pair of socks. “I’ve got a good nose for directions, and I never -did need much sleep. It’s the gray I’m worried about. I’ll save him what I -can, but it’ll strain him, as sure as I’m telling you!” - -“This is no time to be over-considerate of animals, Otto; do the best you -can for yourself. Stop at the Widow Steavens’s for dinner. She’s a good -woman, and she’ll do well by you.” - -After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I saw a side of him I had -not seen before. He was deeply, even slavishly, devout. He did not say a -word all morning, but sat with his rosary in his hands, praying, now -silently, now aloud. He never looked away from his beads, nor lifted his -hands except to cross himself. Several times the poor boy fell asleep -where he sat, wakened with a start, and began to pray again. - -No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas’ until a road was broken, and that -would be a day’s job. Grandfather came from the barn on one of our big -black horses, and Jake lifted grandmother up behind him. She wore her -black hood and was bundled up in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy -white beard inside his overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set -off, I thought. Jake and Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black -and my pony, carrying bundles of clothes that we had got together for Mrs. -Shimerda. I watched them go past the pond and over the hill by the drifted -cornfield. Then, for the first time, I realized that I was alone in the -house. - -I felt a considerable extension of power and authority, and was anxious to -acquit myself creditably. I carried in cobs and wood from the long cellar, -and filled both the stoves. I remembered that in the hurry and excitement -of the morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had not -been gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their corn, -emptied the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with water. After -the cat had had his milk, I could think of nothing else to do, and I sat -down to get warm. The quiet was delightful, and the ticking clock was the -most pleasant of companions. I got “Robinson Crusoe” and tried to read, -but his life on the island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I -looked with satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed -upon me that if Mr. Shimerda’s soul were lingering about in this world at -all, it would be here, in our house, which had been more to his liking -than any other in the neighborhood. I remembered his contented face when -he was with us on Christmas Day. If he could have lived with us, this -terrible thing would never have happened. - -I knew it was homesickness that had killed Mr. Shimerda, and I wondered -whether his released spirit would not eventually find its way back to his -own country. I thought of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, -to Baltimore,—and then the great wintry ocean. No, he would not at once -set out upon that long journey. Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of -cold and crowding and the struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting -now in this quiet house. - -I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not wish to disturb him. -I went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked away so snugly -underground, always seemed to me the heart and center of the house. There, -on the bench behind the stove, I thought and thought about Mr. Shimerda. -Outside I could hear the wind singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It -was as if I had let the old man in out of the tormenting winter, and were -sitting there with him. I went over all that Ántonia had ever told me -about his life before he came to this country; how he used to play the -fiddle at weddings and dances. I thought about the friends he had mourned -to leave, the trombone-player, the great forest full of game,—belonging, -as Ántonia said, to the “nobles,”—from which she and her mother used to -steal wood on moonlight nights. There was a white hart that lived in that -forest, and if any one killed it, he would be hanged, she said. Such vivid -pictures came to me that they might have been Mr. Shimerda’s memories, not -yet faded out from the air in which they had haunted him. - -It had begun to grow dark when my household returned, and grandmother was -so tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I got supper, and while we -were washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of -things over at the Shimerdas’. Nobody could touch the body until the -coroner came. If any one did, something terrible would happen, apparently. -The dead man was frozen through, “just as stiff as a dressed turkey you -hang out to freeze,” Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the -barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of -blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there was -no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. -Shimerda’s head. Ántonia and Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down -to pray beside him. The crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel -the cold. I believed he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to -be thought insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor -Marek! - -Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed -him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and -about his father’s soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and -would remain there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal -for him. “As I understand it,” Jake concluded, “it will be a matter of -years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he’s in torment.” - -“I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “I almost know it is n’t true.” I -did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen -all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I -went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me -crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. -But Mr. Shimerda had not been rich and selfish; he had only been so -unhappy that he could not live any longer. - - - - -XV - - -OTTO FUCHS got back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that -the coroner would reach the Shimerdas’ sometime that afternoon, but the -missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred miles -away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few hours’ sleep at -the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained -himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip -through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. - -Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a -homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his -fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw -Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, -handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle -in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into -our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks -bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur -cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. - -“I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to -poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” - -He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye -when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he -would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk -corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school -by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me -he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. - -At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to -strangers. - -“Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. - -Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father -has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has -said that.” - -Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. -But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well -off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” - -The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the -school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the -dead. I have seen too much.” - -We asked him what he meant. - -He glanced around the table. “You want I shall tell you? When I was a -little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make -my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By -’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many -soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, -and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give -the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with -the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness -but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because -we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.” He -paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened -to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the -old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on -horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, -pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we -pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, -and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” - -We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, -manly faith. - -“I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these -things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were -not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” - -After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong -black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the -Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was -the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. - -Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us -that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who “batched” -with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. -From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, -and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was -completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and -the horses would emerge black and shining. - -Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought from the barn and carried -down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks -grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for -the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the -doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode -away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat -and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did -not touch his tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of -paper, and measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus -engaged, he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his -half-ear. Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At -last he folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us. - -“The hardest part of my job’s done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of -it that comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The last -time I made one of these, Mrs. Burden,” he continued, as he sorted and -tried his chisels, “was for a fellow in the Black Tiger mine, up above -Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of that mine goes right into the face of -the cliff, and they used to put us in a bucket and run us over on a -trolley and shoot us into the shaft. The bucket traveled across a box -cañon three hundred feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes -had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll -believe it, they went to work the next day. You can’t kill a Swede. But in -my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it turned out -different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, and I happened -to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for him. It’s a handy -thing to know, when you knock about like I’ve done.” - -“We’d be hard put to it now, if you did n’t know, Otto,” grandmother said. - -“Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with modest pride. “So few folks does know how -to make a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if -there’ll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m not at all -particular that way.” - -All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting -wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such -cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a -pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so -soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the -boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow -shavings grew higher and higher. I wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to -cabinet-work, he settled down to it with such ease and content. He handled -the tools as if he liked the feel of them; and when he planed, his hands -went back and forth over the boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he -were blessing them. He broke out now and then into German hymns, as if -this occupation brought back old times to him. - -At four o’clock Mr. Bushy, the postmaster, with another neighbor who lived -east of us, stopped in to get warm. They were on their way to the -Shimerdas’. The news of what had happened over there had somehow got -abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother gave the visitors -sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers were gone, the brother of -the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our door, -and after him came the father of the German family, our nearest neighbors -on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were -all eager for any details about the suicide, and they were greatly -concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic -cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could get -so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were sure that a man who had -killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic graveyard. There was a -burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, west of Squaw Creek; perhaps -the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in. - -After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to -the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and -Otto again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the -plane. One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more -than usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only -papers, to-day,” or, “I’ve got a sackful of mail for ye,” until this -afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear woman; to herself or to the -Lord, if there was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally -taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used -to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed -eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the -Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the -queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until -you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. - -The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring -the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the -Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the -Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. - -Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. -Bushy, we’ll have to have an American graveyard that will be more -liberal-minded. I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If -anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians holding -inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to be laid amongst -’em.” - -Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that -important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil -War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case -very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have -sworn out a warrant against Krajiek. “The way he acted, and the way his -axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man.” - -Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake -and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he -behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps -he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old -man’s misery and loneliness. - -At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had -hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, -disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they -should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed -and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch -wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; -indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had -explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence -and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross -exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no matter.” - -Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some -superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the -cross-roads. - -Jelinek said he did n’t know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once -been such a custom in Bohemia. “Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind,” he -added. “I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the -neighbors; but she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury him, if I dig the -grave myself,’ she say. I have to promise her I help Ambrosch make the -grave to-morrow.” - -Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. “I don’t know whose -wish should decide the matter, if not hers. But if she thinks she will -live to see the people of this country ride over that old man’s head, she -is mistaken.” - - - - -XVI - - -MR. SHIMERDA lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they buried -him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the grave, -chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we breakfasted -before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin. Jake and Jelinek -went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from the pool of blood in -which it was frozen fast to the ground. - -When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas’ house, we found the -women-folk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the barn. Mrs. Shimerda sat -crouching by the stove, Ántonia was washing dishes. When she saw me she -ran out of her dark corner and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Jimmy,” she -sobbed, “what you tink for my lovely papa!” It seemed to me that I could -feel her heart breaking as she clung to me. - -Mrs. Shimerda, sitting on the stump by the stove, kept looking over her -shoulder toward the door while the neighbors were arriving. They came on -horseback, all except the postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon -over the only broken wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm -eight miles down the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the -cave-house, and it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to -fall, and every one was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the -burial over with. - -Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell Mrs. Shimerda that it was time to -start. After bundling her mother up in clothes the neighbors had brought, -Ántonia put on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her -father had made for her. Four men carried Mr. Shimerda’s box up the hill; -Krajiek slunk along behind them. The coffin was too wide for the door, so -it was put down on the slope outside. I slipped out from the cave and -looked at Mr. Shimerda. He was lying on his side, with his knees drawn up. -His body was draped in a black shawl, and his head was bandaged in white -muslin, like a mummy’s; one of his long, shapely hands lay out on the -black cloth; that was all one could see of him. - -Mrs. Shimerda came out and placed an open prayer-book against the body, -making the sign of the cross on the bandaged head with her fingers. -Ambrosch knelt down and made the same gesture, and after him Ántonia and -Marek. Yulka hung back. Her mother pushed her forward, and kept saying -something to her over and over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put -out her hand a little way, but she drew it back and began to cry wildly. -She was afraid to touch the bandage. Mrs. Shimerda caught her by the -shoulders and pushed her toward the coffin, but grandmother interfered. - -“No, Mrs. Shimerda,” she said firmly, “I won’t stand by and see that child -frightened into spasms. She is too little to understand what you want of -her. Let her alone.” - -At a look from grandfather, Fuchs and Jelinek placed the lid on the box, -and began to nail it down over Mr. Shimerda. I was afraid to look at -Ántonia. She put her arms round Yulka and held the little girl close to -her. - -The coffin was put into the wagon. We drove slowly away, against the fine, -icy snow which cut our faces like a sand-blast. When we reached the grave, -it looked a very little spot in that snow-covered waste. The men took the -coffin to the edge of the hole and lowered it with ropes. We stood about -watching them, and the powdery snow lay without melting on the caps and -shoulders of the men and the shawls of the women. Jelinek spoke in a -persuasive tone to Mrs. Shimerda, and then turned to grandfather. - -“She says, Mr. Burden, she is very glad if you can make some prayer for -him here in English, for the neighbors to understand.” - -Grandmother looked anxiously at grandfather. He took off his hat, and the -other men did likewise. I thought his prayer remarkable. I still remember -it. He began, “Oh, great and just God, no man among us knows what the -sleeper knows, nor is it for us to judge what lies between him and Thee.” -He prayed that if any man there had been remiss toward the stranger come -to a far country, God would forgive him and soften his heart. He recalled -the promises to the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the -way before this widow and her children, and to “incline the hearts of men -to deal justly with her.” In closing, he said we were leaving Mr. Shimerda -at “Thy judgment seat, which is also Thy mercy seat.” - -All the time he was praying, grandmother watched him through the black -fingers of her glove, and when he said “Amen,” I thought she looked -satisfied with him. She turned to Otto and whispered, “Can’t you start a -hymn, Fuchs? It would seem less heathenish.” - -Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general approval of her -suggestion, then began, “Jesus, Lover of my Soul,” and all the men and -women took it up after him. Whenever I have heard the hymn since, it has -made me remember that white waste and the little group of people; and the -bluish air, full of fine, eddying snow, like long veils flying:— - - “While the nearer waters roll, - While the tempest still is high.” - - - -Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were over, and the red grass -had been ploughed under and under until it had almost disappeared from the -prairie; when all the fields were under fence, and the roads no longer ran -about like wild things, but followed the surveyed section-lines, Mr. -Shimerda’s grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and -an unpainted wooden cross. As grandfather had predicted, Mrs. Shimerda -never saw the roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a -little to the east just there, and the road from the west swung out a -little to the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was -never mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moon -or the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft gray -rivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion, and -in all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the dim -superstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave there; and -still more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the sentence—the -error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of the soft earth roads along -which the home-coming wagons rattled after sunset. Never a tired driver -passed the wooden cross, I am sure, without wishing well to the sleeper. - - - - -XVII - - -WHEN spring came, after that hard winter, one could not get enough of the -nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter -was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch -in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only—spring -itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it -everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in -the warm, high wind—rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and -playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If -I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known -that it was spring. - -Everywhere now there was the smell of burning grass. Our neighbors burned -off their pasture before the new grass made a start, so that the fresh -growth would not be mixed with the dead stand of last year. Those light, -swift fires, running about the country, seemed a part of the same kindling -that was in the air. - -The Shimerdas were in their new log house by then. The neighbors had -helped them to build it in March. It stood directly in front of their old -cave, which they used as a cellar. The family were now fairly equipped to -begin their struggle with the soil. They had four comfortable rooms to -live in, a new windmill,—bought on credit,—a chicken-house and poultry. -Mrs. Shimerda had paid grandfather ten dollars for a milk cow, and was to -give him fifteen more as soon as they harvested their first crop. - -When I rode up to the Shimerdas’ one bright windy afternoon in April, -Yulka ran out to meet me. It was to her, now, that I gave reading lessons; -Ántonia was busy with other things. I tied my pony and went into the -kitchen where Mrs. Shimerda was baking bread, chewing poppy seeds as she -worked. By this time she could speak enough English to ask me a great many -questions about what our men were doing in the fields. She seemed to think -that my elders withheld helpful information, and that from me she might -get valuable secrets. On this occasion she asked me very craftily when -grandfather expected to begin planting corn. I told her, adding that he -thought we should have a dry spring and that the corn would not be held -back by too much rain, as it had been last year. - -She gave me a shrewd glance. “He not Jesus,” she blustered; “he not know -about the wet and the dry.” - -I did not answer her; what was the use? As I sat waiting for the hour when -Ambrosch and Ántonia would return from the fields, I watched Mrs. Shimerda -at her work. She took from the oven a coffee-cake which she wanted to keep -warm for supper, and wrapped it in a quilt stuffed with feathers. I have -seen her put even a roast goose in this quilt to keep it hot. When the -neighbors were there building the new house they saw her do this, and the -story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their food in their feather beds. - -When the sun was dropping low, Ántonia came up the big south draw with her -team. How much older she had grown in eight months! She had come to us a -child, and now she was a tall, strong young girl, although her fifteenth -birthday had just slipped by. I ran out and met her as she brought her -horses up to the windmill to water them. She wore the boots her father had -so thoughtfully taken off before he shot himself, and his old fur cap. Her -outgrown cotton dress switched about her calves, over the boot-tops. She -kept her sleeves rolled up all day, and her arms and throat were burned as -brown as a sailor’s. Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like -the bole of a tree out of the turf. One sees that draft-horse neck among -the peasant women in all old countries. - -She greeted me gayly, and began at once to tell me how much ploughing she -had done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on the north quarter, breaking -sod with the oxen. - -“Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day. I don’t want that Jake get -more done in one day than me. I want we have very much corn this fall.” - -While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each other, and then drank -again, Ántonia sat down on the windmill step and rested her head on her -hand. “You see the big prairie fire from your place last night? I hope -your grandpa ain’t lose no stacks?” - -“No, we did n’t. I came to ask you something, Tony. Grandmother wants to -know if you can’t go to the term of school that begins next week over at -the sod schoolhouse. She says there’s a good teacher, and you’d learn a -lot.” - -Ántonia stood up, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were -stiff. “I ain’t got time to learn. I can work like mans now. My mother -can’t say no more how Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work -as much as him. School is all right for little boys. I help make this land -one good farm.” - -She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I walked beside her, -feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I -wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her -silence, and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face -from me and looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark -prairie. - -I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she -unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had -come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank. - -Ántonia took my hand. “Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you -learn at the school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of -feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He know a great -deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn -and violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to -talk to him. You won’t forget my father, Jim?” - -“No,” I said, “I will never forget him.” - -Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and Ántonia had -washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the -kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda -ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush -we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had -been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch were talking in -Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. -Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. - - [Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field] - -Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: “You take them ox to-morrow -and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart.” - -His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know it’s awful hard work for break -sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want.” - -Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. “That cow not give so much milk like -what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him -back the cow.” - -“He does n’t talk about the fifteen dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He -does n’t find fault with people.” - -“He say I break his saw when we build, and I never,” grumbled Ambrosch. - -I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began -to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. -Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table -and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother -had said, “Heavy field work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice -ways and get rough ones.” She had lost them already. - -After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since -winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She was out in the fields from -sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, -she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her -plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making -me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she -helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased -with Ántonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She -will help some fellow get ahead in the world.” - -Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much -she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, -that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that -the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I -saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her -dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to -think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet -managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My Án-tonia!” - - - - -XVIII - - -AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We -were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback -and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, -but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with -Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s death, Ambrosch was more -than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as -well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Ántonia often quoted his opinions -to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me -only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct -coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. - -One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which -Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful -blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses -along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year’s dried sunflower -stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and -their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet -gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. - -We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was -cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and her mother were making garden, -off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill -tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked -for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to -grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. - -“Now, don’t you say you have n’t got it, Ambrosch, because I know you -have, and if you ain’t a-going to look for it, I will.” - -Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the -stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he -returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt -and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. - -“This what you want?” he asked surlily. - -Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough -stubble on his face. “That ain’t the piece of harness I loaned you, -Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry -such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden.” - -Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All right,” he said coolly, -took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the -belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely -touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s -stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. -This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at -fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it -sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, -stunned. - -We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia and her mother coming on the -run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the -muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming -and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was -sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. “Let’s get out of -this, Jim,” he called. - -Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were -going to pull down lightning. “Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for -knock my Ambrosch down!” - -“I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No -friends any more!” - -Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second. “Well, you’re a damned -ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you,” he shouted back. “I guess the -Burdens can get along without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, -anyhow!” - -We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for -us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and -trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. “They ain’t the -same, Jimmy,” he kept saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the -same. You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a feller. You -heard how the women turned on you—and after all we went through on account -of ’em last winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you get -too thick with any of ’em.” - -“I’ll never be friends with them again, Jake,” I declared hotly. “I -believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.” - -Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to -ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had -knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was -inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be -forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market -the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had -started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking -neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black -Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would -follow the matter up. - -Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for -that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town -that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell -his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great -satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met -Ántonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her -work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing -voice:— - -“Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!” - -Otto pretended not to be surprised at Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted -his brows and said, “You can’t tell me anything new about a Czech; I’m an -Austrian.” - -Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our feud with the -Shimerdas. Ambrosch and Ántonia always greeted him respectfully, and he -asked them about their affairs and gave them advice as usual. He thought -the future looked hopeful for them. Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he -soon realized that his oxen were too heavy for any work except breaking -sod, and he succeeded in selling them to a newly arrived German. With the -money he bought another team of horses, which grandfather selected for -him. Marek was strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never -teach him to cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got -through poor Marek’s thick head was that all exertion was meritorious. He -always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and drove the blades so -deep into the earth that the horses were soon exhausted. - -In June Ambrosch went to work at Mr. Bushy’s for a week, and took Marek -with him at full wages. Mrs. Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; -she and Ántonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at night. -While the two women were running the place alone, one of the new horses -got colic and gave them a terrible fright. - -Ántonia had gone down to the barn one night to see that all was well -before she went to bed, and she noticed that one of the roans was swollen -about the middle and stood with its head hanging. She mounted another -horse, without waiting to saddle him, and hammered on our door just as we -were going to bed. Grandfather answered her knock. He did not send one of -his men, but rode back with her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece -of carpet he kept for hot applications when our horses were sick. He found -Mrs. Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing -her hands. It took but a few moments to release the gases pent up in the -poor beast, and the two women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan -visibly diminish in girth. - -“If I lose that horse, Mr. Burden,” Ántonia exclaimed, “I never stay here -till Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before morning.” - -When Ambrosch came back from Mr. Bushy’s, we learned that he had given -Marek’s wages to the priest at Black Hawk, for masses for their father’s -soul. Grandmother thought Ántonia needed shoes more than Mr. Shimerda -needed prayers, but grandfather said tolerantly, “If he can spare six -dollars, pinched as he is, it shows he believes what he professes.” - -It was grandfather who brought about a reconciliation with the Shimerdas. -One morning he told us that the small grain was coming on so well, he -thought he would begin to cut his wheat on the first of July. He would -need more men, and if it were agreeable to every one he would engage -Ambrosch for the reaping and thrashing, as the Shimerdas had no small -grain of their own. - -“I think, Emmaline,” he concluded, “I will ask Ántonia to come over and -help you in the kitchen. She will be glad to earn something, and it will -be a good time to end misunderstandings. I may as well ride over this -morning and make arrangements. Do you want to go with me, Jim?” His tone -told me that he had already decided for me. - -After breakfast we set off together. When Mrs. Shimerda saw us coming, she -ran from her door down into the draw behind the stable, as if she did not -want to meet us. Grandfather smiled to himself while he tied his horse, -and we followed her. - -Behind the barn we came upon a funny sight. The cow had evidently been -grazing somewhere in the draw. Mrs. Shimerda had run to the animal, pulled -up the lariat pin, and, when we came upon her, she was trying to hide the -cow in an old cave in the bank. As the hole was narrow and dark, the cow -held back, and the old woman was slapping and pushing at her hind -quarters, trying to spank her into the draw-side. - -Grandfather ignored her singular occupation and greeted her politely. -“Good-morning, Mrs. Shimerda. Can you tell me where I will find Ambrosch? -Which field?” - -“He with the sod corn.” She pointed toward the north, still standing in -front of the cow as if she hoped to conceal it. - -“His sod corn will be good for fodder this winter,” said grandfather -encouragingly. “And where is Ántonia?” - -“She go with.” Mrs. Shimerda kept wiggling her bare feet about nervously -in the dust. - -“Very well. I will ride up there. I want them to come over and help me cut -my oats and wheat next month. I will pay them wages. Good-morning. By the -way, Mrs. Shimerda,” he said as he turned up the path, “I think we may as -well call it square about the cow.” - -She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing that she did not -understand, grandfather turned back. “You need not pay me anything more; -no more money. The cow is yours.” - -“Pay no more, keep cow?” she asked in a bewildered tone, her narrow eyes -snapping at us in the sunlight. - -“Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow.” He nodded. - -Mrs. Shimerda dropped the rope, ran after us, and crouching down beside -grandfather, she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been -so much embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that -seemed to bring the Old World very close. - -We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: “I expect she thought we had -come to take the cow away for certain, Jim. I wonder if she would n’t have -scratched a little if we’d laid hold of that lariat rope!” - -Our neighbors seemed glad to make peace with us. The next Sunday Mrs. -Shimerda came over and brought Jake a pair of socks she had knitted. She -presented them with an air of great magnanimity, saying, “Now you not come -any more for knock my Ambrosch down?” - -Jake laughed sheepishly. “I don’t want to have no trouble with Ambrosch. -If he’ll let me alone, I’ll let him alone.” - -“If he slap you, we ain’t got no pig for pay the fine,” she said -insinuatingly. - -Jake was not at all disconcerted. “Have the last word, mam,” he said -cheerfully. “It’s a lady’s privilege.” - - - - -XIX - - -JULY came on with that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains -of Kansas and Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if -we could hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a -faint crackling in the dewy, heavy-odored cornfields where the feathered -stalks stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the Missouri -to the Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat regulated by a -thermometer, it could not have been better for the yellow tassels that -were ripening and fertilizing each other day by day. The cornfields were -far apart in those times, with miles of wild grazing land between. It took -a clear, meditative eye like my grandfather’s to foresee that they would -enlarge and multiply until they would be, not the Shimerdas’ cornfields, -or Mr. Bushy’s, but the world’s cornfields; that their yield would be one -of the great economic facts, like the wheat crop of Russia, which underlie -all the activities of men, in peace or war. - -The burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional rains at night, -secured the corn. After the milky ears were once formed, we had little to -fear from dry weather. The men were working so hard in the wheatfields -that they did not notice the heat,—though I was kept busy carrying water -for them,—and grandmother and Ántonia had so much to do in the kitchen -that they could not have told whether one day was hotter than another. -Each morning, while the dew was still on the grass, Ántonia went with me -up to the garden to get early vegetables for dinner. Grandmother made her -wear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached the garden she threw it on the -grass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I remember how, as we bent over -the pea-vines, beads of perspiration used to gather on her upper lip like -a little mustache. - -“Oh, better I like to work out of doors than in a house!” she used to sing -joyfully. “I not care that your grandmother say it makes me like a man. I -like to be like a man.” She would toss her head and ask me to feel the -muscles swell in her brown arm. - -We were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay and responsive that -one did not mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans. -Grandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that Ántonia worked for -us. - - [Illustration: Jim and Ántonia in the garden] - -All the nights were close and hot during that harvest season. The -harvesters slept in the hayloft because it was cooler there than in the -house. I used to lie in my bed by the open window, watching the heat -lightning play softly along the horizon, or looking up at the gaunt frame -of the windmill against the blue night sky. One night there was a -beautiful electric storm, though not enough rain fell to damage the cut -grain. The men went down to the barn immediately after supper, and when -the dishes were washed Ántonia and I climbed up on the slanting roof of -the chicken-house to watch the clouds. The thunder was loud and metallic, -like the rattle of sheet iron, and the lightning broke in great zigzags -across the heavens, making everything stand out and come close to us for a -moment. Half the sky was checkered with black thunderheads, but all the -west was luminous and clear: in the lightning-flashes it looked like deep -blue water, with the sheen of moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the -sky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast -city, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our -upturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out -into the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we -could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the -farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would -get wet out there. - -“In a minute we come,” Ántonia called back to her. “I like your -grandmother, and all things here,” she sighed. “I wish my papa live to see -this summer. I wish no winter ever come again.” - -“It will be summer a long while yet,” I reassured her. “Why are n’t you -always nice like this, Tony?” - -“How nice?” - -“Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be -like Ambrosch?” - -She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. “If I -live here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But -they will be hard for us.” - - - - - -BOOK II—THE HIRED GIRLS - - - - -I - - -I HAD been living with my grandfather for nearly three years when he -decided to move to Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the -heavy work of a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be -going to school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to “that good woman, -the Widow Steavens,” and her bachelor brother, and we bought Preacher -White’s house, at the north end of Black Hawk. This was the first town -house one passed driving in from the farm, a landmark which told country -people their long ride was over. - -We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon as grandfather had -fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his intention. Otto said he -would not be likely to find another place that suited him so well; that he -was tired of farming and thought he would go back to what he called the -“wild West.” Jake Marpole, lured by Otto’s stories of adventure, decided -to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so handicapped by -illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he would be an easy prey -to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian -people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted -to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in -Colorado. - -Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the -carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother’s -kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without -warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, -had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With -me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and -manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now -they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, -with their oilcloth valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward -we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain -fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were -doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to -me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them. - -Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, -well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards -about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing -along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows -of new brick “store” buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and -four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our -upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two -miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost -freedom of the farming country. - -We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town -people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother -was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite -another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, -I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was -over I could fight, play “keeps,” tease the little girls, and use -forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from -utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, -kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not -permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. - -We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. -Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn -where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more -often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and -rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our -house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I -came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back -yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s -bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I -kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new -house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the -trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor -ceiling. - -When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his -horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything -about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was -slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his -coat and say, “They all right, I guess.” - -Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we -had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, -she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from -farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers -liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand -than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until -Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from -this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. - - - - -II - - -GRANDMOTHER often said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God -she lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, -and their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and -an orchard and grazing lots,—even a windmill. The Harlings were -Norwegians, and Mrs. Harling had lived in Christiania until she was ten -years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain merchant and -cattle buyer, and was generally considered the most enterprising business -man in our county. He controlled a line of grain elevators in the little -towns along the railroad to the west of us, and was away from home a great -deal. In his absence his wife was the head of the household. - -Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house. -Every inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the -moment she entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright, -twinkling eyes and a stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger, quick -to laughter, and jolly from the depths of her soul. How well I remember -her laugh; it had in it the same sudden recognition that flashed into her -eyes, was a burst of humor, short and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps -shook her own floors, and she routed lassitude and indifference wherever -she came. She could not be negative or perfunctory about anything. Her -enthusiasm, and her violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all -the every-day occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, -at the Harlings’. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and -house-cleaning was like a revolution. When Mrs. Harling made garden that -spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking through the willow hedge -that separated our place from hers. - -Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only -son,—they had lost an older boy,—was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the -musical one, was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short -hair, was a year younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily -clever at all boys’ sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow -hair, bobbed about her ears, and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. -She raced all over town on one roller skate, often cheated at “keeps,” but -was such a quick shot one could n’t catch her at it. - -The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important person in our world. -She was her father’s chief clerk, and virtually managed his Black Hawk -office during his frequent absences. Because of her unusual business -ability, he was stern and exacting with her. He paid her a good salary, -but she had few holidays and never got away from her responsibilities. -Even on Sundays she went to the office to open the mail and read the -markets. With Charley, who was not interested in business, but was already -preparing for Annapolis, Mr. Harling was very indulgent; bought him guns -and tools and electric batteries, and never asked what he did with them. - -Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall. In winter she wore a -sealskin coat and cap, and she and Mr. Harling used to walk home together -in the evening, talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two men. -Sometimes she came over to see grandfather after supper, and her visits -flattered him. More than once they put their wits together to rescue some -unfortunate farmer from the clutches of Wick Cutter, the Black Hawk -money-lender. Grandfather said Frances Harling was as good a judge of -credits as any banker in the county. The two or three men who had tried to -take advantage of her in a deal acquired celebrity by their defeat. She -knew every farmer for miles about; how much land he had under cultivation, -how many cattle he was feeding, what his liabilities were. Her interest in -these people was more than a business interest. She carried them all in -her mind as if they were characters in a book or a play. - -When Frances drove out into the country on business, she would go miles -out of her way to call on some of the old people, or to see the women who -seldom got to town. She was quick at understanding the grandmothers who -spoke no English, and the most reticent and distrustful of them would tell -her their story without realizing they were doing so. She went to country -funerals and weddings in all weathers. A farmer’s daughter who was to be -married could count on a wedding present from Frances Harling. - -In August the Harlings’ Danish cook had to leave them. Grandmother -entreated them to try Ántonia. She cornered Ambrosch the next time he came -to town, and pointed out to him that any connection with Christian Harling -would strengthen his credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday Mrs. -Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas’ with Frances. She said -she wanted to see “what the girl came from” and to have a clear -understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when they came driving -home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to me as they passed, and -I could see they were in great good humor. After supper, when grandfather -set off to church, grandmother and I took my short cut through the willow -hedge and went over to hear about the visit to the Shimerdas. - -We found Mrs. Harling with Charley and Sally on the front porch, resting -after her hard drive. Julia was in the hammock—she was fond of repose—and -Frances was at the piano, playing without a light and talking to her -mother through the open window. - -Mrs. Harling laughed when she saw us coming. “I expect you left your -dishes on the table to-night, Mrs. Burden,” she called. Frances shut the -piano and came out to join us. - -They had liked Ántonia from their first glimpse of her; felt they knew -exactly what kind of girl she was. As for Mrs. Shimerda, they found her -very amusing. Mrs. Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. “I expect I -am more at home with that sort of bird than you are, Mrs. Burden. They’re -a pair, Ambrosch and that old woman!” - -They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about Ántonia’s allowance for -clothes and pocket-money. It was his plan that every cent of his sister’s -wages should be paid over to him each month, and he would provide her with -such clothing as he thought necessary. When Mrs. Harling told him firmly -that she would keep fifty dollars a year for Ántonia’s own use, he -declared they wanted to take his sister to town and dress her up and make -a fool of her. Mrs. Harling gave us a lively account of Ambrosch’s -behavior throughout the interview; how he kept jumping up and putting on -his cap as if he were through with the whole business, and how his mother -tweaked his coat-tail and prompted him in Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally -agreed to pay three dollars a week for Ántonia’s services—good wages in -those days—and to keep her in shoes. There had been hot dispute about the -shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. -Harling three fat geese every year to “make even.” Ambrosch was to bring -his sister to town next Saturday. - -“She’ll be awkward and rough at first, like enough,” grandmother said -anxiously, “but unless she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she -has it in her to be a real helpful girl.” - -Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, Mrs. -Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen, -not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!” she added warmly. - -Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you did n’t tell us -that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and -ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in -her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.” - -We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. “When she -first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch -over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a -life she’s led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would -have been very different with poor Ántonia if her father had lived.” - -The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda’s death and the big -snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had -told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. - -“The girl will be happy here, and she’ll forget those things,” said Mrs. -Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. - - - - -III - - -ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down -from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was -wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a -playful shake by the shoulders. “You ain’t forget about me, Jim?” - -Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! Now you’ve come, you must -try to do right and be a credit to us.” - -Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything. “Maybe I be -the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town,” she suggested -hopefully. - -How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; to see her every day and -almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she -so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would -race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the -barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off -Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she -could speak as well as any of us. - -I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was -always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or -the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort -of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She -loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his -ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of -nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with -his father. Ántonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. -Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley, -fairly panting with eagerness to please him. - -Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she -was rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all -sorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest -disappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, -and she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her -and tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I -used to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so -many tears as Nina’s. Mrs. Harling and Ántonia invariably took her part. -We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: “You have -made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic.” -I liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were -lovely; but I often wanted to shake her. - -We had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was -at home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my -house to play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded -all his wife’s attention. He used to take her away to their room in the -west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we did -not realize it then, Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we -always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick -laugh. - -Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the -window, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home, -I could see his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant -shadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to any one else if he was there. Before -he went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies -and beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, -and his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to -want it. - -Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic -ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby carriage after office hours, -moved the sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on -Sunday. Mr. Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in -his ways. He walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man -who felt that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so -haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something -daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the “nobles” of -whom Ántonia was always talking probably looked very much like Christian -Harling, wore caped overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond -upon the little finger. - -Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet. -Mrs. Harling and Nina and Ántonia made as much noise as a houseful of -children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only -one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they all played. -When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When -Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed -the plantation melodies that negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even -Nina played the Swedish Wedding March. - -Mrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she -managed to practice every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on -an errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait -quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her short, -square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving -quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with -intelligent concentration. - - - - -IV - - - “I won’t have none of your weevily wheat, and I won’t have none of your - barley, - But I’ll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for - Charley.” - -WE were singing rhymes to tease Ántonia while she was beating up one of -Charley’s favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp autumn -evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag in the -yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll popcorn balls -with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and Tony dropped her -spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the -doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her -blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly -about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. - -“Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” she asked in a smooth, low voice, -looking in at us archly. - -Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why, it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know -you, so dressed up!” - -Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for -a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head—or -with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, -brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with -perfect composure. - -“Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and -looked about her. “I’ve come to town to work, too, Tony.” - -“Have you, now? Well, ain’t that funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and -did n’t seem to know just what to do with her visitor. - -The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting -and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. - -“You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? I’ve been to see your mother, but you -were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest -girl.” - -Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen -eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances -pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on -her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had -to get her cake into the oven. - -“So you have come to town,” said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on -Lena. “Where are you working?” - -“For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She -says I have quite a knack. I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end -to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be -a dressmaker.” - -“Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s a good trade. But I would n’t -run down the farm, if I were you,” said Mrs. Harling rather severely. “How -is your mother?” - -“Oh, mother’s never very well; she has too much to do. She’d get away from -the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn -to do sewing, I can make money and help her.” - -“See that you don’t forget to,” said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took -up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. - -“No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn -we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her -fingers sticky. - -Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. “I thought you were going -to be married, Lena,” she said teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick -Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?” - -Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. “He did go with me quite -a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n’t give -Nick any land if he married me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I -would n’t like to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on -her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.” - -Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about it?” - -“I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen -a good deal of married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I -can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of -anybody.” - -“That’s right,” said Frances. “And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn -dressmaking?” - -“Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. -Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. -Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, -but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. “Tony -knows I never did like out-of-door work,” she added. - -Mrs. Harling glanced at her. “I expect you’ll learn to sew all right, -Lena, if you’ll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all -the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do.” - -“Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She’s going to work at -the Boys’ Home Hotel. She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully. - -“Too many, like enough,” said Mrs. Harling. “I don’t think a hotel is a -good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her -waitresses.” - -Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long -lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naïve admiration. -Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. “I guess I must be leaving,” she -said irresolutely. - -Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice -about anything. Lena replied that she did n’t believe she would ever get -lonesome in Black Hawk. - -She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Ántonia to come and see her -often. “I’ve got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas’s, with a carpet.” - -Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. “I’ll come sometime, but -Mrs. Harling don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively. - -“You can do what you please when you go out, can’t you?” Lena asked in a -guarded whisper. “Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what -anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back over her shoulder -toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. - -When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why she had n’t been a little -more cordial to her. - -“I did n’t know if your mother would like her coming here,” said Ántonia, -looking troubled. “She was kind of talked about, out there.” - -“Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it against her if she behaves well -here. You need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim -has heard all that gossip?” - -When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We -were good friends, Frances and I. - -I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were -glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. - -Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used -to herd her father’s cattle in the open country between his place and the -Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among -her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered -clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I -thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, -because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a -ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in -spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which -somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily -clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her -soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough -and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get -off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a -house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by -her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even -then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and -their soft, confiding expression. - -Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family. -Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and -even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a -good daughter to her mother. As Tony said, she had been talked about. She -was accused of making Ole Benson lose the little sense he had—and that at -an age when she should still have been in pinafores. - - [Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings] - -Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of the settlement. He -was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had become a habit with -him. After he had had every other kind of misfortune, his wife, “Crazy -Mary,” tried to set a neighbor’s barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum -at Lincoln. She was kept there for a few months, then escaped and walked -all the way home, nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding -in barns and haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian -settlement, her poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, -and was allowed to stay at home—though every one realized she was as crazy -as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow, telling her -domestic troubles to her neighbors. - -Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I heard a young Dane, who -was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto that Chris Lingard’s oldest -girl had put Ole Benson out of his head, until he had no more sense than -his crazy wife. When Ole was cultivating his corn that summer, he used to -get discouraged in the field, tie up his team, and wander off to wherever -Lena Lingard was herding. There he would sit down on the draw-side and -help her watch her cattle. All the settlement was talking about it. The -Norwegian preacher’s wife went to Lena and told her she ought not to allow -this; she begged Lena to come to church on Sundays. Lena said she had n’t -a dress in the world any less ragged than the one on her back. Then the -minister’s wife went through her old trunks and found some things she had -worn before her marriage. - -The next Sunday Lena appeared at church, a little late, with her hair done -up neatly on her head, like a young woman, wearing shoes and stockings, -and the new dress, which she had made over for herself very becomingly. -The congregation stared at her. Until that morning no one—unless it were -Ole—had realized how pretty she was, or that she was growing up. The -swelling lines of her figure had been hidden under the shapeless rags she -wore in the fields. After the last hymn had been sung, and the -congregation was dismissed, Ole slipped out to the hitch-bar and lifted -Lena on her horse. That, in itself, was shocking; a married man was not -expected to do such things. But it was nothing to the scene that followed. -Crazy Mary darted out from the group of women at the church door, and ran -down the road after Lena, shouting horrible threats. - -“Look out, you Lena Lingard, look out! I’ll come over with a corn-knife -one day and trim some of that shape off you. Then you won’t sail round so -fine, making eyes at the men! …” - -The Norwegian women did n’t know where to look. They were formal -housewives, most of them, with a severe sense of decorum. But Lena Lingard -only laughed her lazy, good-natured laugh and rode on, gazing back over -her shoulder at Ole’s infuriated wife. - -The time came, however, when Lena did n’t laugh. More than once Crazy Mary -chased her across the prairie and round and round the Shimerdas’ -cornfield. Lena never told her father; perhaps she was ashamed; perhaps -she was more afraid of his anger than of the corn-knife. I was at the -Shimerdas’ one afternoon when Lena came bounding through the red grass as -fast as her white legs could carry her. She ran straight into the house -and hid in Ántonia’s feather-bed. Mary was not far behind; she came right -up to the door and made us feel how sharp her blade was, showing us very -graphically just what she meant to do to Lena. Mrs. Shimerda, leaning out -of the window, enjoyed the situation keenly, and was sorry when Ántonia -sent Mary away, mollified by an apronful of bottle-tomatoes. Lena came out -from Tony’s room behind the kitchen, very pink from the heat of the -feathers, but otherwise calm. She begged Ántonia and me to go with her, -and help get her cattle together; they were scattered and might be gorging -themselves in somebody’s cornfield. - -“Maybe you lose a steer and learn not to make somethings with your eyes at -married men,” Mrs. Shimerda told her hectoringly. - -Lena only smiled her sleepy smile. “I never made anything to him with my -eyes. I can’t help it if he hangs around, and I can’t order him off. It -ain’t my prairie.” - - - - -V - - -AFTER Lena came to Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be -matching sewing silk or buying “findings” for Mrs. Thomas. If I happened -to walk home with her, she told me all about the dresses she was helping -to make, or about what she saw and heard when she was with Tiny Soderball -at the hotel on Saturday nights. - -The Boys’ Home was the best hotel on our branch of the Burlington, and all -the commercial travelers in that territory tried to get into Black Hawk -for Sunday. They used to assemble in the parlor after supper on Saturday -nights. Marshall Field’s man, Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang -all the latest sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the -dishes, she and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the -parlor and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the -jokes and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man -when I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on -trains all day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the -hotel there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big -trunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk -merchants went to look at these things and order goods, and Mrs. Thomas, -though she was “retail trade,” was permitted to see them and to “get -ideas.” They were all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny -Soderball handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and -so many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed -some of them on Lena. - -One afternoon in the week before Christmas I came upon Lena and her funny, -square-headed little brother Chris, standing before the drug-store, gazing -in at the wax dolls and blocks and Noah’s arks arranged in the frosty show -window. The boy had come to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas -shopping, for he had money of his own this year. He was only twelve, but -that winter he had got the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and -making the fire in it every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, -too! - -We went into Duckford’s dry-goods store, and Chris unwrapped all his -presents and showed them to me—something for each of the six younger than -himself, even a rubber pig for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny -Soderball’s bottles of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get -some handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n’t much -money left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for view at -Duckford’s. Chris wanted those with initial letters in the corner, because -he had never seen any before. He studied them seriously, while Lena looked -over his shoulder, telling him she thought the red letters would hold -their color best. He seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n’t -enough money, after all. Presently he said gravely,— - -“Sister, you know mother’s name is Berthe. I don’t know if I ought to get -B for Berthe, or M for Mother.” - -Lena patted his bristly head. “I’d get the B, Chrissy. It will please her -for you to think about her name. Nobody ever calls her by it now.” - -That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he took three reds and -three blues. When the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start, -Lena wound Chris’s comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket -collar—he had no overcoat—and we watched him climb into the wagon and -start on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the windy street, -Lena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove. “I get awful -homesick for them, all the same,” she murmured, as if she were answering -some remembered reproach. - - - - -VI - - -WINTER comes down savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind -that sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screens -that hide one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw -closer together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the green -tree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier than -when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs. - -In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against the wind, I -could n’t see anything but the road in front of me; but in the late -afternoon, when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate to -me. The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify—it was like -the light of truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and -the red sun went down behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs -and the blue drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter -song, as if it said: “This is reality, whether you like it or not. All -those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of -green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was -underneath. This is the truth.” It was as if we were being punished for -loving the loveliness of summer. - -If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-office -for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, it -would be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the -frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining -pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as I -passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of them was hurrying toward a -fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were like magnets. When one passed -an old man, one could see nothing of his face but a red nose sticking out -between a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young men capered along -with their hands in their pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icy -sidewalk. The children, in their bright hoods and comforters, never -walked, but always ran from the moment they left their door, beating their -mittens against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, I -was about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was when there happened -to be a light in the church, and the painted glass window shone out at us -as we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for -color came over people, like the Laplander’s craving for fats and sugar. -Without knowing why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the church -when the lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting, -shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude -reds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there. - -On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings’ windows drew me like the -painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was color, too. After -supper I used to catch up my cap, stick my hands in my pockets, and dive -through the willow hedge as if witches were after me. Of course, if Mr. -Harling was at home, if his shadow stood out on the blind of the west -room, I did not go in, but turned and walked home by the long way, through -the street, wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two -old people. - -Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted -charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlor, with Sally always -dressed like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that winter, and she said, -from the first lesson, that Ántonia would make the best dancer among us. -On Saturday nights, Mrs. Harling used to play the old operas for -us,—“Martha,” “Norma,” “Rigoletto,”—telling us the story while she played. -Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, and -the dining-room were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs -and sofas, and gay pictures on the walls. One always felt at ease there. -Ántonia brought her sewing and sat with us—she was already beginning to -make pretty clothes for herself. After the long winter evenings on the -prairie, with Ambrosch’s sullen silences and her mother’s complaints, the -Harlings’ house seemed, as she said, “like Heaven” to her. She was never -too tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in -her ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchen -and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three meals -that day. - -While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffy -to cool, Nina used to coax Ántonia to tell her stories—about the calf that -broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowning in the -freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Nina -interpreted the stories about the crêche fancifully, and in spite of our -derision she cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a short -time before the Shimerdas left that country. We all liked Tony’s stories. -Her voice had a peculiarly engaging quality; it was deep, a little husky, -and one always heard the breath vibrating behind it. Everything she said -seemed to come right out of her heart. - -One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy, Tony told -us a new story. - -“Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the Norwegian -settlement last summer, when I was thrashing there? We were at Iversons’, -and I was driving one of the grain wagons.” - -Mrs. Harling came out and sat down among us. “Could you throw the wheat -into the bin yourself, Tony?” She knew what heavy work it was. - -“Yes, mam, I did. I could shovel just as fast as that fat Andern boy that -drove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to -the field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the -horses and got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on the deck, -cutting bands. I was sitting against a straw stack, trying to get some -shade. My wagon was n’t going out first, and somehow I felt the heat awful -that day. The sun was so hot like it was going to burn the world up. After -a while I see a man coming across the stubble, and when he got close I see -it was a tramp. His toes stuck out of his shoes, and he had n’t shaved for -a long while, and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had some -sickness. He comes right up and begins to talk like he knows me already. -He says: ‘The ponds in this country is done got so low a man could n’t -drownd himself in one of ’em.’ - -“I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we did n’t have -rain soon we’d have to pump water for the cattle. - -“‘Oh, cattle,’ he says, ‘you’ll all take care of your cattle! Ain’t you -got no beer here?’ I told him he’d have to go to the Bohemians for beer; -the Norwegians did n’t have none when they thrashed. ‘My God!’ he says, -‘so it’s Norwegians now, is it? I thought this was Americy.’ - -“Then he goes up to the machine and yells out to Ole Iverson, ‘Hello, -partner, let me up there. I can cut bands, and I’m tired of trampin’. I -won’t go no farther.’ - -“I tried to make signs to Ole, ’cause I thought that man was crazy and -might get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down out of -the sun and chaff—it gets down your neck and sticks to you something awful -when it’s hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the -wagons for shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right -for a few minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his hand to me and -jumped head-first right into the thrashing machine after the wheat. - -“I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the horses, but the belt had -sucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped he was all beat and -cut to pieces. He was wedged in so tight it was a hard job to get him out, -and the machine ain’t never worked right since.” - -“Was he clear dead, Tony?” we cried. - -“Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There, now, Nina’s all upset. We won’t -talk about it. Don’t you cry, Nina. No old tramp won’t get you while -Tony’s here.” - -Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. “Stop crying, Nina, or I’ll always send you -upstairs when Ántonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out -where he came from, Ántonia?” - -“Never, mam. He had n’t been seen nowhere except in a little town they -call Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there was n’t any saloon. -Maybe he came in on a freight, but the brakeman had n’t seen him. They -could n’t find no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife -in his pocket and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of -paper, and some poetry.” - -“Some poetry?” we exclaimed. - -“I remember,” said Frances. “It was ‘The Old Oaken Bucket,’ cut out of a -newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and -showed it to me.” - -“Now, was n’t that strange, Miss Frances?” Tony asked thoughtfully. “What -would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In thrashing time, -too! It’s nice everywhere then.” - -“So it is, Ántonia,” said Mrs. Harling heartily. “Maybe I’ll go home and -help you thrash next summer. Is n’t that taffy nearly ready to eat? I’ve -been smelling it a long while.” - -There was a basic harmony between Ántonia and her mistress. They had -strong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, and -were not always trying to imitate other people. They loved children and -animals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked to -prepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft white -beds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people -and were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there -was a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but -very invigorating. I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly -conscious of it. I could not imagine Ántonia’s living for a week in any -other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings’. - - - - -VII - - -WINTER lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and -shabby, old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and -men’s affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice. -But in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and -pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk. - -Through January and February I went to the river with the Harlings on -clear nights, and we skated up to the big island and made bonfires on the -frozen sand. But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on -the river bluffs was gray and mournful-looking. I was tired of school, -tired of winter clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and -the piles of cinders that had lain in the yards so long. There was only -one break in the dreary monotony of that month; when Blind d’Arnault, the -negro pianist, came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on -Monday night, and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our -comfortable hotel. Mrs. Harling had known d’Arnault for years. She told -Ántonia she had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there -would certainly be music at the Boys’ Home. - -Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the hotel and slipped -quietly into the parlor. The chairs and sofas were already occupied, and -the air smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The parlor had once been two -rooms, and the floor was sway-backed where the partition had been cut -away. The wind from without made waves in the long carpet. A coal stove -glowed at either end of the room, and the grand piano in the middle stood -open. - -There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the house that night, for -Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha for a week. Johnnie had been having drinks -with the guests until he was rather absent-minded. It was Mrs. Gardener -who ran the business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the -desk and welcomed incoming travelers. He was a popular fellow, but no -manager. - -Mrs. Gardener was admittedly the best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove -the best horse, and had a smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh. -She seemed indifferent to her possessions, was not half so solicitous -about them as her friends were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something -Indian-like in the rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and -she talked little. Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a -favor when they stayed at her house. Even the smartest traveling men were -flattered when Mrs. Gardener stopped to chat with them for a moment. The -patrons of the hotel were divided into two classes; those who had seen -Mrs. Gardener’s diamonds, and those who had not. - -When I stole into the parlor Anson Kirkpatrick, Marshall Field’s man, was -at the piano, playing airs from a musical comedy then running in Chicago. -He was a dapper little Irishman, very vain, homely as a monkey, with -friends everywhere, and a sweetheart in every port, like a sailor. I did -not know all the men who were sitting about, but I recognized a furniture -salesman from Kansas City, a drug man, and Willy O’Reilly, who traveled -for a jewelry house and sold musical instruments. The talk was all about -good and bad hotels, actors and actresses and musical prodigies. I learned -that Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear Booth and Barrett, who were -to play there next week, and that Mary Anderson was having a great success -in “A Winter’s Tale,” in London. - -The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener came in, directing -Blind d’Arnault,—he would never consent to be led. He was a heavy, bulky -mulatto, on short legs, and he came tapping the floor in front of him with -his gold-headed cane. His yellow face was lifted in the light, with a show -of white teeth, all grinning, and his shrunken, papery eyelids lay -motionless over his blind eyes. - -“Good evening, gentlemen. No ladies here? Good-evening, gentlemen. We -going to have a little music? Some of you gentlemen going to play for me -this evening?” It was the soft, amiable negro voice, like those I -remembered from early childhood, with the note of docile subservience in -it. He had the negro head, too; almost no head at all; nothing behind the -ears but folds of neck under close-clipped wool. He would have been -repulsive if his face had not been so kindly and happy. It was the -happiest face I had seen since I left Virginia. - -He felt his way directly to the piano. The moment he sat down, I noticed -the nervous infirmity of which Mrs. Harling had told me. When he was -sitting, or standing still, he swayed back and forth incessantly, like a -rocking toy. At the piano, he swayed in time to the music, and when he was -not playing, his body kept up this motion, like an empty mill grinding on. -He found the pedals and tried them, ran his yellow hands up and down the -keys a few times, tinkling off scales, then turned to the company. - -“She seems all right, gentlemen. Nothing happened to her since the last -time I was here. Mrs. Gardener, she always has this piano tuned up before -I come. Now, gentlemen, I expect you’ve all got grand voices. Seems like -we might have some good old plantation songs to-night.” - -The men gathered round him, as he began to play “My Old Kentucky Home.” -They sang one negro melody after another, while the mulatto sat rocking -himself, his head thrown back, his yellow face lifted, its shriveled -eyelids never fluttering. - -He was born in the Far South, on the d’Arnault plantation, where the -spirit if not the fact of slavery persisted. When he was three weeks old -he had an illness which left him totally blind. As soon as he was old -enough to sit up alone and toddle about, another affliction, the nervous -motion of his body, became apparent. His mother, a buxom young negro wench -who was laundress for the d’Arnaults, concluded that her blind baby was -“not right” in his head, and she was ashamed of him. She loved him -devotedly, but he was so ugly, with his sunken eyes and his “fidgets,” -that she hid him away from people. All the dainties she brought down from -the “Big House” were for the blind child, and she beat and cuffed her -other children whenever she found them teasing him or trying to get his -chicken-bone away from him. He began to talk early, remembered everything -he heard, and his mammy said he “was n’t all wrong.” She named him Samson, -because he was blind, but on the plantation he was known as “yellow -Martha’s simple child.” He was docile and obedient, but when he was six -years old he began to run away from home, always taking the same -direction. He felt his way through the lilacs, along the boxwood hedge, up -to the south wing of the “Big House,” where Miss Nellie d’Arnault -practiced the piano every morning. This angered his mother more than -anything else he could have done; she was so ashamed of his ugliness that -she could n’t bear to have white folks see him. Whenever she caught him -slipping away from the cabin, she whipped him unmercifully, and told him -what dreadful things old Mr. d’Arnault would do to him if he ever found -him near the “Big House.” But the next time Samson had a chance, he ran -away again. If Miss d’Arnault stopped practicing for a moment and went -toward the window, she saw this hideous little pickaninny, dressed in an -old piece of sacking, standing in the open space between the hollyhock -rows, his body rocking automatically, his blind face lifted to the sun and -wearing an expression of idiotic rapture. Often she was tempted to tell -Martha that the child must be kept at home, but somehow the memory of his -foolish, happy face deterred her. She remembered that his sense of hearing -was nearly all he had,—though it did not occur to her that he might have -more of it than other children. - -One day Samson was standing thus while Miss Nellie was playing her lesson -to her music-master. The windows were open. He heard them get up from the -piano, talk a little while, and then leave the room. He heard the door -close after them. He crept up to the front windows and stuck his head in: -there was no one there. He could always detect the presence of any one in -a room. He put one foot over the window sill and straddled it. His mother -had told him over and over how his master would give him to the big -mastiff if he ever found him “meddling.” Samson had got too near the -mastiff’s kennel once, and had felt his terrible breath in his face. He -thought about that, but he pulled in his other foot. - -Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to its mouth. He touched -it softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He shivered and stood still. -Then he began to feel it all over, ran his finger tips along the slippery -sides, embraced the carved legs, tried to get some conception of its shape -and size, of the space it occupied in primeval night. It was cold and -hard, and like nothing else in his black universe. He went back to its -mouth, began at one end of the keyboard and felt his way down into the -mellow thunder, as far as he could go. He seemed to know that it must be -done with the fingers, not with the fists or the feet. He approached this -highly artificial instrument through a mere instinct, and coupled himself -to it, as if he knew it was to piece him out and make a whole creature of -him. After he had tried over all the sounds, he began to finger out -passages from things Miss Nellie had been practicing, passages that were -already his, that lay under the bones of his pinched, conical little -skull, definite as animal desires. The door opened; Miss Nellie and her -music-master stood behind it, but blind Samson, who was so sensitive to -presences, did not know they were there. He was feeling out the pattern -that lay all ready-made on the big and little keys. When he paused for a -moment, because the sound was wrong and he wanted another, Miss Nellie -spoke softly. He whirled about in a spasm of terror, leaped forward in the -dark, struck his head on the open window, and fell screaming and bleeding -to the floor. He had what his mother called a fit. The doctor came and -gave him opium. - -When Samson was well again, his young mistress led him back to the piano. -Several teachers experimented with him. They found he had absolute pitch, -and a remarkable memory. As a very young child he could repeat, after a -fashion, any composition that was played for him. No matter how many wrong -notes he struck, he never lost the intention of a passage, he brought the -substance of it across by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his -teachers out. He could never learn like other people, never acquired any -finish. He was always a negro prodigy who played barbarously and -wonderfully. As piano playing, it was perhaps abominable, but as music it -was something real, vitalized by a sense of rhythm that was stronger than -his other physical senses,—that not only filled his dark mind, but worried -his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch him, was to see a negro -enjoying himself as only a negro can. It was as if all the agreeable -sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were heaped up on -those black and white keys, and he were gloating over them and trickling -them through his yellow fingers. - -In the middle of a crashing waltz d’Arnault suddenly began to play softly, -and, turning to one of the men who stood behind him, whispered, “Somebody -dancing in there.” He jerked his bullet head toward the dining-room. “I -hear little feet,—girls, I ’spect.” - -Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and peeped over the transom. Springing -down, he wrenched open the doors and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny -and Lena, Ántonia and Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the -floor. They separated and fled toward the kitchen, giggling. - -Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows. “What’s the matter with you girls? -Dancing out here by yourselves, when there’s a roomful of lonesome men on -the other side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny.” - -The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. Tiny looked alarmed. -“Mrs. Gardener would n’t like it,” she protested. “She’d be awful mad if -you was to come out here and dance with us.” - -“Mrs. Gardener’s in Omaha, girl. Now, you’re Lena, are you?—and you’re -Tony and you’re Mary. Have I got you all straight?” - -O’Reilly and the others began to pile the chairs on the tables. Johnnie -Gardener ran in from the office. - -“Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them. “You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll -be the devil to pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down -the minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.” - -“Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring -another. Come along, nobody’ll tell tales.” - -Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact, boys,” he said confidentially. “If I -take a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!” - -His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, we’ll make it all -right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie.” - -Molly was Mrs. Gardener’s name, of course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in -large blue letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and “Molly” -was engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his -heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a -wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a -clerk in some other man’s hotel. - -At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread himself out over the piano, -and began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone -on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening -African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the -dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out -softly, “Who’s that goin’ back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! -Now, you girls, you ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?” - -Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena -and Tiny over Willy O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and -slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses -very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than -the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly -marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut -hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding -dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold -and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were -handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in -their eyes that brilliancy which is called,—by no metaphor, alas!—“the -light of youth.” - -D’Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left -us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, -given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and -had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way -upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with -Ántonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a -long while at the Harlings’ gate, whispering in the cold until the -restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. - - - - -VIII - - -THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented -and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We -were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break -the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up -vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear -Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke -into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds -were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek -with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer -every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not -even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether -they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. - -It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Ántonia were preserving -cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion -had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted -poles up from the depot. - -That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, -looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a -long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. -They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I -overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and -confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in -summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught -dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. - -The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot -surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a -merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. -Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their -children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o’clock one met little -girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the -time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni -received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great -deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore -her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral -combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow -teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the -harpist, taught the older ones. - -Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of -the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under -the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good -trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used -to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged -little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white -umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came -to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. -Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and -the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in -the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, -and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. - -The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour -suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the -harp struck up “Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock. -You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House -whistle. - -At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, -when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the -boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—northward to the -edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the -post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place -where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh -aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed -to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple -trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted -sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples -through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell -in—one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so -seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had -n’t we had a tent before? - -Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer -before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the -exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times -any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, -the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands -who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over. - -I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight -then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and -all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and -the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who -found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to -the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with -their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired -girls.” - - - - -IX - - -THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt -the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town -to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle -out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family -to go to school. - -Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got -little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for -whom they made such sacrifices and who have had “advantages,” never seem -to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The -older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from -life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, -like Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender -age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country -girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived -there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of -them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had -given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming -to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and -made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. - -That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk -more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court -in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the -daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly -and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in -summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never -moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not -to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, -gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like -cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put -there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. - -The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief -that they were “refined,” and that the country girls, who “worked out,” -were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as -their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with -little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had -borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the -Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters -go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they -sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get -positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the -language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from -debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after -they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they -had been when they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, -like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth -they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and -sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping -to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. - -One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our -county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of -debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,—usually of like -nationality,—and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are -to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children -are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. - -I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. -If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, -and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it -matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. -There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, -much less the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people saw no -difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all -“hired girls.” - -I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into -their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant -can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to -the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian -girls are now the mistresses. - -The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and -living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat -upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young -fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his -father’s bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the -window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in -her short skirt and striped stockings. - -The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their -beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious -mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. -The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk -youth. - -Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who -swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the -jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor -where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in -and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home -from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the -sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their -long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only -made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to -see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at -him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there -were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with -their white throats and their pink cheeks. - -The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which -the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the -drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from -Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire -from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the -place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The -three Marys were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about -the kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers -that they never had to look for a place. - -The Vannis’ tent brought the town boys and the country girls together on -neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was cashier in his father’s bank, -always found his way to the tent on Saturday night. He took all the dances -Lena Lingard would give him, and even grew bold enough to walk home with -her. If his sisters or their friends happened to be among the onlookers on -“popular nights,” Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood -trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several times -I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry for him. He -reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the draw-side and watch Lena -herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when Lena went home for a week to -visit her mother, I heard from Ántonia that young Lovett drove all the way -out there to see her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I -hoped that Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls -a better position in the town. - -Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make mistakes in his work; -had to stay at the bank until after dark to make his books balance. He was -daft about her, and every one knew it. To escape from his predicament he -ran away with a widow six years older than himself, who owned a -half-section. This remedy worked, apparently. He never looked at Lena -again, nor lifted his eyes as he ceremoniously tipped his hat when he -happened to meet her on the sidewalk. - -So that was what they were like, I thought, these white-handed, -high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at young Lovett from -a distance and only wished I had some way of showing my contempt for him. - - - - -X - - -IT was at the Vannis’ tent that Ántonia was discovered. Hitherto she had -been looked upon more as a ward of the Harlings than as one of the “hired -girls.” She had lived in their house and yard and garden; her thoughts -never seemed to stray outside that little kingdom. But after the tent came -to town she began to go about with Tiny and Lena and their friends. The -Vannis often said that Ántonia was the best dancer of them all. I -sometimes heard murmurs in the crowd outside the pavilion that Mrs. -Harling would soon have her hands full with that girl. The young men began -to joke with each other about “the Harlings’ Tony” as they did about “the -Marshalls’ Anna” or “the Gardeners’ Tiny.” - -Ántonia talked and thought of nothing but the tent. She hummed the dance -tunes all day. When supper was late, she hurried with her dishes, dropped -and smashed them in her excitement. At the first call of the music, she -became irresponsible. If she had n’t time to dress, she merely flung off -her apron and shot out of the kitchen door. Sometimes I went with her; the -moment the lighted tent came into view she would break into a run, like a -boy. There were always partners waiting for her; she began to dance before -she got her breath. - -Ántonia’s success at the tent had its consequences. The iceman lingered -too long now, when he came into the covered porch to fill the -refrigerator. The delivery boys hung about the kitchen when they brought -the groceries. Young farmers who were in town for Saturday came tramping -through the yard to the back door to engage dances, or to invite Tony to -parties and picnics. Lena and Norwegian Anna dropped in to help her with -her work, so that she could get away early. The boys who brought her home -after the dances sometimes laughed at the back gate and wakened Mr. -Harling from his first sleep. A crisis was inevitable. - -One Saturday night Mr. Harling had gone down to the cellar for beer. As he -came up the stairs in the dark, he heard scuffling on the back porch, and -then the sound of a vigorous slap. He looked out through the side door in -time to see a pair of long legs vaulting over the picket fence. Ántonia -was standing there, angry and excited. Young Harry Paine, who was to marry -his employer’s daughter on Monday, had come to the tent with a crowd of -friends and danced all evening. Afterward, he begged Ántonia to let him -walk home with her. She said she supposed he was a nice young man, as he -was one of Miss Frances’s friends, and she did n’t mind. On the back porch -he tried to kiss her, and when she protested,—because he was going to be -married on Monday,—he caught her and kissed her until she got one hand -free and slapped him. - -Mr. Harling put his beer bottles down on the table. “This is what I’ve -been expecting, Ántonia. You’ve been going with girls who have a -reputation for being free and easy, and now you’ve got the same -reputation. I won’t have this and that fellow tramping about my back yard -all the time. This is the end of it, to-night. It stops, short. You can -quit going to these dances, or you can hunt another place. Think it over.” - -The next morning when Mrs. Harling and Frances tried to reason with -Ántonia, they found her agitated but determined. “Stop going to the tent?” -she panted. “I would n’t think of it for a minute! My own father could n’t -make me stop! Mr. Harling ain’t my boss outside my work. I won’t give up -my friends, either. The boys I go with are nice fellows. I thought Mr. -Paine was all right, too, because he used to come here. I guess I gave him -a red face for his wedding, all right!” she blazed out indignantly. - -“You’ll have to do one thing or the other, Ántonia,” Mrs. Harling told her -decidedly. “I can’t go back on what Mr. Harling has said. This is his -house.” - -“Then I’ll just leave, Mrs. Harling. Lena’s been wanting me to get a place -closer to her for a long while. Mary Svoboda’s going away from the -Cutters’ to work at the hotel, and I can have her place.” - -Mrs. Harling rose from her chair. “Ántonia, if you go to the Cutters to -work, you cannot come back to this house again. You know what that man is. -It will be the ruin of you.” - -Tony snatched up the tea-kettle and began to pour boiling water over the -glasses, laughing excitedly. “Oh, I can take care of myself! I’m a lot -stronger than Cutter is. They pay four dollars there, and there’s no -children. The work’s nothing; I can have every evening, and be out a lot -in the afternoons.” - -“I thought you liked children. Tony, what’s come over you?” - -“I don’t know, something has.” Ántonia tossed her head and set her jaw. “A -girl like me has got to take her good times when she can. Maybe there -won’t be any tent next year. I guess I want to have my fling, like the -other girls.” - -Mrs. Harling gave a short, harsh laugh. “If you go to work for the -Cutters, you’re likely to have a fling that you won’t get up from in a -hurry.” - -Frances said, when she told grandmother and me about this scene, that -every pan and plate and cup on the shelves trembled when her mother walked -out of the kitchen. Mrs. Harling declared bitterly that she wished she had -never let herself get fond of Ántonia. - - - - -XI - - -WICK CUTTER was the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When -a farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling -or the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back. - -Cutter’s first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious -bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, “for -sentiment’s sake,” as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a -town in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a -little Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early -Scandinavian settlers. - -In every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to escape -restraint. Cutter was one of the “fast set” of Black Hawk business men. He -was an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When we saw a light -burning in his office late at night, we knew that a game of poker was -going on. Cutter boasted that he never drank anything stronger than -sherry, and he said he got his start in life by saving the money that -other young men spent for cigars. He was full of moral maxims for boys. -When he came to our house on business, he quoted “Poor Richard’s Almanack” -to me, and told me he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a -cow. He was particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he -would begin at once to talk about “the good old times” and simple living. -I detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow whiskers, always soft and -glistening. It was said he brushed them every night, as a woman does her -hair. His white teeth looked factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as -if from perpetual sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud -baths. He was notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had -lived in his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had -taken to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted -her. He still visited her. - -Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet, -apparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy, -scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a -fussy white fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about -horses, and usually had a colt which he was training for the track. On -Sunday mornings one could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around -the race-course in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a -black-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the -breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a -quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no -change and would “fix it up next time.” No one could cut his lawn or wash -his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about his place that -a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead cat into his back -yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley. It was a peculiar -combination of old-maidishness and licentiousness that made Cutter seem so -despicable. - -He had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a -terrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with -iron-gray hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. -When she meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head -incessantly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and curved, -like a horse’s; people said babies always cried if she smiled at them. Her -face had a kind of fascination for me; it was the very color and shape of -anger. There was a gleam of something akin to insanity in her full, -intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made calls in rustling, -steel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with bristling aigrettes. - -Mrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her washbowls and -pitchers, and her husband’s shaving-mug, were covered with violets and -lilies. Once when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife’s china to a -caller, he dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips -as if she were going to faint and said grandly: “Mr. Cutter, you have -broken all the Commandments—spare the finger-bowls!” - -They quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they went -to bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to the town -at large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful -husbands out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised -handwriting. Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in -the paper-rack, and triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from -which it had been cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether -he ought to put on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about -whether he had taken cold or not. - -The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief of -these was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband it was -plainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs. Cutter had -purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him and to -share his property with her “people,” whom he detested. To this she would -reply that unless he changed his mode of life, she would certainly outlive -him. After listening to her insinuations about his physical soundness, -Cutter would resume his dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at -the hour when his wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out -to the track with his trotting-horse. - -Once when they had quarreled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put on -her brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for painted -china, saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her “to live by her brush.” -Cutter was n’t shamed as she had expected; he was delighted! - -Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried the -house. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped of the -“privacy” which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his -opportunity, surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters seemed -to find their relations to each other interesting and stimulating, and -certainly the rest of us found them so. Wick Cutter was different from any -other rascal I have ever known, but I have found Mrs. Cutters all over the -world; sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly -fed—easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed. - - - - -XII - - -AFTER Ántonia went to live with the Cutters, she seemed to care about -nothing but picnics and parties and having a good time. When she was not -going to a dance, she sewed until midnight. Her new clothes were the -subject of caustic comment. Under Lena’s direction she copied Mrs. -Gardener’s new party dress and Mrs. Smith’s street costume so ingeniously -in cheap materials that those ladies were greatly annoyed, and Mrs. -Cutter, who was jealous of them, was secretly pleased. - -Tony wore gloves now, and high-heeled shoes and feathered bonnets, and she -went downtown nearly every afternoon with Tiny and Lena and the Marshalls’ -Norwegian Anna. We High-School boys used to linger on the playground at -the afternoon recess to watch them as they came tripping down the hill -along the board sidewalk, two and two. They were growing prettier every -day, but as they passed us, I used to think with pride that Ántonia, like -Snow-White in the fairy tale, was still “fairest of them all.” - -Being a Senior now, I got away from school early. Sometimes I overtook the -girls downtown and coaxed them into the ice-cream parlor, where they would -sit chattering and laughing, telling me all the news from the country. I -remember how angry Tiny Soderball made me one afternoon. She declared she -had heard grandmother was going to make a Baptist preacher of me. “I guess -you’ll have to stop dancing and wear a white necktie then. Won’t he look -funny, girls?” - -Lena laughed. “You’ll have to hurry up, Jim. If you’re going to be a -preacher, I want you to marry me. You must promise to marry us all, and -then baptize the babies.” - -Norwegian Anna, always dignified, looked at her reprovingly. - -“Baptists don’t believe in christening babies, do they, Jim?” - -I told her I did n’t know what they believed, and did n’t care, and that I -certainly was n’t going to be a preacher. - -“That’s too bad,” Tiny simpered. She was in a teasing mood. “You’d make -such a good one. You’re so studious. Maybe you’d like to be a professor. -You used to teach Tony, did n’t you?” - -Ántonia broke in. “I’ve set my heart on Jim being a doctor. You’d be good -with sick people, Jim. Your grandmother’s trained you up so nice. My papa -always said you were an awful smart boy.” - -I said I was going to be whatever I pleased. “Won’t you be surprised, Miss -Tiny, if I turn out to be a regular devil of a fellow?” - -They laughed until a glance from Norwegian Anna checked them; the -High-School Principal had just come into the front part of the shop to buy -bread for supper. Anna knew the whisper was going about that I was a sly -one. People said there must be something queer about a boy who showed no -interest in girls of his own age, but who could be lively enough when he -was with Tony and Lena or the three Marys. - - - -The enthusiasm for the dance, which the Vannis had kindled, did not at -once die out. After the tent left town, the Euchre Club became the Owl -Club, and gave dances in the Masonic Hall once a week. I was invited to -join, but declined. I was moody and restless that winter, and tired of the -people I saw every day. Charley Harling was already at Annapolis, while I -was still sitting in Black Hawk, answering to my name at roll-call every -morning, rising from my desk at the sound of a bell and marching out like -the grammar-school children. Mrs. Harling was a little cool toward me, -because I continued to champion Ántonia. What was there for me to do after -supper? Usually I had learned next day’s lessons by the time I left the -school building, and I could n’t sit still and read forever. - -In the evening I used to prowl about, hunting for diversion. There lay the -familiar streets, frozen with snow or liquid with mud. They led to the -houses of good people who were putting the babies to bed, or simply -sitting still before the parlor stove, digesting their supper. Black Hawk -had two saloons. One of them was admitted, even by the church people, to -be as respectable as a saloon could be. Handsome Anton Jelinek, who had -rented his homestead and come to town, was the proprietor. In his saloon -there were long tables where the Bohemian and German farmers could eat the -lunches they brought from home while they drank their beer. Jelinek kept -rye bread on hand, and smoked fish and strong imported cheeses to please -the foreign palate. I liked to drop into his bar-room and listen to the -talk. But one day he overtook me on the street and clapped me on the -shoulder. - -“Jim,” he said, “I am good friends with you and I always like to see you. -But you know how the church people think about saloons. Your grandpa has -always treated me fine, and I don’t like to have you come into my place, -because I know he don’t like it, and it puts me in bad with him.” - -So I was shut out of that. - -One could hang about the drug-store, and listen to the old men who sat -there every evening, talking politics and telling raw stories. One could -go to the cigar factory and chat with the old German who raised canaries -for sale, and look at his stuffed birds. But whatever you began with him, -the talk went back to taxidermy. There was the depot, of course; I often -went down to see the night train come in, and afterward sat awhile with -the disconsolate telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to -Omaha or Denver, “where there was some life.” He was sure to bring out his -pictures of actresses and dancers. He got them with cigarette coupons, and -nearly smoked himself to death to possess these desired forms and faces. -For a change, one could talk to the station agent; but he was another -malcontent; spent all his spare time writing letters to officials -requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming where he could go -trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say “there was nothing in life for -him but trout streams, ever since he’d lost his twins.” - -These were the distractions I had to choose from. There were no other -lights burning downtown after nine o’clock. On starlight nights I used to -pace up and down those long, cold streets, scowling at the little, -sleeping houses on either side, with their storm-windows and covered back -porches. They were flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of light -wood, with spindle porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. -Yet for all their frailness, how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness -some of them managed to contain! The life that went on in them seemed to -me made up of evasions and negations; shifts to save cooking, to save -washing and cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of gossip. This -guarded mode of existence was like living under a tyranny. People’s -speech, their voices, their very glances, became furtive and repressed. -Every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. -The people asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice -in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over -the surface of things in the dark. The growing piles of ashes and cinders -in the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful, consuming -process of life went on at all. On Tuesday nights the Owl Club danced; -then there was a little stir in the streets, and here and there one could -see a lighted window until midnight. But the next night all was dark -again. - -After I refused to join “the Owls,” as they were called, I made a bold -resolve to go to the Saturday night dances at Firemen’s Hall. I knew it -would be useless to acquaint my elders with any such plan. Grandfather did -n’t approve of dancing anyway; he would only say that if I wanted to dance -I could go to the Masonic Hall, among “the people we knew.” It was just my -point that I saw altogether too much of the people we knew. - -My bedroom was on the ground floor, and as I studied there, I had a stove -in it. I used to retire to my room early on Saturday night, change my -shirt and collar and put on my Sunday coat. I waited until all was quiet -and the old people were asleep, then raised my window, climbed out, and -went softly through the yard. The first time I deceived my grandparents I -felt rather shabby, perhaps even the second time, but I soon ceased to -think about it. - -The dance at the Firemen’s Hall was the one thing I looked forward to all -the week. There I met the same people I used to see at the Vannis’ tent. -Sometimes there were Bohemians from Wilber, or German boys who came down -on the afternoon freight from Bismarck. Tony and Lena and Tiny were always -there, and the three Bohemian Marys, and the Danish laundry girls. - -The four Danish girls lived with the laundryman and his wife in their -house behind the laundry, with a big garden where the clothes were hung -out to dry. The laundryman was a kind, wise old fellow, who paid his girls -well, looked out for them, and gave them a good home. He told me once that -his own daughter died just as she was getting old enough to help her -mother, and that he had been “trying to make up for it ever since.” On -summer afternoons he used to sit for hours on the sidewalk in front of his -laundry, his newspaper lying on his knee, watching his girls through the -big open window while they ironed and talked in Danish. The clouds of -white dust that blew up the street, the gusts of hot wind that withered -his vegetable garden, never disturbed his calm. His droll expression -seemed to say that he had found the secret of contentment. Morning and -evening he drove about in his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed -clothes, and collecting bags of linen that cried out for his suds and -sunny drying-lines. His girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they -did standing by the ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine -pieces, their white arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the -brightest wild roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and -curling in little damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much -English, and were not so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were kind, -simple girls and they were always happy. When one danced with them, one -smelled their clean, freshly ironed clothes that had been put away with -rosemary leaves from Mr. Jensen’s garden. - -There were never girls enough to go round at those dances, but every one -wanted a turn with Tony and Lena. Lena moved without exertion, rather -indolently, and her hand often accented the rhythm softly on her partner’s -shoulder. She smiled if one spoke to her, but seldom answered. The music -seemed to put her into a soft, waking dream, and her violet-colored eyes -looked sleepily and confidingly at one from under her long lashes. When -she sighed she exhaled a heavy perfume of sachet powder. To dance “Home, -Sweet Home,” with Lena was like coming in with the tide. She danced every -dance like a waltz, and it was always the same waltz—the waltz of coming -home to something, of inevitable, fated return. After a while one got -restless under it, as one does under the heat of a soft, sultry summer -day. - -When you spun out into the floor with Tony, you did n’t return to -anything. You set out every time upon a new adventure. I liked to -schottische with her; she had so much spring and variety, and was always -putting in new steps and slides. She taught me to dance against and around -the hard-and-fast beat of the music. If, instead of going to the end of -the railroad, old Mr. Shimerda had stayed in New York and picked up a -living with his fiddle, how different Ántonia’s life might have been! - -Ántonia often went to the dances with Larry Donovan, a passenger conductor -who was a kind of professional ladies’ man, as we said. I remember how -admiringly all the boys looked at her the night she first wore her -velveteen dress, made like Mrs. Gardener’s black velvet. She was lovely to -see, with her eyes shining, and her lips always a little parted when she -danced. That constant, dark color in her cheeks never changed. - -One evening when Donovan was out on his run, Ántonia came to the hall with -Norwegian Anna and her young man, and that night I took her home. When we -were in the Cutter’s yard, sheltered by the evergreens, I told her she -must kiss me good-night. - -“Why, sure, Jim.” A moment later she drew her face away and whispered -indignantly, “Why, Jim! You know you ain’t right to kiss me like that. -I’ll tell your grandmother on you!” - -“Lena Lingard lets me kiss her,” I retorted, “and I’m not half as fond of -her as I am of you.” - -“Lena does?” Tony gasped. “If she’s up to any of her nonsense with you, -I’ll scratch her eyes out!” She took my arm again and we walked out of the -gate and up and down the sidewalk. “Now, don’t you go and be a fool like -some of these town boys. You’re not going to sit around here and whittle -store-boxes and tell stories all your life. You are going away to school -and make something of yourself. I’m just awful proud of you. You won’t go -and get mixed up with the Swedes, will you?” - -“I don’t care anything about any of them but you,” I said. “And you’ll -always treat me like a kid, I suppose.” - -She laughed and threw her arms around me. “I expect I will, but you’re a -kid I’m awful fond of, anyhow! You can like me all you want to, but if I -see you hanging round with Lena much, I’ll go to your grandmother, as sure -as your name’s Jim Burden! Lena’s all right, only—well, you know yourself -she’s soft that way. She can’t help it. It’s natural to her.” - -If she was proud of me, I was so proud of her that I carried my head high -as I emerged from the dark cedars and shut the Cutters’ gate softly behind -me. Her warm, sweet face, her kind arms, and the true heart in her; she -was, oh, she was still my Ántonia! I looked with contempt at the dark, -silent little houses about me as I walked home, and thought of the stupid -young men who were asleep in some of them. I knew where the real women -were, though I was only a boy; and I would not be afraid of them, either! - -I hated to enter the still house when I went home from the dances, and it -was long before I could get to sleep. Toward morning I used to have -pleasant dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out in the country, sliding -down straw-stacks as we used to do; climbing up the yellow mountains over -and over, and slipping down the smooth sides into soft piles of chaff. - -One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was always the same. I was -in a harvest-field full of shocks, and I was lying against one of them. -Lena Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a -curved reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a -kind of luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to -me with a soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you -as much as I like.” - -I used to wish I could have this flattering dream about Ántonia, but I -never did. - - - - -XIII - - -I NOTICED one afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed -to drag as she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I -was studying and went to her, asking if she did n’t feel well, and if I -could n’t help her with her work. - -“No, thank you, Jim. I’m troubled, but I guess I’m well enough. Getting a -little rusty in the bones, maybe,” she added bitterly. - -I stood hesitating. “What are you fretting about, grandmother? Has -grandfather lost any money?” - -“No, it ain’t money. I wish it was. But I’ve heard things. You must ’a’ -known it would come back to me sometime.” She dropped into a chair, and -covering her face with her apron, began to cry. “Jim,” she said, “I was -never one that claimed old folks could bring up their grandchildren. But -it came about so; there was n’t any other way for you, it seemed like.” - -I put my arms around her. I could n’t bear to see her cry. - -“What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen’s dances?” - -She nodded. - -“I’m sorry I sneaked off like that. But there’s nothing wrong about the -dances, and I have n’t done anything wrong. I like all those country -girls, and I like to dance with them. That’s all there is to it.” - -“But it ain’t right to deceive us, son, and it brings blame on us. People -say you are growing up to be a bad boy, and that ain’t just to us.” - -“I don’t care what they say about me, but if it hurts you, that settles -it. I won’t go to the Firemen’s Hall again.” - -I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring months dull enough. I -sat at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin that -was not in our High-School course. I had made up my mind to do a lot of -college requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman class at -the University without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get away as -soon as possible. - -Disapprobation hurt me, I found,—even that of people whom I did not -admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell back -on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for companionship. -I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a May-basket for Nina -Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from an old German woman who -always had more window plants than any one else, and spent an afternoon -trimming a little work-basket. When dusk came on, and the new moon hung in -the sky, I went quietly to the Harlings’ front door with my offering, rang -the bell, and then ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I -could hear Nina’s cries of delight, and I felt comforted. - -On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered downtown to walk home -with Frances, and talked to her about my plans and about the reading I was -doing. One evening she said she thought Mrs. Harling was not seriously -offended with me. - -“Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I guess. But you know she -was hurt about Ántonia, and she can’t understand why you like to be with -Tiny and Lena better than with the girls of your own set.” - -“Can you?” I asked bluntly. - -Frances laughed. “Yes, I think I can. You knew them in the country, and -you like to take sides. In some ways you’re older than boys of your age. -It will be all right with mama after you pass your college examinations -and she sees you’re in earnest.” - -“If you were a boy,” I persisted, “you would n’t belong to the Owl Club, -either. You’d be just like me.” - -She shook her head. “I would and I would n’t. I expect I know the country -girls better than you do. You always put a kind of glamour over them. The -trouble with you, Jim, is that you’re romantic. Mama’s going to your -Commencement. She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to -be about. She wants you to do well.” - -I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervor a great many things -I had lately discovered. Mrs. Harling came to the Opera House to hear the -Commencement exercises, and I looked at her most of the time while I made -my speech. Her keen, intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she -came back to the dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our -hands, walked up to me, and said heartily: “You surprised me, Jim. I did -n’t believe you could do as well as that. You did n’t get that speech out -of books.” Among my graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from -Mrs. Harling, with my name on the handle. - -I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed the Methodist -Church, I saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up and down under -the arching maple trees, where the moonlight filtered through the lush -June foliage. They hurried toward me; they were waiting for me—Lena and -Tony and Anna Hansen. - -“Oh, Jim, it was splendid!” Tony was breathing hard, as she always did -when her feelings outran her language. “There ain’t a lawyer in Black Hawk -could make a speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to -him. He won’t tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself, did -n’t he, girls?” - -Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly: “What made you so solemn? I -thought you were scared. I was sure you’d forget.” - -Anna spoke wistfully. “It must make you happy, Jim, to have fine thoughts -like that in your mind all the time, and to have words to put them in. I -always wanted to go to school, you know.” - -“Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could hear you! Jim,”—Ántonia -took hold of my coat lapels,—“there was something in your speech that made -me think so about my papa!” - -“I thought about your papa when I wrote my speech, Tony,” I said. “I -dedicated it to him.” - -She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was all wet with tears. - -I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller and smaller down the -sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other success that pulled at my -heartstrings like that one. - - - - -XIV - - -THE day after Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty -room where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I -worked off a year’s trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil alone. -Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny little room, -looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of the blond pastures -between, scanning the Æneid aloud and committing long passages to memory. -Sometimes in the evening Mrs. Harling called to me as I passed her gate, -and asked me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for -Charley, she said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents -had misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off -to college alone, Mrs. Harling took up my cause vigorously. Grandfather -had such respect for her judgment that I knew he would not go against her. - -I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I met Ántonia downtown -on Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going -to the river next day with Anna Hansen—the elder was all in bloom now, and -Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine. - -“Anna’s to drive us down in the Marshalls’ delivery wagon, and we’ll take -a nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n’t you happen -along, Jim? It would be like old times.” - -I considered a moment. “Maybe I can, if I won’t be in the way.” - -On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black Hawk while the dew was -still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summer -flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and the -cone-flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, in -the long grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in -that part of the State. I left the road and went around through a stretch -of pasture that was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia -came up year after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety -red that is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except -for the larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me -and to come very close. - -The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of us -had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the wooded -shore to a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, all -overgrown with wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girls -would not be along yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I would -be homesick for that river after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean -white beaches and their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, -were a sort of No Man’s Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to -the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these woods, -fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the river shores -and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow. - -After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heard -the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream and -shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. They -stopped the horse, and the two girls in the bottom of the cart stood up, -steadying themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they -could see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the -cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of the -thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving to -them. - -“How pretty you look!” I called. - -“So do you!” they shouted altogether, and broke into peals of laughter. -Anna Hansen shook the reins and they drove on, while I zigzagged back to -my inlet and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the -sun, and dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the -sunlight flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and the -woodpecker hammered away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the -water. As I went along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off -little pieces of scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking -them up in my hands. - -When I came upon the Marshalls’ delivery horse, tied in the shade, the -girls had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road which -wound through the sand and scrub. I could hear them calling to each other. -The elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the -bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their roots -were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms were -unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer. - -I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to a -slope that fell away abruptly to the water’s edge. A great chunk of the -shore had been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was masked -by elder bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did not -touch them. I was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warm -silence about me. There was no sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild -bees and the sunny gurgle of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge -of the bank to see the little stream that made the noise; it flowed along -perfectly clear over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main -current by a long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I -saw Ántonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked up when -she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. I slid down -into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the matter. - -“It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this smell,” she said softly. -“We have this flower very much at home, in the old country. It always grew -in our yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. In -summer, when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that -played the trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hear -them talk—beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country.” - -“What did they talk about?” I asked her. - -She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, I don’t know! About music, and the -woods, and about God, and when they were young.” She turned to me suddenly -and looked into my eyes. “You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father’s spirit -can go back to those old places?” - -I told her about the feeling of her father’s presence I had on that winter -day when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was left -alone in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back to -his own country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I always -thought of him as being among the woods and fields that were so dear to -him. - -Ántonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love and -credulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces. “Why did n’t you -ever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him.” After a -while she said: “You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He -did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with him -because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper about it. -They said he could have paid my mother money, and not married her. But he -was older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. He -lived in his mother’s house, and she was a poor girl come in to do the -work. After my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother come -into her house again. When I went to my grandmother’s funeral was the only -time I was ever in my grandmother’s house. Don’t that seem strange?” - -While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and looked up at the blue sky -between the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming and -singing, but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not come -down into the shadow of the leaves. Ántonia seemed to me that day exactly -like the little girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda. - -“Some day, Tony, I am going over to your country, and I am going to the -little town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?” - -“Jim,” she said earnestly, “if I was put down there in the middle of the -night, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the river -to the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all the -little paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip -you. I ain’t never forgot my own country.” - -There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peered -down over the edge of the bank. - -“You lazy things!” she cried. “All this elder, and you two lying there! -Did n’t you hear us calling you?” Almost as flushed as she had been in my -dream, she leaned over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our -flowery pagoda. I had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with -zeal, and the perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper -lip. I sprang to my feet and ran up the bank. - -It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and scrub-oaks began to turn -up the silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the foliage looked soft -and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk -bluffs, where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. The -flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Below -us we could see the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped among -its trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it met -the sky. We could recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the -girls pointed out to me the direction in which her father’s farm lay, and -told me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn. - -“My old folks,” said Tiny Soderball, “have put in twenty acres of rye. -They get it ground at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my -mother ain’t been so homesick, ever since father’s raised rye flour for -her.” - -“It must have been a trial for our mothers,” said Lena, “coming out here -and having to do everything different. My mother had always lived in town. -She says she started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up.” - -“Yes, a new country’s hard on the old ones, sometimes,” said Anna -thoughtfully. “My grandmother’s getting feeble now, and her mind wanders. -She’s forgot about this country, and thinks she’s at home in Norway. She -keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside and the fish market. -She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home I take her canned salmon -and mackerel.” - -“Mercy, it’s hot!” Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, resting -after the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled -slippers she had been silly enough to wear. “Come here, Jim. You never got -the sand out of your hair.” She began to draw her fingers slowly through -my hair. - -Ántonia pushed her away. “You’ll never get it out like that,” she said -sharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off with -something like a box on the ear. “Lena, you ought n’t to try to wear those -slippers any more. They’re too small for your feet. You’d better give them -to me for Yulka.” - -“All right,” said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings under -her skirt. “You get all Yulka’s things, don’t you? I wish father did n’t -have such bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more things -for my sisters. I’m going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky -plough’s never paid for!” - -Tiny asked her why she did n’t wait until after Christmas, when coats -would be cheaper. “What do you think of poor me?” she added; “with six at -home, younger than I am? And they all think I’m rich, because when I go -back to the country I’m dressed so fine!” She shrugged her shoulders. -“But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them playthings -better than what they need.” - -“I know how that is,” said Anna. “When we first came here, and I was -little, we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll -somebody gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I -still hate him for it.” - -“I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, like -me!” Lena remarked cynically. - -“Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. I -was fond of them all. The youngest one, that we did n’t any of us want, is -the one we love best now.” - -Lena sighed. “Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don’t come in -winter. Ours nearly always did. I don’t see how mother stood it. I tell -you what girls,” she sat up with sudden energy; “I’m going to get my -mother out of that old sod house where she’s lived so many years. The men -will never do it. Johnnie, that’s my oldest brother, he’s wanting to get -married now, and build a house for his girl instead of his mother. Mrs. -Thomas says she thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go -into business for myself. If I don’t get into business, I’ll maybe marry a -rich gambler.” - -“That would be a poor way to get on,” said Anna sarcastically. “I wish I -could teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She’ll be the first -Scandinavian girl to get a position in the High School. We ought to be -proud of her.” - -Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy things -like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration. - -Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. “If I was -smart like her, I’d be at my books day and night. But she was born -smart—and look how her father’s trained her! He was something high up in -the old country.” - -“So was my mother’s father,” murmured Lena, “but that’s all the good it -does us! My father’s father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a -Lapp. I guess that’s what’s the matter with me; they say Lapp blood will -out.” - -“A real Lapp, Lena?” I exclaimed. “The kind that wear skins?” - -“I don’t know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapp all right, and his -folks felt dreadful about it. He was sent up north on some Government job -he had, and fell in with her. He would marry her.” - -“But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, like -Chinese?” I objected. - -“I don’t know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lapp -girls, though; mother says the Norwegians up north are always afraid their -boys will run after them.” - -In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively game -of “Pussy Wants a Corner,” on the flat bluff-top, with the little trees -for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she would n’t -play any more. We threw ourselves down on the grass, out of breath. - -“Jim,” Ántonia said dreamily, “I want you to tell the girls about how the -Spanish first came here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. -I’ve tried to tell them, but I leave out so much.” - -They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the trunk and the other -girls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I was -able to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven Golden -Cities. At school we were taught that he had not got so far north as -Nebraska, but had given up his quest and turned back somewhere in Kansas. -But Charley Harling and I had a strong belief that he had been along this -very river. A farmer in the county north of ours, when he was breaking -sod, had turned up a metal stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a -Spanish inscription on the blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, who -brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were on -exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, had -found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an abbreviation that -stood for the city of Cordova. - -“And that I saw with my own eyes,” Ántonia put in triumphantly. “So Jim -and Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!” - -The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come so -far? What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado never -gone back to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I could -n’t tell them. I only knew the school books said he “died in the -wilderness, of a broken heart.” - -“More than him has done that,” said Ántonia sadly, and the girls murmured -assent. - -We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly -grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. -There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the -sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow -thickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to -stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off -in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each -other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads. - -Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going -down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disc -rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure -suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining -our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland -farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking -just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it -stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the -disc; the handles, the tongue, the share—black against the molten red. -There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. - -Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped -and dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us -were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk -back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie. - - - - -XV - - -LATE in August the Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving Ántonia -in charge of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick -Cutter could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him. - -The day after the Cutters left, Ántonia came over to see us. Grandmother -noticed that she seemed troubled and distracted. “You’ve got something on -your mind, Ántonia,” she said anxiously. - -“Yes, Mrs. Burden. I could n’t sleep much last night.” She hesitated, and -then told us how strangely Mr. Cutter had behaved before he went away. He -put all the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed, and with it a -box of papers which he told her were valuable. He made her promise that -she would not sleep away from the house, or be out late in the evening, -while he was gone. He strictly forbade her to ask any of the girls she -knew to stay with her at night. She would be perfectly safe, he said, as -he had just put a new Yale lock on the front door. - -Cutter had been so insistent in regard to these details that now she felt -uncomfortable about staying there alone. She had n’t liked the way he kept -coming into the kitchen to instruct her, or the way he looked at her. “I -feel as if he is up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to -scare me, somehow.” - -Grandmother was apprehensive at once. “I don’t think it’s right for you to -stay there, feeling that way. I suppose it would n’t be right for you to -leave the place alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be -willing to go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I’d -feel safer, knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take -care of their silver and old usury notes as well as you could.” - -Ántonia turned to me eagerly. “Oh, would you, Jim? I’d make up my bed nice -and fresh for you. It’s a real cool room, and the bed’s right next the -window. I was afraid to leave the window open last night.” - -I liked my own room, and I did n’t like the Cutters’ house under any -circumstances; but Tony looked so troubled that I consented to try this -arrangement. I found that I slept there as well as anywhere, and when I -got home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After -prayers she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times in -the country. - -The third night I spent at the Cutters’, I awoke suddenly with the -impression that I had heard a door open and shut. Everything was still, -however, and I must have gone to sleep again immediately. - -The next thing I knew, I felt some one sit down on the edge of the bed. I -was only half awake, but I decided that he might take the Cutters’ silver, -whoever he was. Perhaps if I did not move, he would find it and get out -without troubling me. I held my breath and lay absolutely still. A hand -closed softly on my shoulder, and at the same moment I felt something -hairy and cologne-scented brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been -flooded with electric light, I could n’t have seen more clearly the -detestable bearded countenance that I knew was bending over me. I caught a -handful of whiskers and pulled, shouting something. The hand that held my -shoulder was instantly at my throat. The man became insane; he stood over -me, choking me with one fist and beating me in the face with the other, -hissing and chuckling and letting out a flood of abuse. - -“So this is what she’s up to when I’m away, is it? Where is she, you nasty -whelp, where is she? Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks! -Wait till I get at you! I’ll fix this rat you’ve got in here. He’s caught, -all right!” - -So long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no chance for me at all. -I got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until he let go with a yell. In -a bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent him sprawling to the floor. -Then I made a dive for the open window, struck the wire screen, knocked it -out, and tumbled after it into the yard. - -Suddenly I found myself running across the north end of Black Hawk in my -nightshirt, just as one sometimes finds one’s self behaving in bad dreams. -When I got home I climbed in at the kitchen window. I was covered with -blood from my nose and lip, but I was too sick to do anything about it. I -found a shawl and an overcoat on the hatrack, lay down on the parlor sofa, -and in spite of my hurts, went to sleep. - -Grandmother found me there in the morning. Her cry of fright awakened me. -Truly, I was a battered object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a -glimpse of myself in the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a -snout. My nose looked like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut -and hideously discolored. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at -once, but I implored her, as I had never begged for anything before, not -to send for him. I could stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw -me or knew what had happened to me. I entreated her not to let -grandfather, even, come into my room. She seemed to understand, though I -was too faint and miserable to go into explanations. When she took off my -nightshirt, she found such bruises on my chest and shoulders that she -began to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing and poulticing me, and -rubbing me with arnica. I heard Ántonia sobbing outside my door, but I -asked grandmother to send her away. I felt that I never wanted to see her -again. I hated her almost as much as I hated Cutter. She had let me in for -all this disgustingness. Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought to -be that I had been there instead of Ántonia. But I lay with my disfigured -face to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one concern was that -grandmother should keep every one away from me. If the story once got -abroad, I would never hear the last of it. I could well imagine what the -old men down at the drug-store would do with such a theme. - -While grandmother was trying to make me comfortable, grandfather went to -the depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come home on the night express -from the east, and had left again on the six o’clock train for Denver that -morning. The agent said his face was striped with court-plaster, and he -carried his left hand in a sling. He looked so used up, that the agent -asked him what had happened to him since ten o’clock the night before; -whereat Cutter began to swear at him and said he would have him discharged -for incivility. - -That afternoon, while I was asleep, Ántonia took grandmother with her, and -went over to the Cutters’ to pack her trunk. They found the place locked -up, and they had to break the window to get into Ántonia’s bedroom. There -everything was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her -closet, thrown into the middle of the room, and trampled and torn. My own -garments had been treated so badly that I never saw them again; -grandmother burned them in the Cutters’ kitchen range. - -While Ántonia was packing her trunk and putting her room in order, to -leave it, the front-door bell rang violently. There stood Mrs. -Cutter,—locked out, for she had no key to the new lock—her head trembling -with rage. “I advised her to control herself, or she would have a stroke,” -grandmother said afterwards. - -Grandmother would not let her see Ántonia at all, but made her sit down in -the parlor while she related to her just what had occurred the night -before. Ántonia was frightened, and was going home to stay for a while, -she told Mrs. Cutter; it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she -knew nothing of what had happened. - -Then Mrs. Cutter told her story. She and her husband had started home from -Omaha together the morning before. They had to stop over several hours at -Waymore Junction to catch the Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter -left her at the depot and went to the Waymore bank to attend to some -business. When he returned, he told her that he would have to stay -overnight there, but she could go on home. He bought her ticket and put -her on the train. She saw him slip a twenty-dollar bill into her handbag -with her ticket. That bill, she said, should have aroused her suspicions -at once—but did not. - -The trains are never called at little junction towns; everybody knows when -they come in. Mr. Cutter showed his wife’s ticket to the conductor, and -settled her in her seat before the train moved off. It was not until -nearly nightfall that she discovered she was on the express bound for -Kansas City, that her ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter -must have planned it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was -due at Waymore twelve minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at -once that her husband had played this trick in order to get back to Black -Hawk without her. She had no choice but to go on to Kansas City and take -the first fast train for home. - -Cutter could have got home a day earlier than his wife by any one of a -dozen simpler devices; he could have left her in the Omaha hotel, and said -he was going on to Chicago for a few days. But apparently it was part of -his fun to outrage her feelings as much as possible. - -“Mr. Cutter will pay for this, Mrs. Burden. He will pay!” Mrs. Cutter -avouched, nodding her horselike head and rolling her eyes. - -Grandmother said she had n’t a doubt of it. - -Certainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a devil. In some way he -depended upon the excitement he could arouse in her hysterical nature. -Perhaps he got the feeling of being a rake more from his wife’s rage and -amazement than from any experiences of his own. His zest in debauchery -might wane, but never Mrs. Cutter’s belief in it. The reckoning with his -wife at the end of an escapade was something he counted on—like the last -powerful liqueur after a long dinner. The one excitement he really could -n’t do without was quarreling with Mrs. Cutter! - - - - - -BOOK III—LENA LINGARD - - - - -I - - -AT the University I had the good fortune to come immediately under the -influence of a brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had -arrived in Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as -head of the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his -physicians, his health having been enfeebled by a long illness in Italy. -When I took my entrance examinations he was my examiner, and my course was -arranged under his supervision. - -I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but stayed in Lincoln, -working off a year’s Greek, which had been my only condition on entering -the Freshman class. Cleric’s doctor advised against his going back to New -England, and except for a few weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln -all that summer. We played tennis, read, and took long walks together. I -shall always look back on that time of mental awakening as one of the -happiest in my life. Gaston Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas; -when one first enters that world everything else fades for a time, and all -that went before is as if it had not been. Yet I found curious survivals; -some of the figures of my old life seemed to be waiting for me in the new. - -In those days there were many serious young men among the students who had -come up to the University from the farms and the little towns scattered -over the thinly settled State. Some of those boys came straight from the -cornfields with only a summer’s wages in their pockets, hung on through -the four years, shabby and underfed, and completed the course by really -heroic self-sacrifice. Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering -pioneer school-teachers, stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few -enthusiastic young men just out of graduate schools. There was an -atmosphere of endeavor, of expectancy and bright hopefulness about the -young college that had lifted its head from the prairie only a few years -before. - -Our personal life was as free as that of our instructors. There were no -college dormitories; we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms -with an old couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their -children and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near -the open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and -on that account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom, -originally a linen closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to -contain my cot bed, but it enabled me to call the other room my study. The -dresser, and the great walnut wardrobe which held all my clothes, even my -hats and shoes, I had pushed out of the way, and I considered them -non-existent, as children eliminate incongruous objects when they are -playing house. I worked at a commodious green-topped table placed directly -in front of the west window which looked out over the prairie. In the -corner at my right were all my books, in shelves I had made and painted -myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark, old-fashioned wall-paper -was covered by a large map of ancient Rome, the work of some German -scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he was sending for books from -abroad. Over the bookcase hung a photograph of the Tragic Theater at -Pompeii, which he had given me from his collection. - -When I sat at work I half faced a deep, upholstered chair which stood at -the end of my table, its high back against the wall. I had bought it with -great care. My instructor sometimes looked in upon me when he was out for -an evening tramp, and I noticed that he was more likely to linger and -become talkative if I had a comfortable chair for him to sit in, and if he -found a bottle of Bénédictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he -liked, at his elbow. He was, I had discovered, parsimonious about small -expenditures—a trait absolutely inconsistent with his general character. -Sometimes when he came he was silent and moody, and after a few sarcastic -remarks went away again, to tramp the streets of Lincoln, which were -almost as quiet and oppressively domestic as those of Black Hawk. Again, -he would sit until nearly midnight, talking about Latin and English -poetry, or telling me about his long stay in Italy. - -I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and vividness of his talk. In a -crowd he was nearly always silent. Even for his classroom he had no -platitudes, no stock of professorial anecdotes. When he was tired his -lectures were clouded, obscure, elliptical; but when he was interested -they were wonderful. I believe that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a -great poet, and I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative -talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of -personal communication. How often I have seen him draw his dark brows -together, fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the -carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his -brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before one out of the -shadows—white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never forget his -face as it looked one night when he told me about the solitary day he -spent among the sea temples at Paestum: the soft wind blowing through the -roofless columns, the birds flying low over the flowering marsh grasses, -the changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung mountains. He had willfully -stayed the short summer night there, wrapped in his coat and rug, watching -the constellations on their path down the sky until “the bride of old -Tithonus” rose out of the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn. -It was there he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his -departure for Greece and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was -still, indeed, doing penance for it. - -I remember vividly another evening, when something led us to talk of -Dante’s veneration for Virgil. Cleric went through canto after canto of -the “Commedia,” repeating the discourse between Dante and his “sweet -teacher,” while his cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long -fingers. I can hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who -spoke for Dante: “_I was famous on earth with the name which endures -longest and honors most. The seeds of my ardor were the sparks from that -divine flame whereby more than a thousand have kindled; I speak of the -Æneid, mother to me and nurse to me in poetry._” - -Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I was not deceived about -myself; I knew that I should never be a scholar. I could never lose myself -for long among impersonal things. Mental excitement was apt to send me -with a rush back to my own naked land and the figures scattered upon it. -While I was in the very act of yearning toward the new forms that Cleric -brought up before me, my mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found -myself thinking of the places and people of my own infinitesimal past. -They stood out strengthened and simplified now, like the image of the -plough against the sun. They were all I had for an answer to the new -appeal. I begrudged the room that Jake and Otto and Russian Peter took up -in my memory, which I wanted to crowd with other things. But whenever my -consciousness was quickened, all those early friends were quickened within -it, and in some strange way they accompanied me through all my new -experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely stopped to -wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how. - - - - -II - - -ONE March evening in my Sophomore year I was sitting alone in my room -after supper. There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards and -little streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out of -old snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing through -made me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone down, -the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light throbbing in it. -Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope, the evening star -hung like a lamp suspended by silver chains—like the lamp engraved upon -the title-page of old Latin texts, which is always appearing in new -heavens, and waking new desires in men. It reminded me, at any rate, to -shut my window and light my wick in answer. I did so regretfully, and the -dim objects in the room emerged from the shadows and took their place -about me with the helpfulness which custom breeds. - -I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the page of the Georgics -where to-morrow’s lesson began. It opened with the melancholy reflection -that, in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first to flee. -“Optima dies … prima fugit.” I turned back to the beginning of the third -book, which we had read in class that morning. “Primus ego in patriam -mecum … deducam Musas”; “for I shall be the first, if I live, to bring the -Muse into my country.” Cleric had explained to us that “patria” here -meant, not a nation or even a province, but the little rural neighborhood -on the Mincio where the poet was born. This was not a boast, but a hope, -at once bold and devoutly humble, that he might bring the Muse (but lately -come to Italy from her cloudy Grecian mountains), not to the capital, the -palatia Romana, but to his own little “country”; to his father’s fields, -“sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with broken tops.” - -Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must have -remembered that passage. After he had faced the bitter fact that he was to -leave the Æneid unfinished, and had decreed that the great canvas, crowded -with figures of gods and men, should be burned rather than survive him -unperfected, then his mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance of -the Georgics, where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is to -the furrow; and he must have said to himself with the thankfulness of a -good man, “I was the first to bring the Muse into my country.” - -We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had been brushed by the -wing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone knew Cleric intimately -enough to guess what that feeling was. In the evening, as I sat staring at -my book, the fervor of his voice stirred through the quantities on the -page before me. I was wondering whether that particular rocky strip of New -England coast about which he had so often told me was Cleric’s patria. -Before I had got far with my reading I was disturbed by a knock. I hurried -to the door and when I opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall. - -“I expect you hardly know me, Jim.” - -The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize her until she stepped -into the light of my doorway and I beheld—Lena Lingard! She was so quietly -conventionalized by city clothes that I might have passed her on the -street without seeing her. Her black suit fitted her figure smoothly, and -a black lace hat, with pale-blue forget-me-nots, sat demurely on her -yellow hair. - -I led her toward Cleric’s chair, the only comfortable one I had, -questioning her confusedly. - -She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her with -the naïve curiosity I remembered so well. “You are quite comfortable here, -are n’t you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I’m in business for myself. -I have a dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street. I’ve made -a real good start.” - -“But, Lena, when did you come?” - -“Oh, I’ve been here all winter. Did n’t your grandmother ever write you? -I’ve thought about looking you up lots of times. But we’ve all heard what -a studious young man you’ve got to be, and I felt bashful. I did n’t know -whether you’d be glad to see me.” She laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that -was either very artless or very comprehending, one never quite knew which. -“You seem the same, though,—except you’re a young man, now, of course. Do -you think I’ve changed?” - -“Maybe you’re prettier—though you were always pretty enough. Perhaps it’s -your clothes that make a difference.” - -“You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty well in my business.” She -took off her jacket and sat more at ease in her blouse, of some soft, -flimsy silk. She was already at home in my place, had slipped quietly into -it, as she did into everything. She told me her business was going well, -and she had saved a little money. - -“This summer I’m going to build the house for mother I’ve talked about so -long. I won’t be able to pay up on it at first, but I want her to have it -before she is too old to enjoy it. Next summer I’ll take her down new -furniture and carpets, so she’ll have something to look forward to all -winter.” - -I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and well cared-for, and -thought of how she used to run barefoot over the prairie until after the -snow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased her round and round the -cornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she should have got on so well -in the world. Certainly she had no one but herself to thank for it. - -“You must feel proud of yourself, Lena,” I said heartily. “Look at me; -I’ve never earned a dollar, and I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to.” - -“Tony says you’re going to be richer than Mr. Harling some day. She’s -always bragging about you, you know.” - -“Tell me, how _is_ Tony?” - -“She’s fine. She works for Mrs. Gardener at the hotel now. She’s -housekeeper. Mrs. Gardener’s health is n’t what it was, and she can’t see -after everything like she used to. She has great confidence in Tony. -Tony’s made it up with the Harlings, too. Little Nina is so fond of her -that Mrs. Harling kind of overlooked things.” - -“Is she still going with Larry Donovan?” - -“Oh, that’s on, worse than ever! I guess they’re engaged. Tony talks about -him like he was president of the railroad. Everybody laughs about it, -because she was never a girl to be soft. She won’t hear a word against -him. She’s so sort of innocent.” - -I said I did n’t like Larry, and never would. - -Lena’s face dimpled. “Some of us could tell her things, but it would n’t -do any good. She’d always believe him. That’s Ántonia’s failing, you know; -if she once likes people, she won’t hear anything against them.” - -“I think I’d better go home and look after Ántonia,” I said. - -“I think you had.” Lena looked up at me in frank amusement. “It’s a good -thing the Harlings are friendly with her again. Larry’s afraid of them. -They ship so much grain, they have influence with the railroad people. -What are you studying?” She leaned her elbows on the table and drew my -book toward her. I caught a faint odor of violet sachet. “So that’s Latin, -is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theater sometimes, though, for I’ve -seen you there. Don’t you just love a good play, Jim? I can’t stay at home -in the evening if there’s one in town. I’d be willing to work like a -slave, it seems to me, to live in a place where there are theaters.” - -“Let’s go to a show together sometime. You are going to let me come to see -you, are n’t you?” - -“Would you like to? I’d be ever so pleased. I’m never busy after six -o’clock, and I let my sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to save -time, but sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I’d be glad to cook one -for you. Well,”—she began to put on her white gloves,—“it’s been awful -good to see you, Jim.” - -“You need n’t hurry, need you? You’ve hardly told me anything yet.” - -“We can talk when you come to see me. I expect you don’t often have lady -visitors. The old woman downstairs did n’t want to let me come up very -much. I told her I was from your home town, and had promised your -grandmother to come and see you. How surprised Mrs. Burden would be!” Lena -laughed softly as she rose. - -When I caught up my hat she shook her head. “No, I don’t want you to go -with me. I’m to meet some Swedes at the drug-store. You would n’t care for -them. I wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but I -must tell her how I left you right here with your books. She’s always so -afraid some one will run off with you!” Lena slipped her silk sleeves into -the jacket I held for her, smoothed it over her person, and buttoned it -slowly. I walked with her to the door. “Come and see me sometimes when -you’re lonesome. But maybe you have all the friends you want. Have you?” -She turned her soft cheek to me. “Have you?” she whispered teasingly in my -ear. In a moment I watched her fade down the dusky stairway. - - - -When I turned back to my room the place seemed much pleasanter than -before. Lena had left something warm and friendly in the lamplight. How I -loved to hear her laugh again! It was so soft and unexcited and -appreciative—gave a favorable interpretation to everything. When I closed -my eyes I could hear them all laughing—the Danish laundry girls and the -three Bohemian Marys. Lena had brought them all back to me. It came over -me, as it had never done before, the relation between girls like those and -the poetry of Virgil. If there were no girls like them in the world, there -would be no poetry. I understood that clearly, for the first time. This -revelation seemed to me inestimably precious. I clung to it as if it might -suddenly vanish. - -As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about Lena coming across -the harvest field in her short skirt seemed to me like the memory of an -actual experience. It floated before me on the page like a picture, and -underneath it stood the mournful line: Optima dies … prima fugit. - - - - -III - - -IN Lincoln the best part of the theatrical season came late, when the good -companies stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long runs in -New York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see Joseph -Jefferson in “Rip Van Winkle,” and to a war play called “Shenandoah.” She -was inflexible about paying for her own seat; said she was in business -now, and she would n’t have a schoolboy spending his money on her. I liked -to watch a play with Lena; everything was wonderful to her, and everything -was true. It was like going to revival meetings with some one who was -always being converted. She handed her feelings over to the actors with a -kind of fatalistic resignation. Accessories of costume and scene meant -much more to her than to me. She sat entranced through “Robin Hood” and -hung upon the lips of the contralto who sang, “Oh, Promise Me!” - -Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I watched anxiously in -those days, bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which -two names were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an -actress of whom I had often heard, and the name “Camille.” - -I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday evening, and we walked -down to the theater. The weather was warm and sultry and put us both in a -holiday humor. We arrived early, because Lena liked to watch the people -come in. There was a note on the programme, saying that the “incidental -music” would be from the opera “Traviata,” which was made from the same -story as the play. We had neither of us read the play, and we did not know -what it was about—though I seemed to remember having heard it was a piece -in which great actresses shone. “The Count of Monte Cristo,” which I had -seen James O’Neill play that winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I -knew. This play, I saw, was by his son, and I expected a family -resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run in off the prairie, could not -have been more innocent of what awaited them than were Lena and I. - -Our excitement began with the rise of the curtain, when the moody -Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated Nanine. Decidedly, there -was a new tang about this dialogue. I had never heard in the theater lines -that were alive, that presupposed and took for granted, like those which -passed between Varville and Marguerite in the brief encounter before her -friends entered. This introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most -enchantingly gay scene I had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne -bottles opened on the stage before—indeed, I had never seen them opened -anywhere. The memory of that supper makes me hungry now; the sight of it -then, when I had only a students’ boarding-house dinner behind me, was -delicate torment. I seem to remember gilded chairs and tables (arranged -hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and stockings), linen of dazzling -whiteness, glittering glass, silver dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the -reddest of roses. The room was invaded by beautiful women and dashing -young men, laughing and talking together. The men were dressed more or -less after the period in which the play was written; the women were not. I -saw no inconsistency. Their talk seemed to open to one the brilliant world -in which they lived; every sentence made one older and wiser, every -pleasantry enlarged one’s horizon. One could experience excess and satiety -without the inconvenience of learning what to do with one’s hands in a -drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I missed some of -the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery. I strained my -ears and eyes to catch every exclamation. - -The actress who played Marguerite was even then old-fashioned, though -historic. She had been a member of Daly’s famous New York company, and -afterward a “star” under his direction. She was a woman who could not be -taught, it is said, though she had a crude natural force which carried -with people whose feelings were accessible and whose taste was not -squeamish. She was already old, with a ravaged countenance and a physique -curiously hard and stiff. She moved with difficulty—I think she was lame—I -seem to remember some story about a malady of the spine. Her Armand was -disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth, perplexed in the -extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly in her power to -fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed her young, ardent, -reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish, avid of pleasure. I -wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted Armand in the -frilled shirt to convince her that there was still loyalty and devotion in -the world. Her sudden illness, when the gayety was at its height, her -pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against her lips, the cough she -smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept playing the piano -lightly—it all wrung my heart. But not so much as her cynicism in the long -dialogue with her lover which followed. How far was I from questioning her -unbelief! While the charmingly sincere young man pleaded with -her—accompanied by the orchestra in the old “Traviata” duet, “misterioso, -misterioso!”—she maintained her bitter skepticism, and the curtain fell on -her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent away -with his flower. - -Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing away -at the “Traviata” music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so -clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in -tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to -smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not -brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the Junior -dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena was at least -a woman, and I was a man. - -Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept -unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter of -idyllic love, dreading the return of the young man whose ineffable -happiness was only to be the measure of his fall. - -I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and -temperament from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the veteran actress who -first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as heavy -and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea and on the -consonants. At all times she was highly tragic, devoured by remorse. -Lightness of stress or behavior was far from her. Her voice was heavy and -deep: “Ar-r-r-mond!” she would begin, as if she were summoning him to the -bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough. She had only to utter them. -They created the character in spite of her. - -The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never -been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in -Olympe’s salon for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the -ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the men -played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests made -their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the card tables, -and young Duval had been warned by Prudence, Marguerite descended the -staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels—and her -face! One knew at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the -terrible words, “Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!” flung the -gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside -me and covered her face with her hands. - -The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there was n’t a nerve -in me that had n’t been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I -loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The -New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I -wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for -elegance and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund -woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover. - -When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with -rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling’s useful Commencement -present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I -walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The -lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the -rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with -a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the -showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only -yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and -which had reached me only that night, across long years and several -languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one -that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is -put on, it is April. - - - - -IV - - -HOW well I remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: -the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long -mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment I -was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to my clothes -after I went away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was so easy-going; had -none of the push and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. -She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to -some cousins of Mrs. Thomas who lived there, and she was already making -clothes for the women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great -natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what people looked -well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the -evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on -a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could -n’t help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n’t enough -clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring -interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena “had -style,” and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, -finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent -more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I -arrived at six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her -awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say -apologetically:— - -“You’ll try to keep it under fifty for me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You -see, she’s really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew -you could do more with her than anybody else.” - -“Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a -good effect,” Lena replied blandly. - -I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she -had learned such self-possession. - -Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena -downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied -smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she -would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we -passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. “Don’t let -me go in,” she would murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of -sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. - -We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena’s. At the back of her -long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a -reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains -that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and -sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making -everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol -lamp disappear altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, -breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very well -until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to practice, when -Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. Lena’s landlord, old -Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at first she was not at all -pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have -much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she -grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead -dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap on -his head—I had to take military drill at the University—and give him a -yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His gravity made us laugh -immoderately. - -Lena’s talk always amused me. Ántonia had never talked like the people -about her. Even after she learned to speak English readily there was -always something impulsive and foreign in her speech. But Lena had picked -up all the conventional expressions she heard at Mrs. Thomas’s dressmaking -shop. Those formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and -the flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became -very funny, very engaging, when they were uttered in Lena’s soft voice, -with her caressing intonation and arch naïveté. Nothing could be more -diverting than to hear Lena, who was almost as candid as Nature, call a -leg a “limb” or a house a “home.” - -We used to linger a long while over our coffee in that sunny corner. Lena -was never so pretty as in the morning; she wakened fresh with the world -every day, and her eyes had a deeper color then, like the blue flowers -that are never so blue as when they first open. I could sit idle all -through a Sunday morning and look at her. Ole Benson’s behavior was now no -mystery to me. - -“There was never any harm in Ole,” she said once. “People need n’t have -troubled themselves. He just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side -and forget about his bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company’s welcome -when you’re off with cattle all the time.” - -“But was n’t he always glum?” I asked. “People said he never talked at -all.” - -“Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He’d been a sailor on an English boat and -had seen lots of queer places. He had wonderful tattoos. We used to sit -and look at them for hours; there was n’t much to look at out there. He -was like a picture book. He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, -and on the other a girl standing before a little house, with a fence and -gate and all, waiting for her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor -had come back and was kissing her. ‘The Sailor’s Return,’ he called it.” - -I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a pretty girl once in a -while, with such a fright at home. - -“You know,” Lena said confidentially, “he married Mary because he thought -she was strong-minded and would keep him straight. He never could keep -straight on shore. The last time he landed in Liverpool he’d been out on a -two years’ voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he had n’t -a cent left, and his watch and compass were gone. He’d got with some -women, and they’d taken everything. He worked his way to this country on a -little passenger boat. Mary was a stewardess, and she tried to convert him -on the way over. He thought she was just the one to keep him steady. Poor -Ole! He used to bring me candy from town, hidden in his feed-bag. He could -n’t refuse anything to a girl. He’d have given away his tattoos long ago, -if he could. He’s one of the people I’m sorriest for.” - -If I happened to spend an evening with Lena and stayed late, the Polish -violin-teacher across the hall used to come out and watch me descend the -stairs, muttering so threateningly that it would have been easy to fall -into a quarrel with him. Lena had told him once that she liked to hear him -practice, so he always left his door open, and watched who came and went. - -There was a coolness between the Pole and Lena’s landlord on her account. -Old Colonel Raleigh had come to Lincoln from Kentucky and invested an -inherited fortune in real estate, at the time of inflated prices. Now he -sat day after day in his office in the Raleigh Block, trying to discover -where his money had gone and how he could get some of it back. He was a -widower, and found very little congenial companionship in this casual -Western city. Lena’s good looks and gentle manners appealed to him. He -said her voice reminded him of Southern voices, and he found as many -opportunities of hearing it as possible. He painted and papered her rooms -for her that spring, and put in a porcelain bathtub in place of the tin -one that had satisfied the former tenant. While these repairs were being -made, the old gentleman often dropped in to consult Lena’s preferences. -She told me with amusement how Ordinsky, the Pole, had presented himself -at her door one evening, and said that if the landlord was annoying her by -his attentions, he would promptly put a stop to it. - -“I don’t exactly know what to do about him,” she said, shaking her head, -“he’s so sort of wild all the time. I would n’t like to have him say -anything rough to that nice old man. The Colonel is long-winded, but then -I expect he’s lonesome. I don’t think he cares much for Ordinsky, either. -He said once that if I had any complaints to make of my neighbors, I must -n’t hesitate.” - -One Saturday evening when I was having supper with Lena we heard a knock -at her parlor door, and there stood the Pole, coatless, in a dress shirt -and collar. Prince dropped on his paws and began to growl like a mastiff, -while the visitor apologized, saying that he could not possibly come in -thus attired, but he begged Lena to lend him some safety pins. - -“Oh, you’ll have to come in, Mr. Ordinsky, and let me see what’s the -matter.” She closed the door behind him. “Jim, won’t you make Prince -behave?” - -I rapped Prince on the nose, while Ordinsky explained that he had not had -his dress clothes on for a long time, and to-night, when he was going to -play for a concert, his waistcoat had split down the back. He thought he -could pin it together until he got it to a tailor. - -Lena took him by the elbow and turned him round. She laughed when she saw -the long gap in the satin. “You could never pin that, Mr. Ordinsky. You’ve -kept it folded too long, and the goods is all gone along the crease. Take -it off. I can put a new piece of lining-silk in there for you in ten -minutes.” She disappeared into her work-room with the vest, leaving me to -confront the Pole, who stood against the door like a wooden figure. He -folded his arms and glared at me with his excitable, slanting brown eyes. -His head was the shape of a chocolate drop, and was covered with dry, -straw-colored hair that fuzzed up about his pointed crown. He had never -done more than mutter at me as I passed him, and I was surprised when he -now addressed me. - -“Miss Lingard,” he said haughtily, “is a young woman for whom I have the -utmost, the utmost respect.” - -“So have I,” I said coldly. - -He paid no heed to my remark, but began to do rapid finger-exercises on -his shirt-sleeves, as he stood with tightly folded arms. - -“Kindness of heart,” he went on, staring at the ceiling, “sentiment, are -not understood in a place like this. The noblest qualities are ridiculed. -Grinning college boys, ignorant and conceited, what do they know of -delicacy!” - -I controlled my features and tried to speak seriously. - -“If you mean me, Mr. Ordinsky, I have known Miss Lingard a long time, and -I think I appreciate her kindness. We come from the same town, and we grew -up together.” - -His gaze traveled slowly down from the ceiling and rested on me. “Am I to -understand that you have this young woman’s interests at heart? That you -do not wish to compromise her?” - -“That’s a word we don’t use much here, Mr. Ordinsky. A girl who makes her -own living can ask a college boy to supper without being talked about. We -take some things for granted.” - -“Then I have misjudged you, and I ask your pardon,”—he bowed gravely. -“Miss Lingard,” he went on, “is an absolutely trustful heart. She has not -learned the hard lessons of life. As for you and me, noblesse oblige,”—he -watched me narrowly. - -Lena returned with the vest. “Come in and let us look at you as you go -out, Mr. Ordinsky. I’ve never seen you in your dress suit,” she said as -she opened the door for him. - -A few moments later he reappeared with his violin case—a heavy muffler -about his neck and thick woolen gloves on his bony hands. Lena spoke -encouragingly to him, and he went off with such an important, professional -air, that we fell to laughing as soon as we had shut the door. “Poor -fellow,” Lena said indulgently, “he takes everything so hard.” - -After that Ordinsky was friendly to me, and behaved as if there were some -deep understanding between us. He wrote a furious article, attacking the -musical taste of the town, and asked me to do him a great service by -taking it to the editor of the morning paper. If the editor refused to -print it, I was to tell him that he would be answerable to Ordinsky “in -person.” He declared that he would never retract one word, and that he was -quite prepared to lose all his pupils. In spite of the fact that nobody -ever mentioned his article to him after it appeared—full of typographical -errors which he thought intentional—he got a certain satisfaction from -believing that the citizens of Lincoln had meekly accepted the epithet -“coarse barbarians.” “You see how it is,” he said to me, “where there is -no chivalry, there is no amour propre.” When I met him on his rounds now, -I thought he carried his head more disdainfully than ever, and strode up -the steps of front porches and rang doorbells with more assurance. He told -Lena he would never forget how I had stood by him when he was “under -fire.” - -All this time, of course, I was drifting. Lena had broken up my serious -mood. I was n’t interested in my classes. I played with Lena and Prince, I -played with the Pole, I went buggy-riding with the old Colonel, who had -taken a fancy to me and used to talk to me about Lena and the “great -beauties” he had known in his youth. We were all three in love with Lena. - -Before the first of June, Gaston Cleric was offered an instructorship at -Harvard College, and accepted it. He suggested that I should follow him in -the fall, and complete my course at Harvard. He had found out about -Lena—not from me—and he talked to me seriously. - -“You won’t do anything here now. You should either quit school and go to -work, or change your college and begin again in earnest. You won’t recover -yourself while you are playing about with this handsome Norwegian. Yes, -I’ve seen her with you at the theater. She’s very pretty, and perfectly -irresponsible, I should judge.” - -Cleric wrote my grandfather that he would like to take me East with him. -To my astonishment, grandfather replied that I might go if I wished. I was -both glad and sorry on the day when the letter came. I stayed in my room -all evening and thought things over; I even tried to persuade myself that -I was standing in Lena’s way—it is so necessary to be a little noble!—and -that if she had not me to play with, she would probably marry and secure -her future. - -The next evening I went to call on Lena. I found her propped up on the -couch in her bay window, with her foot in a big slipper. An awkward little -Russian girl whom she had taken into her work-room had dropped a flat-iron -on Lena’s toe. On the table beside her there was a basket of early summer -flowers which the Pole had left after he heard of the accident. He always -managed to know what went on in Lena’s apartment. - -Lena was telling me some amusing piece of gossip about one of her clients, -when I interrupted her and picked up the flower basket. - -“This old chap will be proposing to you some day, Lena.” - -“Oh, he has—often!” she murmured. - -“What! After you’ve refused him?” - -“He does n’t mind that. It seems to cheer him to mention the subject. Old -men are like that, you know. It makes them feel important to think they’re -in love with somebody.” - -“The Colonel would marry you in a minute. I hope you won’t marry some old -fellow; not even a rich one.” - -Lena shifted her pillows and looked up at me in surprise. “Why, I’m not -going to marry anybody. Did n’t you know that?” - -“Nonsense, Lena. That’s what girls say, but you know better. Every -handsome girl like you marries, of course.” - -She shook her head. “Not me.” - -“But why not? What makes you say that?” I persisted. - -Lena laughed. “Well, it’s mainly because I don’t want a husband. Men are -all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky -old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what’s sensible -and what’s foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer -to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody.” - -“But you’ll be lonesome. You’ll get tired of this sort of life, and you’ll -want a family.” - -“Not me. I like to be lonesome. When I went to work for Mrs. Thomas I was -nineteen years old, and I had never slept a night in my life when there -were n’t three in the bed. I never had a minute to myself except when I -was off with the cattle.” - -Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the country at all, she -dismissed it with a single remark, humorous or mildly cynical. But -to-night her mind seemed to dwell on those early years. She told me she -could n’t remember a time when she was so little that she was n’t lugging -a heavy baby about, helping to wash for babies, trying to keep their -little chapped hands and faces clean. She remembered home as a place where -there were always too many children, a cross man, and work piling up -around a sick woman. - -“It was n’t mother’s fault. She would have made us comfortable if she -could. But that was no life for a girl! After I began to herd and milk I -could never get the smell of the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had -I kept in a cracker box. On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, -then I could take a bath if I was n’t too tired. I could make two trips to -the windmill to carry water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove. -While the water was heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the cave, -and take my bath in the kitchen. Then I could put on a clean nightgown and -get into bed with two others, who likely had n’t had a bath unless I’d -given it to them. You can’t tell me anything about family life. I’ve had -plenty to last me.” - -“But it’s not all like that,” I objected. - -“Near enough. It’s all being under somebody’s thumb. What’s on your mind, -Jim? Are you afraid I’ll want you to marry me some day?” - -Then I told her I was going away. - -“What makes you want to go away, Jim? Have n’t I been nice to you?” - -“You’ve been just awfully good to me, Lena,” I blurted. “I don’t think -about much else. I never shall think about much else while I’m with you. -I’ll never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that.” I dropped -down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have forgotten -all my reasonable explanations. - -Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in her voice that had -hurt me was not there when she spoke again. - -“I ought n’t to have begun it, ought I?” she murmured. “I ought n’t to -have gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve -always been a little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it -into my head, unless it was Ántonia, always telling me I must n’t be up to -any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a long while, though, did -n’t I?” - -She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! - -At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. “You are -n’t sorry I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so -natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. You were -such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely -sending one away forever. - -We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to -hinder me or hold me back. “You are going, but you have n’t gone yet, have -you?” she used to say. - -My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a -few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined -Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. - - - - - -BOOK IV—THE PIONEER WOMAN’S STORY - - - - -I - - -TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. -Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On -the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to -greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked -very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her -husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in -grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. -One subject, however, we avoided all evening. - -When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at -her gate, she said simply, “You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.” - -Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I -replied that grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry -Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted -her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew. - -“He never married her,” Frances said. “I have n’t seen her since she came -back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She -brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled down -to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.” - -I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in -her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena -Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading -dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart -away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had -got on in the world. - -Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of -Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year -before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that -Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to -think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used -to stop at Mrs. Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the water-front -in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his -empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors’ lodging-house. This, -every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running -a decent place, she could n’t keep it up; all sailors’ boarding-houses -were alike. - -When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well -as I knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the -dining-room on her high heels, carrying a big tray full of dishes, -glancing rather pertly at the spruce traveling men, and contemptuously at -the scrubby ones—who were so afraid of her that they did n’t dare to ask -for two kinds of pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, -might be afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat -talking about her on Frances Harling’s front porch, if we could have known -what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up -together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was to lead the most adventurous -life and to achieve the most solid worldly success. - -This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was running her -lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. Miners and -sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and pouches of -gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring which nobody -had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business and set out for -Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife whom she had -persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went -in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the Yukon in flatboats. -They reached Circle City on the very day when some Siwash Indians came -into the settlement with the report that there had been a rich gold strike -farther up the river, on a certain Klondike Creek. Two days later Tiny and -her friends, and nearly every one else in Circle City, started for the -Klondike fields on the last steamer that went up the Yukon before it froze -for the winter. That boatload of people founded Dawson City. Within a few -weeks there were fifteen hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the -carpenter’s wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners gave her a -lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There she sometimes fed -a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on snowshoes from their -placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh bread from her, and paid for -it in gold. - -That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs had been frozen one -night in a storm when he was trying to find his way back to his cabin. The -poor fellow thought it great good fortune to be cared for by a woman, and -a woman who spoke his own tongue. When he was told that his feet must be -amputated, he said he hoped he would not get well; what could a -working-man do in this hard world without feet? He did, in fact, die from -the operation, but not before he had deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on -Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel, invested half her money in Dawson -building lots, and with the rest she developed her claim. She went off -into the wilds and lived on it. She bought other claims from discouraged -miners, traded or sold them on percentages. - -After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny returned, with a considerable -fortune, to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. -She was a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in -manner. Curiously enough, she reminded me of Mrs. Gardener, for whom she -had worked in Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some of the -desperate chances she had taken in the gold country, but the thrill of -them was quite gone. She said frankly that nothing interested her much now -but making money. The only two human beings of whom she spoke with any -feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who had given her his claim, and Lena -Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to San Francisco and go into -business there. - -“Lincoln was never any place for her,” Tiny remarked. “In a town of that -size Lena would always be gossiped about. Frisco’s the right field for -her. She has a fine class of trade. Oh, she’s just the same as she always -was! She’s careless, but she’s level-headed. She’s the only person I know -who never gets any older. It’s fine for me to have her there; somebody who -enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye on me and won’t let me be -shabby. When she thinks I need a new dress, she makes it and sends it -home—with a bill that’s long enough, I can tell you!” - -Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on Hunker Creek took toll -from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a sudden turn of weather, -like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from one of those pretty little -feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in pointed slippers and striped -stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation quite casually—did n’t seem -sensitive about it. She was satisfied with her success, but not elated. -She was like some one in whom the faculty of becoming interested is worn -out. - - - - -II - - -SOON after I got home that summer I persuaded my grandparents to have -their photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer’s -shop to arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of -his developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses on -his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms -holding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a heavy -frame, one of those depressing “crayon enlargements” often seen in -farmhouse parlors, the subject being a round-eyed baby in short dresses. -The photographer came out and gave a constrained, apologetic laugh. - -“That’s Tony Shimerda’s baby. You remember her; she used to be the -Harling’s Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; would n’t -hear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in for -it Saturday.” - -I went away feeling that I must see Ántonia again. Another girl would have -kept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture on -exhibition at the town photographer’s, in a great gilt frame. How like -her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she had n’t thrown herself -away on such a cheap sort of fellow. - -Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crew -aristocrats who are always afraid that some one may ask them to put up a -car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a menial service, -silently point to the button that calls the porter. Larry wore this air of -official aloofness even on the street, where there were no car-windows to -compromise his dignity. At the end of his run he stepped indifferently -from the train along with the passengers, his street hat on his head and -his conductor’s cap in an alligator-skin bag, went directly into the -station and changed his clothes. It was a matter of the utmost importance -to him never to be seen in his blue trousers away from his train. He was -usually cold and distant with men, but with all women he had a silent, -grave familiarity, a special handshake, accompanied by a significant, -deliberate look. He took women, married or single, into his confidence; -walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling them what a mistake he -had made by not entering the office branch of the service, and how much -better fitted he was to fill the post of General Passenger Agent in Denver -than the roughshod man who then bore that title. His unappreciated worth -was the tender secret Larry shared with his sweethearts, and he was always -able to make some foolish heart ache over it. - -As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard, -digging round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now -no boy to help her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhere -on the Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate—it was with a feeling of -pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked the feel -of it under my hand. I took the spade away from Mrs. Harling, and while I -loosened the earth around the tree, she sat down on the steps and talked -about the oriole family that had a nest in its branches. - -“Mrs. Harling,” I said presently, “I wish I could find out exactly how -Ántonia’s marriage fell through.” - -“Why don’t you go out and see your grandfather’s tenant, the Widow -Steavens? She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped Ántonia -get ready to be married, and she was there when Ántonia came back. She -took care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything. -Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkable -memory.” - - - - -III - - -ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out -for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was -over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of -smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now -being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was -disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were -wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards, -and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men -who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the -blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat -tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in -long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and -harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a -great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found -that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the -modeling of human faces. - -When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet -me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was -little, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator’s. I -told her at once why I had come. - -“You’ll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I’ll talk to you after supper. I -can take more interest when my work is off my mind. You’ve no prejudice -against hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days.” - -While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at -my watch and sighed; it was three o’clock, and I knew that I must eat him -at six. - -After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, -while her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm -papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining -outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess -put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the -heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little -stool comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with callouses, Jim; -getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and -sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. - -“Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia you want to know? Well, you’ve come to -the right person. I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter. - -“When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be -married, she was over here about every day. They’ve never had a sewing -machine at the Shimerdas’, and she made all her things here. I taught her -hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at -that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so -strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the -happiest thing in the world. - -“‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, ‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t -hasten the day none that way.’ - -“Then she’d laugh and slow down for a little, but she’d soon forget and -begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to -housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had -given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We -hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. -Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony -told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even -bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always -coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real -often, from the different towns along his run. - -“The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been -changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. ‘I’m a country -girl,’ she said, ‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in -a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ She soon -cheered up, though. - -“At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by -it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that -she’d begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she’d never let me see -it. - -“Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember -rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling -her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He -went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple -velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars -in money; I saw the check. He’d collected her wages all those first years -she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this -room. ‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, ‘and I’m glad to see -it, son.’ - -“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk -to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He -stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her -arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She -was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red -cheeks was all wet with rain. - -“‘You’re surely handsome enough for any man,’ I said, looking her over. - -“She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ -and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your -grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. This house -had always been a refuge to her. - -“Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he -was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was -trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n’t like -that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying -she was ‘well and happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, -and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me -as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match. - -“One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the -fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west -road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another -behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her -veils, he thought ’t was Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name -ought now to be. - -“The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my -feet ain’t what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines -outside the Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle -of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all -those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out there swinging in the -wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted -back into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Ántonia -was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda -was going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n’t so -much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out -to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she -drew away. ‘Don’t, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says, ‘you’ll make me cry, and I -don’t want to.’ - -“I whispered and asked her to come out of doors with me. I knew she could -n’t talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we -walked up toward the garden. - -“‘I’m not married, Mrs. Steavens,’ she says to me very quiet and -natural-like, ‘and I ought to be.’ - -“‘Oh, my child,’ says I, ‘what’s happened to you? Don’t be afraid to tell -me!’ - -“She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. ‘He’s run away -from me,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if he ever meant to marry me.’ - -“‘You mean he’s thrown up his job and quit the country?’ says I. - -“‘He did n’t have any job. He’d been fired; blacklisted for knocking down -fares. I did n’t know. I thought he had n’t been treated right. He was -sick when I got there. He’d just come out of the hospital. He lived with -me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n’t really been -hunting work at all. Then he just did n’t come back. One nice fellow at -the station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He -said he was afraid Larry’d gone bad and would n’t come back any more. I -guess he’s gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, -collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was -always talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.’ - -“I asked her, of course, why she did n’t insist on a civil marriage at -once—that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on -her hands, poor child, and said, ‘I just don’t know, Mrs. Steavens. I -guess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how -well I could do for him, he’d want to stay with me.’ - -“Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside her and made lament. I cried -like a young thing. I could n’t help it. I was just about heart-broke. It -was one of them lovely warm May days, and the wind was blowing and the -colts jumping around in the pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. My -Ántonia, that had so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that -Lena Lingard, that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out -so well, and was coming home here every summer in her silks and her -satins, and doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit is -due, but you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference in -the principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that had -come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As we -went back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see if they -was drying well, and seemed to take pride in their whiteness—she said -she’d been living in a brick block, where she did n’t have proper -conveniences to wash them. - -“The next time I saw Ántonia, she was out in the fields ploughing corn. -All that spring and summer she did the work of a man on the farm; it -seemed to be an understood thing. Ambrosch did n’t get any other hand to -help him. Poor Marek had got violent and been sent away to an institution -a good while back. We never even saw any of Tony’s pretty dresses. She did -n’t take them out of her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected -her industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. They -talked, to be sure; but not like they would if she’d put on airs. She was -so crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to humble her. She never -went anywhere. All that summer she never once came to see me. At first I -was hurt, but I got to feel that it was because this house reminded her of -too much. I went over there when I could, but the times when she was in -from the fields were the times when I was busiest here. She talked about -the grain and the weather as if she’d never had another interest, and if I -went over at night she always looked dead weary. She was afflicted with -toothache; one tooth after another ulcerated, and she went about with her -face swollen half the time. She would n’t go to Black Hawk to a dentist -for fear of meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spell -long ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let -Ántonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, ‘If you put that in -her head, you better stay home.’ And after that I did. - -“Ántonia worked on through harvest and thrashing, though she was too -modest to go out thrashing for the neighbors, like when she was young and -free. I did n’t see much of her until late that fall when she begun to -herd Ambrosch’s cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big -dog town. Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and -I would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty -cattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or she -would n’t have brought them so far. - -“It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be alone. While the steers -grazed, she used to sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun -herself for hours. Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she had -n’t gone too far. - -“‘It does seem like I ought to make lace, or knit like Lena used to,’ she -said one day, ‘but if I start to work, I look around and forget to go on. -It seems such a little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all -over this country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father -used to stand. Sometimes I feel like I’m not going to live very long, so -I’m just enjoying every day of this fall.’ - -“After the winter begun she wore a man’s long overcoat and boots, and a -man’s felt hat with a wide brim. I used to watch her coming and going, and -I could see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, the -snow began to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw Ántonia driving her cattle -homeward across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to -face it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. ‘Deary me,’ I says -to myself, ‘the girl’s stayed out too late. It’ll be dark before she gets -them cattle put into the corral.’ I seemed to sense she’d been feeling too -miserable to get up and drive them. - -“That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them into -the corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen, and -shut the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay -down on the bed and bore her child. - -“I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running down the -basement stairs, out of breath and screeching:— - -“‘Baby come, baby come!’ she says. ‘Ambrosch much like devil!’ - -“Brother William is surely a patient man. He was just ready to sit down to -a hot supper after a long day in the fields. Without a word he rose and -went down to the barn and hooked up his team. He got us over there as -quick as it was humanly possible. I went right in, and began to do for -Ántonia; but she laid there with her eyes shut and took no account of me. -The old woman got a tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked -what she was doing and I said out loud:— - -“‘Mrs. Shimerda, don’t you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. -You’ll blister its little skin.’ I was indignant. - - [Illustration: Ántonia driving her cattle home] - -“‘Mrs. Steavens,’ Ántonia said from the bed, ‘if you’ll look in the top -tray of my trunk, you’ll see some fine soap.’ That was the first word she -spoke. - -“After I’d dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He was -muttering behind the stove and would n’t look at it. - -“‘You’d better put it out in the rain barrel,’ he says. - -“‘Now, see here, Ambrosch,’ says I, ‘there’s a law in this land, don’t -forget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world -sound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.’ I pride -myself I cowed him. - -“Well, I expect you’re not much interested in babies, but Ántonia’s got on -fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she’d had a ring on her -finger, and was never ashamed of it. It’s a year and eight months old now, -and no baby was ever better cared-for. Ántonia is a natural-born mother. I -wish she could marry and raise a family, but I don’t know as there’s much -chance now.” - - - -I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, -with the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the -ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn -and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow -against the blue sky. - - - - -IV - - -THE next afternoon I walked over to the Shimerdas’. Yulka showed me the -baby and told me that Ántonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter. -I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She -stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I -came. We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. -Her warm hand clasped mine. - -“I thought you’d come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens’s last -night. I’ve been looking for you all day.” - -She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens -said, “worked down,” but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity -of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health -and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had -happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. - -Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward -that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to -talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut -Mr. Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had -never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the -spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I -found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to -go into the law office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; -about Gaston Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference -it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of -living, and my dearest hopes. - -“Of course it means you are going away from us for good,” she said with a -sigh. “But that don’t mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been -dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody -else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the -time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand -him.” - -She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be -miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know -every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live -and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world for -something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to see that my little -girl has a better chance than ever I had. I’m going to take care of that -girl, Jim.” - -I told her I knew she would. “Do you know, Ántonia, since I’ve been away, -I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. -I’d have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my -sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of -my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of -times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part of me.” - -She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them -slowly. “How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when -I’ve disappointed you so? Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can -mean to each other? I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I -can’t wait till my little girl’s old enough to tell her about all the -things we used to do. You’ll always remember me when you think about old -times, won’t you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the -happiest people.” - -As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a -great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in -the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, -thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two -luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on -opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and -shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, -drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields -seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn -magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a -little boy again, and that my way could end there. - -We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands -and held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and -good they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things -they had done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About -us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her -face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, -under all the shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my memory. - -“I’ll come back,” I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness. - -“Perhaps you will”—I felt rather than saw her smile. “But even if you -don’t, you’re here, like my father. So I won’t be lonesome.” - -As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that -a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do, laughing -and whispering to each other in the grass. - - - - - -BOOK V—CUZAK’S BOYS - - - - -I - - -I TOLD Ántonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty -years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that she -married, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin of -Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when I -was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent Ántonia some -photographs of her native village. Months afterward came a letter from -her, telling me the names and ages of her many children, but little else; -signed, “Your old friend, Ántonia Cuzak.” When I met Tiny Soderball in -Salt Lake, she told me that Ántonia had not “done very well”; that her -husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard life. Perhaps -it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business took me West -several times every year, and it was always in the back of my mind that I -would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see Ántonia. But I kept putting -it off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and broken; I -really dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with -many illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are -realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. - -I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see Ántonia at last. I was in San -Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. -Tiny lives in a house of her own, and Lena’s shop is in an apartment house -just around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the -two women together. Tiny audits Lena’s accounts occasionally, and invests -her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n’t -grow too miserly. “If there’s anything I can’t stand,” she said to me in -Tiny’s presence, “it’s a shabby rich woman.” Tiny smiled grimly and -assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. “And I don’t -want to be,” the other agreed complacently. - -Lena gave me a cheerful account of Ántonia and urged me to make her a -visit. - -“You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such a satisfaction to her. -Never mind what Tiny says. There’s nothing the matter with Cuzak. You’d -like him. He is n’t a hustler, but a rough man would never have suited -Tony. Tony has nice children—ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. -I should n’t care for a family of that size myself, but somehow it’s just -right for Tony. She’d love to show them to you.” - -On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set off -with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team to find the Cuzak farm. -At a little past midday, I knew I must be nearing my destination. Set back -on a swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farmhouse, with a red barn -and an ash grove, and cattle yards in front that sloped down to the high -road. I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in -here, when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the -road, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one, not more -than four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded, and his -close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection. The other -stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was comforting him in a -language I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped my horses -opposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came toward -me. He, too, looked grave. This was evidently a sad afternoon for them. - -“Are you Mrs. Cuzak’s boys?” I asked. - -The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings, but -his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes. “Yes, sir.” - -“Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her. Get in and -ride up with me.” - -He glanced at his reluctant little brother. “I guess we’d better walk. But -we’ll open the gate for you.” - -I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind. When I pulled -up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and curly-headed, ran out of -the barn to tie my team for me. He was a handsome one, this chap, -fair-skinned and freckled, with red cheeks and a ruddy pelt as thick as a -lamb’s wool, growing down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my team -with two flourishes of his hands, and nodded when I asked him if his -mother was at home. As he glanced at me, his face dimpled with a seizure -of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up the windmill tower with a -lightness that struck me as disdainful. I knew he was peering down at me -as I walked toward the house. - -Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunning -themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked through the -wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor. I saw a long -table, rows of wooden chairs against the wall, and a shining range in one -corner. Two girls were washing dishes at the sink, laughing and -chattering, and a little one, in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playing -with a rag baby. When I asked for their mother, one of the girls dropped -her towel, ran across the floor with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. -The older one, who wore shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me. -She was a buxom girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed. - -“Won’t you come in? Mother will be here in a minute.” - -Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle happened; -one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart, and take more courage -than the noisy, excited passages in life. Ántonia came in and stood before -me; a stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little -grizzled. It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after -long years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this -woman had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously -at me were—simply Ántonia’s eyes. I had seen no others like them since I -looked into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of human -faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her -identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigor of her personality, -battered but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky, -breathy voice I remembered so well. - -“My husband’s not at home, sir. Can I do anything?” - -“Don’t you remember me, Ántonia? Have I changed so much?” - -She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look -redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to -grow broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands. - -“Why, it’s Jim! Anna, Yulka, it’s Jim Burden!” She had no sooner caught my -hands than she looked alarmed. “What’s happened? Is anybody dead?” - -I patted her arm. “No. I did n’t come to a funeral this time. I got off -the train at Hastings and drove down to see you and your family.” - -She dropped my hand and began rushing about. “Anton, Yulka, Nina, where -are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They’re off looking for -that dog, somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!” She pulled them out -of corners and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her -kittens. “You don’t have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy’s not here. -He’s gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won’t let you go! -You’ve got to stay and see Rudolph and our papa.” She looked at me -imploringly, panting with excitement. - -While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, the -barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gathering -about her. - -“Now, tell me their names, and how old they are.” - -As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, and -they roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of the -windmill, she said, “This is Leo, and he’s old enough to be better than he -is.” - -He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like a -little ram, but his voice was quite desperate. “You’ve forgot! You always -forget mine. It’s mean! Please tell him, mother!” He clenched his fists in -vexation and looked up at her impetuously. - -She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him. -“Well, how old are you?” - -“I’m twelve,” he panted, looking not at me but at her; “I’m twelve years -old, and I was born on Easter day!” - -She nodded to me. “It’s true. He was an Easter baby.” - -The children all looked at me, as if they expected me to exhibit -astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of -each other, and of being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, -the eldest daughter, who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, -and came bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother’s waist. - -“Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We’ll finish the dishes -quietly and not disturb you.” - -Ántonia looked about, quite distracted. “Yes, child, but why don’t we take -him into the parlor, now that we’ve got a nice parlor for company?” - -The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. “Well, you’re -here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You -can show him the parlor after while.” She smiled at me, and went back to -the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a -place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her -toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. - -“She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,” Ántonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like -Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my -own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if -they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what I want to say, you’ve got -me so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I don’t often talk -it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well.” She said they -always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at -all—did n’t learn it until they went to school. - -“I can’t believe it’s you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t -have known me, would you, Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s -easier for a man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I -married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many left. But I -feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don’t -have to work so hard now! We’ve got plenty to help us, papa and me. And -how many have you got, Jim?” - -When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed. “Oh, ain’t that -too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the -worst of all.” She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the -best,” she whispered. - -“Mother!” the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. - -Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. “I can’t help it. You know I do. -Maybe it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And he’s never out -of mischief one minute!” - -I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered—about her teeth, -for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she -had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia -had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not -that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn -away. - -While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat -down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a -funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair -was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us -out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. - -“He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,” Anna -said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. - -Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows -on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while -he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and -hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and -in a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary -smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to -her and talking behind his hand. - -When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood -behind her mother’s chair. “Why don’t we show Mr. Burden our new fruit -cave?” she asked. - -We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys -were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran -ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after -us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the -thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum bushes, called -my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor. “Yes, it is a -good way from the house,” he admitted. “But, you see, in winter there are -nearly always some of us around to come out and get things.” - -Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles, -one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds. - -“You would n’t believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!” their mother -exclaimed. “You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and -Saturdays! It’s no wonder their poor papa can’t get rich, he has to buy so -much sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for -flour,—but then there’s that much less to sell.” - -Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me -the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but glancing at me, traced -on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries and -strawberries and crab-apples within, trying by a blissful expression of -countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness. - -“Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don’t have those,” said one -of the older boys. “Mother uses them to make kolaches,” he added. - -Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian. - -I turned to him. “You think I don’t know what kolaches are, eh? You’re -mistaken, young man. I’ve eaten your mother’s kolaches long before that -Easter day when you were born.” - -“Always too fresh, Leo,” Ambrosch remarked with a shrug. - -Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me. - -We turned to leave the cave; Ántonia and I went up the stairs first, and -the children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all came -running up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold heads -and brown, and flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of life -out of the dark cave into the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment. - -The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I had n’t yet seen; -in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. The roof was -so steep that the eaves were not much above the forest of tall hollyhocks, -now brown and in seed. Through July, Ántonia said, the house was buried in -them; the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front -yard was enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two -silvery, moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down -over the cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch -of stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer. - -At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards; a -cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows, and -an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds. The older -children turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie -crept through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid under the -low-branching mulberry bushes. - -As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in tall bluegrass, -Ántonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree and another. “I love them -as if they were people,” she said, rubbing her hand over the bark. “There -was n’t a tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to -carry water for them, too—after we’d been working in the fields all day. -Anton, he was a city man, and he used to get discouraged. But I could n’t -feel so tired that I would n’t fret about these trees when there was a dry -time. They were on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep -I’ve got up and come out and carried water to the poor things. And now, -you see, we have the good of them. My man worked in the orange groves in -Florida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain’t one of our neighbors -has an orchard that bears like ours.” - -In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape-arbor, with seats built -along the sides and a warped plank table. The three children were waiting -for us there. They looked up at me bashfully and made some request of -their mother. - -“They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic here every -year. These don’t go to school yet, so they think it’s all like the -picnic.” - -After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the youngsters ran away to an -open place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks, and squatted -down among them, crawling about and measuring with a string. “Jan wants to -bury his dog there,” Ántonia explained. “I had to tell him he could. He’s -kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she used to take little -things? He has funny notions, like her.” - -We sat down and watched them. Ántonia leaned her elbows on the table. -There was the deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple -enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the -mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to the -protecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could see -nothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the -windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape -leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell the -ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beads -on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hens -and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallen -apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray bodies, their -heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers which grew close -and full, changing to blue like a peacock’s neck. Ántonia said they always -reminded her of soldiers—some uniform she had seen in the old country, -when she was a child. - -“Are there any quail left now?” I asked. I reminded her how she used to go -hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. “You were n’t a -bad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and go -for ducks with Charley Harling and me?” - -“I know, but I’m afraid to look at a gun now.” She picked up one of the -drakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. “Ever since I’ve had -children, I don’t like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to -wring an old goose’s neck. Ain’t that strange, Jim?” - -“I don’t know. The young Queen of Italy said the same thing once, to a -friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as -you do, and only shoots clay pigeons.” - -“Then I’m sure she’s a good mother,” Ántonia said warmly. - -She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when -the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten -years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and -often grew discouraged. “We’d never have got through if I had n’t been so -strong. I’ve always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him -in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our -children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you -saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be -just like her. My Martha’s married now, and has a baby of her own. Think -of that, Jim! - -“No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a good man, and I loved my children -and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I’m -never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad -spells I used to have, when I did n’t know what was the matter with me? -I’ve never had them out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t have -to put up with sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down -through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. - -“You ought never to have gone to town, Tony,” I said, wondering at her. - -She turned to me eagerly. “Oh, I’m glad I went! I’d never have known -anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n’t. I learned nice ways -at the Harlings’, and I’ve been able to bring my children up so much -better. Don’t you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? -If it had n’t been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I’d have -brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance to learn; -but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The -trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved.” - -While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that she could keep me for the -night. “We’ve plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till -cold weather comes, but there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep -there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him.” - -I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. - -“You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put -away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, -and I want to cook your supper myself.” - -As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with -their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied -us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of -ironweed, calling, “I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big bull-snake.” - -I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good -heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, -told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would -feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an -old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their -company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, -after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the -sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, -over the close-cropped grass. - -“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?” -Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. -She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased -about anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that -made me wish I had given more occasion for it. - -I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, you know, was very much loved -by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.” - -“Oh, we know!” They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I -should think it necessary to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t -they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.” - -“Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does n’t occur to boys that their mother was -ever young and pretty.” - -“Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. “She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch -added. “Not much older than you.” - -“Well,” I said, “if you were n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and -go for the whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were -inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked -after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I -know there’s nobody like her.” - -The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. “She never told us -that,” said Anton. “But she’s always talked lots about you, and about what -good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of -the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up -to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to -be smart.” - -We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys -milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the -strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and -gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, -the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to -feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem -everlastingly the same, and the world so far away. - -What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of restless heads in the -lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon Ántonia as she sat at -the head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on their -way. The children were seated according to a system; a little one next an -older one, who was to watch over his behavior and to see that he got his -food. Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh -plates of kolaches and pitchers of milk. - -After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka and Leo could play for -me. Ántonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairs -enough to go round, so the younger children sat down on the bare floor. -Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a parlor carpet -if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal of -fussing, got out his violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda’s instrument, which -Ántonia had always kept, and it was too big for him. But he played very -well for a self-taught boy. Poor Yulka’s efforts were not so successful. -While they were playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into -the middle of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the -boards with her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and -when she was through she stole back and sat down by her brother. - -Ántonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face. He -seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples in -unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played some -Bohemian airs, without the organ to hold him back, and that went better. -The boy was so restless that I had not had a chance to look at his face -before. My first impression was right; he really was faun-like. He had n’t -much head behind his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the -back of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the -other boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive -to the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put -together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken, -teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull would stand -for, or how sharp the new axe was. - -After the concert was over Ántonia brought out a big boxful of -photographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her -brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and who -bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys and -their large families. - -“You would n’t believe how steady those girls have turned out,” Ántonia -remarked. “Mary Svoboda’s the best butter-maker in all this country, and a -fine manager. Her children will have a grand chance.” - -As Ántonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her -chair, looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan, -after trying to see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair, -climbed up on it, and stood close together, looking. The little boy forgot -his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into view. In -the group about Ántonia I was conscious of a kind of physical harmony. -They leaned this way and that, and were not afraid to touch each other. -They contemplated the photographs with pleased recognition; looked at some -admiringly, as if these characters in their mother’s girlhood had been -remarkable people. The little children, who could not speak English, -murmured comments to each other in their rich old language. - -Ántonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San Francisco -last Christmas. “Does she still look like that? She has n’t been home for -six years now.” Yes, it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, -a trifle too plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy -eyes, and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of -her mouth. - -There was a picture of Frances Harling in a be-frogged riding costume that -I remembered well. “Is n’t she fine!” the girls murmured. They all -assented. One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the -family legend. Only Leo was unmoved. - -“And there’s Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, was -n’t he, mother?” - -“He was n’t any Rockefeller,” put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which -reminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said that my -grandfather “was n’t Jesus.” His habitual skepticism was like a direct -inheritance from that old woman. - -“None of your smart speeches,” said Ambrosch severely. - -Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke into a -giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with an -awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them; Jake and Otto -and I! We had it taken, I remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the -first Fourth of July I spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake’s grin -again, and Otto’s ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about -them. - -“He made grandfather’s coffin, did n’t he?” Anton asked. - -“Was n’t they good fellows, Jim?” Ántonia’s eyes filled. “To this day I’m -ashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy and -impertinent to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wish -somebody had made me behave.” - -“We are n’t through with you, yet,” they warned me. They produced a -photograph taken just before I went away to college; a tall youth in -striped trousers and a straw hat, trying to look easy and jaunty. - -“Tell us, Mr. Burden,” said Charley, “about the rattler you killed at the -dog town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes -she says five.” - -These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with Ántonia as -the Harling children had been so many years before. They seemed to feel -the same pride in her, and to look to her for stories and entertainment as -we used to do. - -It was eleven o’clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets and -started for the barn with the boys. Their mother came to the door with us, -and we tarried for a moment to look out at the white slope of the corral -and the two ponds asleep in the moonlight, and the long sweep of the -pasture under the star-sprinkled sky. - -The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow, and I lay down -before a big window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the -stars. Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, -and lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and -tumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, they -were still. There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland slumber. - -I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving moon passed my window -on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about Ántonia and her children; -about Anna’s solicitude for her, Ambrosch’s grave affection, Leo’s -jealous, animal little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out -of the cave into the light, was a sight any man might have come far to -see. Ántonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not -fade—that grew stronger with time. In my memory there was a succession of -such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts of one’s first primer: -Ántonia kicking her bare legs against the sides of my pony when we came -home in triumph with our snake; Ántonia in her black shawl and fur cap, as -she stood by her father’s grave in the snowstorm; Ántonia coming in with -her work-team along the evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorial -human attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true. I -had not been mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; -but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still -stop one’s breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow revealed -the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the orchard, to put -her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel -the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last. All the -strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tireless -in serving generous emotions. - -It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich -mine of life, like the founders of early races. - - - - -II - - -WHEN I awoke in the morning long bands of sunshine were coming in at the -window and reaching back under the eaves where the two boys lay. Leo was -wide awake and was tickling his brother’s leg with a dried cone-flower he -had pulled out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and turned over. I -closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on his back, elevated -one foot, and began exercising his toes. He picked up dried flowers with -his toes and brandished them in the belt of sunlight. After he had amused -himself thus for some time, he rose on one elbow and began to look at me, -cautiously, then critically, blinking his eyes in the light. His -expression was droll; it dismissed me lightly. “This old fellow is no -different from other people. He does n’t know my secret.” He seemed -conscious of possessing a keener power of enjoyment than other people; his -quick recognitions made him frantically impatient of deliberate judgments. -He always knew what he wanted without thinking. - -After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold water at the windmill. -Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen, and Yulka was baking -griddle-cakes. The three older boys set off for the fields early. Leo and -Yulka were to drive to town to meet their father, who would return from -Wilber on the noon train. - -“We’ll only have a lunch at noon,” Ántonia said, “and cook the geese for -supper, when our papa will be here. I wish my Martha could come down to -see you. They have a Ford car now, and she don’t seem so far away from me -as she used to. But her husband’s crazy about his farm and about having -everything just right, and they almost never get away except on Sundays. -He’s a handsome boy, and he’ll be rich some day. Everything he takes hold -of turns out well. When they bring that baby in here, and unwrap him, he -looks like a little prince; Martha takes care of him so beautiful. I’m -reconciled to her being away from me now, but at first I cried like I was -putting her into her coffin.” - -We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who was pouring cream into -the churn. She looked up at me. “Yes, she did. We were just ashamed of -mother. She went round crying, when Martha was so happy, and the rest of -us were all glad. Joe certainly was patient with you, mother.” - -Ántonia nodded and smiled at herself. “I know it was silly, but I could -n’t help it. I wanted her right here. She’d never been away from me a -night since she was born. If Anton had made trouble about her when she was -a baby, or wanted me to leave her with my mother, I would n’t have married -him. I could n’t. But he always loved her like she was his own.” - -“I did n’t even know Martha was n’t my full sister until after she was -engaged to Joe,” Anna told me. - -Toward the middle of the afternoon the wagon drove in, with the father and -the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard, and as I went out to meet -them, Ántonia came running down from the house and hugged the two men as -if they had been away for months. - -“Papa” interested me, from my first glimpse of him. He was shorter than -his older sons; a crumpled little man, with run-over boot heels, and he -carried one shoulder higher than the other. But he moved very quickly, and -there was an air of jaunty liveliness about him. He had a strong, ruddy -color, thick black hair, a little grizzled, a curly mustache, and red -lips. His smile showed the strong teeth of which his wife was so proud, -and as he saw me his lively, quizzical eyes told me that he knew all about -me. He looked like a humorous philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder -under the burdens of life, and gone on his way having a good time when he -could. He advanced to meet me and gave me a hard hand, burned red on the -back and heavily coated with hair. He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick -and hot for the weather, an unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie -with big white dots, like a little boy’s, tied in a flowing bow. Cuzak -began at once to talk about his holiday—from politeness he spoke in -English. - -“Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the slack-wire in the street -at night. They throw a bright light on her and she float through the air -something beautiful, like a bird! They have a dancing bear, like in the -old country, and two three merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and -what you call the big wheel, Rudolph?” - -“A Ferris wheel,” Rudolph entered the conversation in a deep baritone -voice. He was six foot two, and had a chest like a young blacksmith. “We -went to the big dance in the hall behind the saloon last night, mother, -and I danced with all the girls, and so did father. I never saw so many -pretty girls. It was a Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n’t hear a word of -English on the street, except from the show people, did we, papa?” - -Cuzak nodded. “And very many send word to you, Ántonia. You will -excuse”—turning to me—“if I tell her.” While we walked toward the house he -related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke fluently, -and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their relations had -become—or remained. The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, -touched with humor. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective. -As they went up the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise, to see whether -she got his point, or how she received it. I noticed later that he always -looked at people sidewise, as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even -when he sat opposite me in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a -little toward the clock or the stove and look at me from the side, but -with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not suggest duplicity or -secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the horse. - -He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for Ántonia’s collection, -and several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little -disappointed when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got in -Denver—she had n’t let the children touch it the night before. He put his -candy away in the cupboard, “for when she rains,” and glanced at the box, -chuckling. “I guess you must have hear about how my family ain’t so -small,” he said. - -Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his women-folk and the little -children with equal amusement. He thought they were nice, and he thought -they were funny, evidently. He had been off dancing with the girls and -forgetting that he was an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised -him; he seemed to think it a joke that all these children should belong to -him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking -things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that -was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, -whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not -to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, “This one is -bashful. He gets left.” - -Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He -opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to -relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated -several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he -were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. - -“You know? You have heard, maybe?” he asked incredulously. When I assured -him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that -Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be -able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard -her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our -talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend -her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her -looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know -whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved -much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n’t -squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young -man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and -poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very -nice, that.” - -When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, -and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before -Ántonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started -the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the -table at me. - -“Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve -heard about the Cutters?” - -No, I had heard nothing at all about them. - -“Then you must tell him, son, though it’s a terrible thing to talk about -at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about -the murder.” - -“Hurrah! The murder!” the children murmured, looking pleased and -interested. - -Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from -his mother or father. - -Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Ántonia and -I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old -people. He shriveled up, Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old -yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. -Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the -years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her -nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain -that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew -older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of -their “property.” A new law was passed in the State, securing the -surviving wife a third of her husband’s estate under all conditions. -Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than -he, and that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so -violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the -boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by -whoever wished to loiter and listen. - -One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought -a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he “thought -he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it.” (Here the -children interrupted Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.) - -Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for -an hour or so, and then went home. At six o’clock that evening, when -several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, -they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one -another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They -ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs -bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had -placed beside his head. - -“Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. “I am alive, you see, and competent. -You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her -own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no -mistake.” - -One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into -Mrs. Cutter’s room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and -wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she -was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her -breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. - -The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said -distinctly, “Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My -affairs are in order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.” - -On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o’clock that -afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she -might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to -shoot himself at six o’clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot -through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him -“before life was extinct,” as he wrote. - -“Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?” Ántonia -turned to me after the story was told. “To go and do that poor woman out -of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!” - -“Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. -Burden?” asked Rudolph. - -I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a -motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing -to match this one. When I asked how much the estate amounted to, Rudolph -said it was a little over a hundred thousand dollars. - -Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. “The lawyers, they got a good -deal of it, sure,” he said merrily. - -A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune that had been scraped -together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter himself had died for in the -end! - -After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard and sat down by the -windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it were my business to know -it. - -His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and he, being a younger -son, was apprenticed to the latter’s trade. You never got anywhere working -for your relatives, he said, so when he was a journeyman he went to Vienna -and worked in a big fur shop, earning good money. But a young fellow who -liked a good time did n’t save anything in Vienna; there were too many -pleasant ways of spending every night what he’d made in the day. After -three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and went to -work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering big wages. -The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a few hundred -dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise oranges. He had -always thought he would like to raise oranges! The second year a hard -frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with malaria. He came to -Nebraska to visit his cousin, Anton Jelinek, and to look about. When he -began to look about, he saw Ántonia, and she was exactly the kind of girl -he had always been hunting for. They were married at once, though he had -to borrow money from his cousin to buy the wedding-ring. - -“It was a pretty hard job, breaking up this place and making the first -crops grow,” he said, pushing back his hat and scratching his grizzled -hair. “Sometimes I git awful sore on this place and want to quit, but my -wife she always say we better stick it out. The babies come along pretty -fast, so it look like it be hard to move, anyhow. I guess she was right, -all right. We got this place clear now. We pay only twenty dollars an acre -then, and I been offered a hundred. We bought another quarter ten years -ago, and we got it most paid for. We got plenty boys; we can work a lot of -land. Yes, she is a good wife for a poor man. She ain’t always so strict -with me, neither. Sometimes maybe I drink a little too much beer in town, -and when I come home she don’t say nothing. She don’t ask me no questions. -We always get along fine, her and me, like at first. The children don’t -make trouble between us, like sometimes happens.” He lit another pipe and -pulled on it contentedly. - -I found Cuzak a most companionable fellow. He asked me a great many -questions about my trip through Bohemia, about Vienna and the Ringstrasse -and the theaters. - -“Gee! I like to go back there once, when the boys is big enough to farm -the place. Sometimes when I read the papers from the old country, I pretty -near run away,” he confessed with a little laugh. “I never did think how I -would be a settled man like this.” - -He was still, as Ántonia said, a city man. He liked theaters and lighted -streets and music and a game of dominoes after the day’s work was over. -His sociability was stronger than his acquisitive instinct. He liked to -live day by day and night by night, sharing in the excitement of the -crowd.—Yet his wife had managed to hold him here on a farm, in one of the -loneliest countries in the world. - -I could see the little chap, sitting here every evening by the windmill, -nursing his pipe and listening to the silence; the wheeze of the pump, the -grunting of the pigs, an occasional squawking when the hens were disturbed -by a rat. It did rather seem to me that Cuzak had been made the instrument -of Ántonia’s special mission. This was a fine life, certainly, but it was -n’t the kind of life he had wanted to live. I wondered whether the life -that was right for one was ever right for two! - -I asked Cuzak if he did n’t find it hard to do without the gay company he -had always been used to. He knocked out his pipe against an upright, -sighed, and dropped it into his pocket. - -“At first I near go crazy with lonesomeness,” he said frankly, “but my -woman is got such a warm heart. She always make it as good for me as she -could. Now it ain’t so bad; I can begin to have some fun with my boys, -already!” - -As we walked toward the house, Cuzak cocked his hat jauntily over one ear -and looked up at the moon. “Gee!” he said in a hushed voice, as if he had -just wakened up, “it don’t seem like I am away from there twenty-six -year!” - - - - -III - - -AFTER dinner the next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to -take the train for Black Hawk. Ántonia and her children gathered round my -buggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with -friendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When I -reached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still there -by the windmill. Ántonia was waving her apron. - -At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, resting his arm on the -wheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and ran off into the pasture. - -“That’s like him,” his brother said with a shrug. “He’s a crazy kid. Maybe -he’s sorry to have you go, and maybe he’s jealous. He’s jealous of anybody -mother makes a fuss over, even the priest.” - -I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant voice and his fine -head and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood there without a hat, the -wind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and shoulders. - -“Don’t forget that you and Rudolph are going hunting with me up on the -Niobrara next summer,” I said. “Your father’s agreed to let you off after -harvest.” - -He smiled. “I won’t likely forget. I’ve never had such a nice thing -offered to me before. I don’t know what makes you so nice to us boys,” he -added, blushing. - -“Oh, yes you do!” I said, gathering up my reins. - -He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with unabashed pleasure -and affection as I drove away. - - - -My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my old friends were dead -or had moved away. Strange children, who meant nothing to me, were playing -in the Harlings’ big yard when I passed; the mountain ash had been cut -down, and only a sprouting stump was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that -used to guard the gate. I hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with -Anton Jelinek, under a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his -saloon. While I was having my mid-day dinner at the hotel, I met one of -the old lawyers who was still in practice, and he took me up to his office -and talked over the Cutter case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how -to put in the time until the night express was due. - -I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land -was so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of -early times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I -felt at home again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of -autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see -the dun-shaded river bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about -stretched drying cornfields, of the pale-gold color I remembered so well. -Russian thistles were blowing across the uplands and piling against the -wire fences like barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of -golden-rod were already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold -threads in it. I had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over -little towns, and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to -take with the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water. -There were enough Cuzaks to play with for a long while yet. Even after the -boys grew up, there would always be Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along -a few miles of lighted streets with Cuzak. - -As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble -upon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north -country; to my grandfather’s farm, then on to the Shimerdas’ and to the -Norwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the -highways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was -all that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing -across the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and -doubling like a rabbit before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had -almost disappeared—were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would -not have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was -easy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed -them so deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like -gashes torn by a grizzly’s claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons used -to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on -the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn -rosy in the slanting sunlight. - -This was the road over which Ántonia and I came on that night when we got -off the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering -children, being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to -hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by -that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near -that I could reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of -coming home to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man’s -experience is. For Ántonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny; -had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which predetermined for -us all that we can ever be. Now I understood that the same road was to -bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the -precious, the incommunicable past. - - THE END - - - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - - 1 The Bohemian name _Ántonia_ is strongly accented on the first - syllable, like the English name _Anthony_, and the _i_ is, of - course, given the sound of long _e_. The name is pronounced - Anʹ-ton-ee-ah. - - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ÁNTONIA*** - - - -CREDITS - - -November 14, 2006 - - LibraryCity Trusted Edition - Jon Noring - Lori Watrous-de Versterre - José Menéndez - -November 14, 2006 - - Conversion to PGTEI v0.4 - Joshua Hutchinson - - - -A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG - - -This file should be named 19810-0.txt or 19810-0.zip. - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - - - http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/8/1/19810/ - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one — the old editions will be -renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. 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\ No newline at end of file diff --git a/old/19810-0.zip b/old/19810-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 7510c54..0000000 --- a/old/19810-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/19810-8.txt b/old/19810-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7ff2bca..0000000 --- a/old/19810-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8576 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of My ntonia by Willa Sibert Cather - - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under -the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or -online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license - - - -Title: My ntonia - -Author: Willa Sibert Cather - -Release Date: November 14, 2006 [Ebook #19810] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO 8859-1 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY NTONIA*** - - - - - -My ntonia - -By Willa Sibert Cather - - - Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit - Virgil - - -with illustrations by -W. T. Benda - - [Illustration: The Riverside Press] -Boston and New York -Houghton Mifflin Companys -The Riverside Press Cambridge - -1918 - - - - - - To - Carrie and Irene Miner - - _In memory of affections old and true_ - - - - - -CONTENTS - - -Introduction -Book I-- The Shimerdas - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI - XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX -Book II--The Hired Girls - I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI - XII - XIII - XIV - XV -Book III--Lena Lingard - I - II - III - IV -Book IV--The Pioneer Woman's Story - I - II - III - IV -Book V--Cuzak's Boys - I - II - III - - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform -Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over -his shoulder -Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest -Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree -Illustration: ntonia ploughing in the field -Illustration: Jim and ntonia in the garden -Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings -Illustration: ntonia driving her cattle home - - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -LAST summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of -intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion -James Quayle Burden--Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I -are old friends--we grew up together in the same Nebraska town--and we had -much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending -miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak -groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the -woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The -dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were -talking about what it is like to spend one's childhood in little towns -like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of -climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a -brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and -smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little -snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We -agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could -know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said. - -Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and are old friends, I do -not see much of him there. He is legal counsel for one of the great -Western railways, and is sometimes away from his New York office for weeks -together. That is one reason why we do not often meet. Another is that I -do not like his wife. - -When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, struggling to make his way in -New York, his career was suddenly advanced by a brilliant marriage. -Genevieve Whitney was the only daughter of a distinguished man. Her -marriage with young Burden was the subject of sharp comment at the time. -It was said she had been brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, -and that she married this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She -was a restless, headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her -friends. Later, when I knew her, she was always doing something -unexpected. She gave one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, -produced one of her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for -picketing during a garment-makers' strike, etc. I am never able to believe -that she has much feeling for the causes to which she lends her name and -her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic, executive, but to me -she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally incapable of enthusiasm. -Her husband's quiet tastes irritate her, I think, and she finds it worth -while to play the patroness to a group of young poets and painters of -advanced ideas and mediocre ability. She has her own fortune and lives her -own life. For some reason, she wishes to remain Mrs. James Burden. - -As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe enough to chill his -naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This disposition, though it -often made him seem very funny when he was a boy, has been one of the -strongest elements in his success. He loves with a personal passion the -great country through which his railway runs and branches. His faith in it -and his knowledge of it have played an important part in its development. -He is always able to raise capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or -Montana, and has helped young men out there to do remarkable things in -mines and timber and oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim -Burden's attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the -wilds hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money -which means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose -himself in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets -new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood -friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color -and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and -his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is -Western and American. - -During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept -returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago -and whom both of us admired. More than any other person we remembered, -this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the whole -adventure of our childhood. To speak her name was to call up pictures of -people and places, to set a quiet drama going in one's brain. I had lost -sight of her altogether, but Jim had found her again after long years, had -renewed a friendship that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy -life had set apart time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full -of her that day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all -my old affection for her. - -"I can't see," he said impetuously, "why you have never written anything -about ntonia." - -I told him I had always felt that other people--he himself, for one--knew -her much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with -him; I would set down on paper all that I remembered of ntonia if he -would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her. - -He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often -announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took -hold of him. "Maybe I will, maybe I will!" he declared. He stared out of -the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had -the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. "Of -course," he said, "I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great -deal about myself. It's through myself that I knew and felt her, and I've -had no practice in any other form of presentation." - -I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most -wanted to know about ntonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little -girl who watched her come and go, had not. - - - -Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter -afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur -overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with -some pride as he stood warming his hands. - -"I finished it last night--the thing about ntonia," he said. "Now, what -about yours?" - -I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes. - -"Notes? I did n't make any." He drank his tea all at once and put down the -cup. "I did n't arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself -and myself and other people ntonia's name recalls to me. I suppose it has -n't any form. It has n't any title, either." He went into the next room, -sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the -word, "ntonia." He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, -making it "My ntonia." That seemed to satisfy him. - -"Read it as soon as you can," he said, rising, "but don't let it influence -your own story." - -My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim's -manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. - - - - - - -BOOK I-- THE SHIMERDAS - - - - -I - - -I FIRST heard of ntonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey -across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; -I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia -relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I -traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the "hands" -on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to -work for my grandfather. Jake's experience of the world was not much wider -than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we -set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. - -We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with -each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered -him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a -"Life of Jesse James," which I remember as one of the most satisfactory -books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a -friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we -were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our -confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been -almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of -distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of -different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons -were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an -Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the -immigrant car ahead there was a family from "across the water" whose -destination was the same as ours. - -"They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she -can say is 'We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.' She's not much older than you, -twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar. Don't you -want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty brown eyes, -too!" - -This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to -"Jesse James." Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to -get diseases from foreigners. - -I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long -day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so -many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about -Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. - -I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when -we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled -down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with -lanterns. I could n't see any town, or even distant lights; we were -surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its -long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood -huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew -this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The -woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little -tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old -man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding -oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts. -Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting -and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time -I had ever heard a foreign tongue. - -Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: "Hello, are you -Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for. I'm Otto -Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, -ain't you scared to come so far west?" - - [Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform] - -I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might -have stepped out of the pages of "Jesse James." He wore a sombrero hat, -with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache -were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and -ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across -one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top -of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian's. Surely -this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his -high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather -slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a -long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to -a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign -family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the -front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the -wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into -the empty darkness, and we followed them. - -I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon -began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed. -Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and -peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no -fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I -could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: -not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. -No, there was nothing but land--slightly undulating, I knew, because often -our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and -lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was -left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's -jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a -familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of -heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and -mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me -at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to -the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon -jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick. -If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and -that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: -here, I felt, what would be would be. - - - - -II - - -I DO not remember our arrival at my grandfather's farm sometime before -daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. -When I awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely -larger than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was -flapping softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and -black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my -grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes -she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed. - -"Had a good sleep, Jimmy?" she asked briskly. Then in a very different -tone she said, as if to herself, "My, how you do look like your father!" I -remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have -come to wake him like this when he overslept. "Here are your clean -clothes," she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she -talked. "But first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice -warm bath behind the stove. Bring your things; there's nobody about." - -"Down to the kitchen" struck me as curious; it was always "out in the -kitchen" at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her -through the living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This -basement was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a -kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed--the plaster -laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts. The floor -was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling there were little -half-windows with white curtains, and pots of geraniums and wandering Jew -in the deep sills. As I entered the kitchen I sniffed a pleasant smell of -gingerbread baking. The stove was very large, with bright nickel -trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden bench against the wall, -and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and cold water. When -she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was used to taking my -bath without help. - -"Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure? Well, now, I call you a right -smart little boy." - -It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone into my bath-water -through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat came up and rubbed -himself against the tub, watching me curiously. While I scrubbed, my -grandmother busied herself in the dining-room until I called anxiously, -"Grandmother, I'm afraid the cakes are burning!" Then she came laughing, -waving her apron before her as if she were shooing chickens. - -She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and she was apt to carry -her head thrust forward in an attitude of attention, as if she were -looking at something, or listening to something, far away. As I grew -older, I came to believe that it was only because she was so often -thinking of things that were far away. She was quick-footed and energetic -in all her movements. Her voice was high and rather shrill, and she often -spoke with an anxious inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous that -everything should go with due order and decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, -and perhaps a little strident, but there was a lively intelligence in it. -She was then fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance. - -After I was dressed I explored the long cellar next the kitchen. It was -dug out under the wing of the house, was plastered and cemented, with a -stairway and an outside door by which the men came and went. Under one of -the windows there was a place for them to wash when they came in from -work. - -While my grandmother was busy about supper I settled myself on the wooden -bench behind the stove and got acquainted with the cat--he caught not only -rats and mice, but gophers, I was told. The patch of yellow sunlight on -the floor traveled back toward the stairway, and grandmother and I talked -about my journey, and about the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she -said they were to be our nearest neighbors. We did not talk about the farm -in Virginia, which had been her home for so many years. But after the men -came in from the fields, and we were all seated at the supper-table, then -she asked Jake about the old place and about our friends and neighbors -there. - -My grandfather said little. When he first came in he kissed me and spoke -kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt at once his -deliberateness and personal dignity, and was a little in awe of him. The -thing one immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, -snow-white beard. I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of -an Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive. - -Grandfather's eyes were not at all like those of an old man; they were -bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle. His teeth were white and -regular--so sound that he had never been to a dentist in his life. He had a -delicate skin, easily roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man -his hair and beard were red; his eyebrows were still coppery. - -As we sat at the table Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing covert glances at -each other. Grandmother had told me while she was getting supper that he -was an Austrian who came to this country a young boy and had led an -adventurous life in the Far West among mining-camps and cow outfits. His -iron constitution was somewhat broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had -drifted back to live in a milder country for a while. He had relatives in -Bismarck, a German settlement to the north of us, but for a year now he -had been working for grandfather. - -The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the kitchen to whisper to me -about a pony down in the barn that had been bought for me at a sale; he -had been riding him to find out whether he had any bad tricks, but he was -a "perfect gentleman," and his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I -wanted to know: how he had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was -a stage-driver, and how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for -me before sundown next day. He got out his "chaps" and silver spurs to -show them to Jake and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops stitched in -bold design--roses, and true-lover's knots, and undraped female figures. -These, he solemnly explained, were angels. - -Before we went to bed Jake and Otto were called up to the living-room for -prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed spectacles and read several -Psalms. His voice was so sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I -wished he had chosen one of my favorite chapters in the Book of Kings. I -was awed by his intonation of the word "Selah." "_He shall choose our -inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom He loved. Selah._" I had -no idea what the word meant; perhaps he had not. But, as he uttered it, it -became oracular, the most sacred of words. - -Early the next morning I ran out of doors to look about me. I had been -told that ours was the only wooden house west of Black Hawk--until you came -to the Norwegian settlement, where there were several. Our neighbors lived -in sod houses and dugouts--comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame -house, with a story and half-story above the basement, stood at the east -end of what I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the -kitchen door. From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the -barns and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, -and washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, at -the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow -bushes growing about it. The road from the post-office came directly by -our door, crossed the farmyard, and curved round this little pond, beyond -which it began to climb the gentle swell of unbroken prairie to the west. -There, along the western sky-line, it skirted a great cornfield, much -larger than any field I had ever seen. This cornfield, and the sorghum -patch behind the barn, were the only broken land in sight. Everywhere, as -far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but rough, shaggy, red -grass, most of it as tall as I. - -North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks, grew a thick-set -strip of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves already turning -yellow. This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but I had to look -very hard to see it at all. The little trees were insignificant against -the grass. It seemed as if the grass were about to run over them, and over -the plum-patch behind the sod chicken-house. - -As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the country, as the water -is the sea. The red of the grass made all the great prairie the color of -wine-stains, or of certain seaweeds when they are first washed up. And -there was so much motion in it; the whole country seemed, somehow, to be -running. - -I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when she came out, her -sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and asked me if I did not -want to go to the garden with her to dig potatoes for dinner. The garden, -curiously enough, was a quarter of a mile from the house, and the way to -it led up a shallow draw past the cattle corral. Grandmother called my -attention to a stout hickory cane, tipped with copper, which hung by a -leather thong from her belt. This, she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I -must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had -killed a good many rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who -lived on the Black Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all -summer. - -I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my -grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning. -Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more than -anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing -morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort -of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, -galloping {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} - -Alone, I should never have found the garden--except, perhaps, for the big -yellow pumpkins that lay about unprotected by their withering vines--and I -felt very little interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk -straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which -could not be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world -ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a -little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float off -into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow -shadows on the grass. While grandmother took the pitchfork we found -standing in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked them up out -of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag, I kept looking up at -the hawks that were doing what I might so easily do. - -When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like to stay up there in -the garden awhile. - -She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet. "Are n't you afraid of -snakes?" - -"A little," I admitted, "but I'd like to stay anyhow." - -"Well, if you see one, don't have anything to do with him. The big yellow -and brown ones won't hurt you; they're bull-snakes and help to keep the -gophers down. Don't be scared if you see anything look out of that hole in -the bank over there. That's a badger hole. He's about as big as a big -'possum, and his face is striped, black and white. He takes a chicken once -in a while, but I won't let the men harm him. In a new country a body -feels friendly to the animals. I like to have him come out and watch me -when I'm at work." - -Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder and went down the -path, leaning forward a little. The road followed the windings of the -draw; when she came to the first bend she waved at me and disappeared. I -was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content. - -I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely -approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin. There -were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows, full of fruit. I -turned back the papery triangular sheaths that protected the berries and -ate a few. All about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever -seen, were doing acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers -scurried up and down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered -draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I could hear it singing -its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall grasses wave. -The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. -Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. -Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as -I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was -something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did -not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like -that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun -and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be -dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it -comes as naturally as sleep. - - - - -III - - -ON Sunday morning Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance -of our new Bohemian neighbors. We were taking them some provisions, as -they had come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or -chicken-house, and very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of -potatoes and a piece of cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother packed -some loaves of Saturday's bread, a jar of butter, and several pumpkin pies -in the straw of the wagon-box. We clambered up to the front seat and -jolted off past the little pond and along the road that climbed to the big -cornfield. - -I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield; but there was -only red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high -wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The road ran about like a wild -thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and -shallow. And all along it, wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; -some of them were as big as little trees, with great rough leaves and many -branches which bore dozens of blossoms. They made a gold ribbon across the -prairie. Occasionally one of the horses would tear off with his teeth a -plant full of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in -time to his bites as he ate down toward them. - -The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the -homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more -than it was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the -old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. -Shimerda. The Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this -part of the county. Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell -them anything he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for -advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs -said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father -was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by -trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. -He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n't be of much use here, -though he used to pick up money by it at home. - -"If they're nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in -that cave of Krajiek's," said grandmother. "It's no better than a badger -hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he's made them pay twenty -dollars for his old cookstove that ain't worth ten." - -"Yes'm," said Otto; "and he's sold 'em his oxen and his two bony old -horses for the price of good work-teams. I'd have interfered about the -horses--the old man can understand some German--if I'd 'a' thought it would -do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians." - -Grandmother looked interested. "Now, why is that, Otto?" - -Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. "Well, ma'm, it's politics. It would -take me a long while to explain." - -The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw -Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas' place and made the -land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy -clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering -tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some -of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining -white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. - -As we approached the Shimerdas' dwelling, I could still see nothing but -rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging -out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those -banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass -that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had -no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a -door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a -woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A -little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same -embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted -from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not -young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little -eyes. She shook grandmother's hand energetically. - -"Very glad, very glad!" she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the -bank out of which she had emerged and said, "House no good, house no -good!" - -Grandmother nodded consolingly. "You'll get fixed up comfortable after -while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house." - -My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they -were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our -visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled -them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, "Much good, -much thank!"--and again she wrung grandmother's hand. - -The oldest son, Ambroz,--they called it Ambrosch,--came out of the cave and -stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and -broad-backed, with a close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His -hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like his mother's, but more sly and -suspicious; they fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on -corncakes and sorghum molasses for three days. - -The little girl was pretty, but n-tonia-- they accented the name thus, -strongly, when they spoke to her--was still prettier. I remembered what the -conductor had said about her eyes. They were big and warm and full of -light, like the sun shining on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was -brown, too, and in her cheeks she had a glow of rich, dark color. Her -brown hair was curly and wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called -Yulka (Julka), was fair, and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood -awkwardly confronting the two girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see -what was going on. With him was another Shimerda son. Even from a distance -one could see that there was something strange about this boy. As he -approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands to -show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck's -foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow delightedly, "Hoo, -hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!" like a rooster. His mother scowled and said sternly, -"Marek!" then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian. - -"She wants me to tell you he won't hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born -like that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer." He struck -Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly. - -At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no -hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed straight back from his -forehead. It was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him -look like the old portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and -slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly, -then took grandmother's hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and -well-shaped his own hands were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. -His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face -was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes--like something from which -all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old man was -in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. Under his -coat he wore a knitted gray vest, and, instead of a collar, a silk scarf -of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held together by a red coral -pin. While Krajiek was translating for Mr. Shimerda, ntonia came up to me -and held out her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were running up the steep -drawside together, Yulka trotting after us. - -When we reached the level and could see the gold tree-tops, I pointed -toward them, and ntonia laughed and squeezed my hand as if to tell me how -glad she was I had come. We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop -until the ground itself stopped--fell away before us so abruptly that the -next step would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the -edge of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below -us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the girls' -skirts were blown out before them. ntonia seemed to like it; she held her -little sister by the hand and chattered away in that language which seemed -to me spoken so much more rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes -fairly blazing with things she could not say. - -"Name? What name?" she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my -name, and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into -the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, "What -name?" - -We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a -baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper. ntonia pointed up to the sky -and questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not -satisfied and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, -making it sound like "ice." She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, -then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she -distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees -and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then -to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. - -"Oh," I exclaimed, "blue; blue sky." - -She clapped her hands and murmured, "Blue sky, blue eyes," as if it amused -her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of -words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we -could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of -us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After ntonia had said the new words over -and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on -her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite -sternly. I did n't want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless -and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never -seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was -how they behaved. - -While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, -"n-tonia, n-tonia!" She sprang up like a hare. "Tatinek, Tatinek!" she -shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. ntonia -reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched -my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. -I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted -by my elders. - -We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was -waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his -pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English -and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother's hands, -looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall -never forget, "Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my n-tonia!" - - - - -IV - - -ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, -under Otto's direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the -post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time -by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or -to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I -was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after -working hours. - -All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first -glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences -in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, -trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the -sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were -introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the -persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to -find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of -the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered -sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of -wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the -sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake's -story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. -Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered -roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. - -I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the -damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon -turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like -cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to -visit our German neighbors and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see -the big elm tree that grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a -hawk's nest in its branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they -had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about -them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the -scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious. - -Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to watch the brown, -earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests -underground with the dogs. ntonia Shimerda liked to go with me, and we -used to wonder a great deal about these birds of subterranean habit. We -had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes were always lurking about. -They came to pick up an easy living among the dogs and owls, which were -quite defenseless against them; took possession of their comfortable -houses and ate the eggs and puppies. We felt sorry for the owls. It was -always mournful to see them come flying home at sunset and disappear under -the earth. But, after all, we felt, winged things who would live like that -must be rather degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any -pond or creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the -desert where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that -some of the holes must go down to water--nearly two hundred feet, -hereabouts. ntonia said she did n't believe it; that the dogs probably -lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits. - -ntonia had opinions about everything, and she was soon able to make them -known. Almost every day she came running across the prairie to have her -reading lesson with me. Mrs. Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was -important that one member of the family should learn English. When the -lesson was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the -garden. I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the -hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The -white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with -curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set in, -and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the Shimerdas were -famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for miles along the edge of -the cornfields, hunting for ground-cherries. - -ntonia loved to help grandmother in the kitchen and to learn about -cooking and housekeeping. She would stand beside her, watching her every -movement. We were willing to believe that Mrs. Shimerda was a good -housewife in her own country, but she managed poorly under new conditions: -the conditions were bad enough, certainly! - -I remember how horrified we were at the sour, ashy-gray bread she gave her -family to eat. She mixed her dough, we discovered, in an old tin -peck-measure that Krajiek had used about the barn. When she took the paste -out to bake it, she left smears of dough sticking to the sides of the -measure, put the measure on the shelf behind the stove, and let this -residue ferment. The next time she made bread, she scraped this sour stuff -down into the fresh dough to serve as yeast. - -During those first months the Shimerdas never went to town. Krajiek -encouraged them in the belief that in Black Hawk they would somehow be -mysteriously separated from their money. They hated Krajiek, but they -clung to him because he was the only human being with whom they could talk -or from whom they could get information. He slept with the old man and the -two boys in the dugout barn, along with the oxen. They kept him in their -hole and fed him for the same reason that the prairie dogs and the brown -owls housed the rattlesnakes--because they did not know how to get rid of -him. - - - - -V - - -WE knew that things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two -girls were light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to -forget their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, -scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail. - -I remember ntonia's excitement when she came into our kitchen one -afternoon and announced: "My papa find friends up north, with Russian -mans. Last night he take me for see, and I can understand very much talk. -Nice mans, Mrs. Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody -laugh. The first time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very -nice!" - -I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived up by the big -dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them when I was riding in -that direction, but one of them was a wild-looking fellow and I was a -little afraid of him. Russia seemed to me more remote than any other -country--farther away than China, almost as far as the North Pole. Of all -the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two men were -the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were unpronounceable, -so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about making signs to -people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no friends. Krajiek could -understand them a little, but he had cheated them in a trade, so they -avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to be an anarchist; since he -had no means of imparting his opinions, probably his wild gesticulations -and his generally excited and rebellious manner gave rise to this -supposition. He must once have been a very strong man, but now his great -frame, with big, knotty joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn -tight over his high cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always -had a cough. - -Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of fellow; short, -bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed pleased when he met -people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to every one, men as well -as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he looked like an old man; his hair -and beard were of such a pale flaxen color that they seemed white in the -sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face, with its -snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its leaves. He was -usually called "Curly Peter," or "Rooshian Peter." - -The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer they worked out -together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they told how Peter -always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other bachelor -homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes Peter came to -church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw him, sitting on a -low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands, his bare feet tucked -apologetically under the seat. - -After Mr. Shimerda discovered the Russians, he went to see them almost -every evening, and sometimes took ntonia with him. She said they came -from a part of Russia where the language was not very different from -Bohemian, and if I wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for -me. One afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there -together on my pony. - -The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy slope, with a windlass -well beside the door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, -and a garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We -found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was working -so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved up and down -as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with his shaggy head -and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to greet us, drops of -perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down on to his curly beard. -Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave his washing. He took us -down to see his chickens, and his cow that was grazing on the hillside. He -told ntonia that in his country only rich people had cows, but here any -man could have one who would take care of her. The milk was good for -Pavel, who was often sick, and he could make butter by beating sour cream -with a wooden spoon. Peter was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks -and talked to her in Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it -in a new place. - -After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a load of watermelons up -the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at home. He was off somewhere -helping to dig a well. The house I thought very comfortable for two men -who were "batching." Besides the kitchen, there was a living-room, with a -wide double bed built against the wall, properly made up with blue gingham -sheets and pillows. There was a little storeroom, too, with a window, -where they kept guns and saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That -day the floor was covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and -beans and fat yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in -the house, and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies -and sunshine alike. - -Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered table and stood over -them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the blade got fairly into them, -they split of their own ripeness, with a delicious sound. He gave us -knives, but no plates, and the top of the table was soon swimming with -juice and seeds. I had never seen any one eat so many melons as Peter ate. -He assured us that they were good for one--better than medicine; in his -country people lived on them at this time of year. He was very hospitable -and jolly. Once, while he was looking at ntonia, he sighed and told us -that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would have -had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him. He said -he had left his country because of a "great trouble." - -When we got up to go, Peter looked about in perplexity for something that -would entertain us. He ran into the storeroom and brought out a gaudily -painted harmonica, sat down on a bench, and spreading his fat legs apart -began to play like a whole band. The tunes were either very lively or very -doleful, and he sang words to some of them. - -Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack for Mrs. Shimerda and -gave us a lard-pail full of milk to cook them in. I had never heard of -cooking cucumbers, but ntonia assured me they were very good. We had to -walk the pony all the way home to keep from spilling the milk. - - - - -VI - - -ONE afternoon we were having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank -where the badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a -shiver of coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little -horse-pond that morning, and as we went through the garden we found the -tall asparagus, with its red berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy -green. - -Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton dress and was -comfortable only when we were tucked down on the baked earth, in the full -blaze of the sun. She could talk to me about almost anything by this time. -That afternoon she was telling me how highly esteemed our friend the -badger was in her part of the world, and how men kept a special kind of -dog, with very short legs, to hunt him. Those dogs, she said, went down -into the hole after the badger and killed him there in a terrific struggle -underground; you could hear the barks and yelps outside. Then the dog -dragged himself back, covered with bites and scratches, to be rewarded and -petted by his master. She knew a dog who had a star on his collar for -every badger he had killed. - -The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They kept starting up all -about us, and dashing off down the draw as if they were playing a game of -some kind. But the little buzzing things that lived in the grass were all -dead--all but one. While we were lying there against the warm bank, a -little insect of the palest, frailest green hopped painfully out of the -buffalo grass and tried to leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, -fell back, and sat with his head sunk between his long legs, his antenn -quivering, as if he were waiting for something to come and finish him. -Tony made a warm nest for him in her hands; talked to him gayly and -indulgently in Bohemian. Presently he began to sing for us--a thin, rusty -little chirp. She held him close to her ear and laughed, but a moment -afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told me that in her -village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about selling herbs -and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and gave her a -warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children in a cracked -voice, like this. Old Hata, she was called, and the children loved to see -her coming and saved their cakes and sweets for her. - -When the bank on the other side of the draw began to throw a narrow shelf -of shadow, we knew we ought to be starting homeward; the chill came on -quickly when the sun got low, and ntonia's dress was thin. What were we -to do with the frail little creature we had lured back to life by false -pretenses? I offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put -the green insect in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over -her curls. I said I would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek, and -then turn and run home. We drifted along lazily, very happy, through the -magical light of the late afternoon. - -All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never got used to them. As -far as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in -sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. -The blond cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw -long shadows. The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire -and was not consumed. That hour always had the exultation of victory, of -triumphant ending, like a hero's death--heroes who died young and -gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day. - -How many an afternoon ntonia and I have trailed along the prairie under -that magnificence! And always two long black shadows flitted before us or -followed after, dark spots on the ruddy grass. - -We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the sun sank nearer and -nearer the prairie floor, when we saw a figure moving on the edge of the -upland, a gun over his shoulder. He was walking slowly, dragging his feet -along as if he had no purpose. We broke into a run to overtake him. - -"My papa sick all the time," Tony panted as we flew. "He not look good, -Jim." - -As we neared Mr. Shimerda she shouted, and he lifted his head and peered -about. Tony ran up to him, caught his hand and pressed it against her -cheek. She was the only one of his family who could rouse the old man from -the torpor in which he seemed to live. He took the bag from his belt and -showed us three rabbits he had shot, looked at ntonia with a wintry -flicker of a smile and began to tell her something. She turned to me. - -"My tatinek make me little hat with the skins, little hat for win-ter!" -she exclaimed joyfully. "Meat for eat, skin for hat,"--she told off these -benefits on her fingers. - -Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught his wrist and lifted -it carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I heard the name of old Hata. -He untied the handkerchief, separated her hair with his fingers, and stood -looking down at the green insect. When it began to chirp faintly, he -listened as if it were a beautiful sound. - -I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece from the old country, -short and heavy, with a stag's head on the cock. When he saw me examining -it, he turned to me with his far-away look that always made me feel as if -I were down at the bottom of a well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and -ntonia translated:-- - -"My tatinek say when you are big boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from -Bohemie. It was belong to a great man, very rich, like what you not got -here; many fields, many forests, many big house. My papa play for his -wedding, and he give my papa fine gun, and my papa give you." - -[Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over - his shoulder] - -I was glad that this project was one of futurity. There never were such -people as the Shimerdas for wanting to give away everything they had. Even -the mother was always offering me things, though I knew she expected -substantial presents in return. We stood there in friendly silence, while -the feeble minstrel sheltered in ntonia's hair went on with its scratchy -chirp. The old man's smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of -pity for things, that I never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there -came a sudden coolness and the strong smell of earth and drying grass. -ntonia and her father went off hand in hand, and I buttoned up my jacket -and raced my shadow home. - - - - -VII - - -MUCH as I liked ntonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took -with me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of -the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her -protecting manner. Before the autumn was over she began to treat me more -like an equal and to defer to me in other things than reading lessons. -This change came about from an adventure we had together. - -One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas' I found ntonia starting off on -foot for Russian Peter's house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I -offered to take her on the pony, and she got up behind me. There had been -another black frost the night before, and the air was clear and heady as -wine. Within a week all the blooming roads had been despoiled--hundreds of -miles of yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, -burry stalks. - -We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were glad to go in and get -warm by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons, -heaped in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade, -ntonia suggested that we stop at the prairie-dog town and dig into one of -the holes. We could find out whether they ran straight down, or were -horizontal, like mole-holes; whether they had underground connections; -whether the owls had nests down there, lined with feathers. We might get -some puppies, or owl eggs, or snake-skins. - -The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres. The grass had been -nibbled short and even, so this stretch was not shaggy and red like the -surrounding country, but gray and velvety. The holes were several yards -apart, and were disposed with a good deal of regularity, almost as if the -town had been laid out in streets and avenues. One always felt that an -orderly and very sociable kind of life was going on there. I picketed Dude -down in a draw, and we went wandering about, looking for a hole that would -be easy to dig. The dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on -their hind legs over the doors of their houses. As we approached, they -barked, shook their tails at us, and scurried underground. Before the -mouths of the holes were little patches of sand and gravel, scratched up, -we supposed, from a long way below the surface. Here and there, in the -town, we came on larger gravel patches, several yards away from any hole. -If the dogs had scratched the sand up in excavating, how had they carried -it so far? It was on one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure. - -We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The burrow sloped into -the ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see where the two corridors -united, and the floor was dusty from use, like a little highway over which -much travel went. I was walking backward, in a crouching position, when I -heard ntonia scream. She was standing opposite me, pointing behind me and -shouting something in Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of -those dry gravel beds, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was -sunning himself, after the cold night, and he must have been asleep when -ntonia screamed. When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a -letter "W." He twitched and began to coil slowly. He was not merely a big -snake, I thought--he was a circus monstrosity. His abominable muscularity, -his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow made me sick. He was as thick as my -leg, and looked as if millstones could n't crush the disgusting vitality -out of him. He lifted his hideous little head, and rattled. I did n't run -because I did n't think of it--if my back had been against a stone wall I -could n't have felt more cornered. I saw his coils tighten--now he would -spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up and drove at his head -with my spade, struck him fairly across the neck, and in a minute he was -all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck now from hate. ntonia, -barefooted as she was, ran up behind me. Even after I had pounded his ugly -head flat, his body kept on coiling and winding, doubling and falling back -on itself. I walked away and turned my back. I felt seasick. ntonia came -after me, crying, "O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you not run -when I say?" - -"What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have told me there was a snake -behind me!" I said petulantly. - -"I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so scared." She took my handkerchief -from my pocket and tried to wipe my face with it, but I snatched it away -from her. I suppose I looked as sick as I felt. - -"I never know you was so brave, Jim," she went on comfortingly. "You is -just like big mans; you wait for him lift his head and then you go for -him. Ain't you feel scared a bit? Now we take that snake home and show -everybody. Nobody ain't seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you -kill." - -She went on in this strain until I began to think that I had longed for -this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy. Cautiously we went back to -the snake; he was still groping with his tail, turning up his ugly belly -in the light. A faint, fetid smell came from him, and a thread of green -liquid oozed from his crushed head. - -"Look, Tony, that's his poison," I said. - -I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she lifted his head with -the spade while I tied a noose around it. We pulled him out straight and -measured him by my riding-quirt; he was about five and a half feet long. -He had twelve rattles, but they were broken off before they began to -taper, so I insisted that he must once have had twenty-four. I explained -to ntonia how this meant that he was twenty-four years old, that he must -have been there when white men first came, left on from buffalo and Indian -times. As I turned him over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind -of respect for his age and size. He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. -Certainly his kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all -warm-blooded life. When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off -to the end of his tether and shivered all over--would n't let us come near -him. - -We decided that ntonia should ride Dude home, and I would walk. As she -rode along slowly, her bare legs swinging against the pony's sides, she -kept shouting back to me about how astonished everybody would be. I -followed with the spade over my shoulder, dragging my snake. Her -exultation was contagious. The great land had never looked to me so big -and free. If the red grass were full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. -Nevertheless, I stole furtive glances behind me now and then to see that -no avenging mate, older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the -rear. - -The sun had set when we reached our garden and went down the draw toward -the house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge -of the cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. ntonia called him -to come quick and look. He did not say anything for a minute, but -scratched his head and turned the snake over with his boot. - -"Where did you run onto that beauty, Jim?" - -"Up at the dog-town," I answered laconically. - -"Kill him yourself? How come you to have a weepon?" - -"We'd been up to Russian Peter's, to borrow a spade for Ambrosch." - -Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted down to count the -rattles. "It was just luck you had a tool," he said cautiously. "Gosh! I -would n't want to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a -fence-post along. Your grandmother's snake-cane would n't more than tickle -him. He could stand right up and talk to you, he could. Did he fight -hard?" - -ntonia broke in: "He fight something awful! He is all over Jimmy's boots. -I scream for him to run, but he just hit and hit that snake like he was -crazy." - -Otto winked at me. After ntonia rode on he said: "Got him in the head -first crack, did n't you? That was just as well." - -We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down to the kitchen I -found ntonia standing in the middle of the floor, telling the story with -a great deal of color. - -Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me that my first encounter -was fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler was old, and had led too -easy a life; there was not much fight in him. He had probably lived there -for years, with a fat prairie dog for breakfast whenever he felt like it, -a sheltered home, even an owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that -the world does n't owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting -trim, would be more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a mock -adventure; the game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably was for -many a dragon-slayer. I had been adequately armed by Russian Peter; the -snake was old and lazy; and I had ntonia beside me, to appreciate and -admire. - -That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; some of the -neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the biggest rattler ever -killed in those parts. This was enough for ntonia. She liked me better -from that time on, and she never took a supercilious air with me again. I -had killed a big snake--I was now a big fellow. - - - - -VIII - - -WHILE the autumn color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, -things went badly with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles -to Mr. Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first -of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a -mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow. His creditor was -Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk money-lender, a man of evil name -throughout the county, of whom I shall have more to say later. Peter could -give no very clear account of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew -that he had first borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then -fifty--that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew -faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with -mortgages. - -Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers -for a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood -from the lungs that his fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. -They hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill -indeed. Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the -log house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The -Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to -put them out of mind. - -One afternoon ntonia and her father came over to our house to get -buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low. Just -as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove up. Pavel was very bad, he said, -and wanted to talk to Mr. Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch -them. When ntonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated -grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my supper, I -would sleep in the Shimerdas' barn and run home in the morning. My plan -must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was often large-minded about -humoring the desires of other people. She asked Peter to wait a moment, -and when she came back from the kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches -and doughnuts for us. - -Mr. Shimerda and Peter were on the front seat; ntonia and I sat in the -straw behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a -cold wind sprang up and moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the -weather had come sooner, I should not have got away. We burrowed down in -the straw and curled up close together, watching the angry red die out of -the west and the stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept -sighing and groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would -never get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew -magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of the -world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those shining -groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to be. Perhaps -Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had brought from his -land, too, some such belief. - -The little house on the hillside was so much the color of the night that -we could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows guided -us--the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning. - -We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and I -sat down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in -front of us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the -thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept -moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then -swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it bore -down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They made me -think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were trying -desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on. Presently, in -one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the coyotes tuned up -with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all together--to tell us -that winter was coming. This sound brought an answer from the bed,--a long -complaining cry,--as if Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some -old misery. Peter listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor -by the kitchen stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap--then the -high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his elbow. - -"He is scared of the wolves," ntonia whispered to me. "In his country -there are very many, and they eat men and women." We slid closer together -along the bench. - -I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging -open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell -horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the -tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell of -spirits went through the room. - -Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle and -slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted -some one. His eyes followed Peter about the room with a contemptuous, -unfriendly expression. It seemed to me that he despised him for being so -simple and docile. - -Presently Pavel began to talk to Mr. Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. -He was telling a long story, and as he went on, ntonia took my hand under -the table and held it tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to -hear him. He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his -bed, as if there were things there and he wanted Mr. Shimerda to see them. - -"It's wolves, Jimmy," ntonia whispered. "It's awful, what he says!" - -The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to be cursing people who -had wronged him. Mr. Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could -hardly hold him in bed. At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which -fairly choked him. He pulled a cloth from under his pillow and held it to -his mouth. Quickly it was covered with bright red spots--I thought I had -never seen any blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to -the wall, all the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for -breath, like a child with croup. ntonia's father uncovered one of his -long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we could see -what a hollow case his body was. His spine and shoulder-blades stood out -like the bones under the hide of a dead steer left in the fields. That -sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay on it. - -Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, the worst was over. -Mr. Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep. Without a word Peter got -up and lit his lantern. He was going out to get his team to drive us home. -Mr. Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the long bowed back under -the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe. - -On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and -rattling ntonia told me as much of the story as she could. What she did -not tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days -afterward. - - - -When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were -asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another -village. It was in the dead of winter and the groom's party went over to -the wedding in sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom's sledge, and -six sledges followed with all his relatives and friends. - -After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the -parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a -supper and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and -drinking. At midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and -blessed her. The groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his -sledge and tucked her under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and -Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. -The party set out with singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom's -sledge going first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for -merry-making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride. - -The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew it, yet when they -heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too -much good food and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and -echoed and with quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. -There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove -came up over the hill behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like -streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were -hundreds of them. - -Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control,--he was -probably very drunk,--the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a -clump of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, -and the fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed -made everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The -groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest--all the others carried -from six to a dozen people. - -Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible -to hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the -wolves. It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who -were falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. -The little bride hid her face on the groom's shoulder and sobbed. Pavel -sat still and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the -groom's three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm -and to guide them carefully. - -At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked -back. "There are only three sledges left," he whispered. - -"And the wolves?" Pavel asked. - -"Enough! Enough for all of us." - -Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down -the other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a -whirling black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his -father's sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as -if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even -then too late. The black ground-shadows were already crowding over the -heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness -hanging to him, wolves at his heels. But the groom's movement had given -Pavel an idea. - -They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left -out of six was not very far behind them, and Pavel's middle horse was -failing. Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; -Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the -horses went crazy. They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in -the harness, and overturned the sledge. - -When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone -upon the familiar road. "They still come?" he asked Peter. - -"Yes." - -"How many?" - -"Twenty, thirty--enough." - -Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave -Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He -called to the groom that they must lighten--and pointed to the bride. The -young man cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. -In the struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the -sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly -how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front -seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound -that broke into the clear air, louder than they had ever heard it -before--the bell of the monastery of their own village, ringing for early -prayers. - -Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever -since. They were run out of their village. Pavel's own mother would not -look at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned -where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who -had fed the bride to the wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed -them. It took them five years to save money enough to come to America. -They worked in Chicago, Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always -unfortunate. When Pavel's health grew so bad, they decided to try farming. - -Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to Mr. Shimerda, and -was buried in the Norwegian graveyard. Peter sold off everything, and left -the country--went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of -Russians were employed. - -At his sale we bought Peter's wheelbarrow and some of his harness. During -the auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. -He seemed not to care about anything. The Black Hawk money-lender who held -mortgages on Peter's live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes -at about fifty cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow -before she was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but -this I know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans -had been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and -bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the melons -that he had put away for winter. When Mr. Shimerda and Krajiek drove up in -their wagon to take Peter to the train, they found him with a dripping -beard, surrounded by heaps of melon rinds. - -The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old Mr. Shimerda. -When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit -there, brooding. This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows -penned him in his cave. For ntonia and me, the story of the wedding party -was never at an end. We did not tell Pavel's secret to any one, but -guarded it jealously--as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that -night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a -painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I often -found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through a country -that looked something like Nebraska and something like Virginia. - - - - -IX - - -THE first snowfall came early in December. I remember how the world looked -from our sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: -the low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out -into ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff -willow bushes. Big white flakes were whirling over everything and -disappearing in the red grass. - -Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the cornfield, there was, -faintly marked in the grass, a great circle where the Indians used to -ride. Jake and Otto were sure that when they galloped round that ring the -Indians tortured prisoners, bound to a stake in the center; but -grandfather thought they merely ran races or trained horses there. -Whenever one looked at this slope against the setting sun, the circle -showed like a pattern in the grass; and this morning, when the first light -spray of snow lay over it, it came out with wonderful distinctness, like -strokes of Chinese white on canvas. The old figure stirred me as it had -never done before and seemed a good omen for the winter. - -As soon as the snow had packed hard I began to drive about the country in -a clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by fastening a wooden -goods-box on bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a cabinet-maker in the -old country and was very handy with tools. He would have done a better job -if I had n't hurried him. My first trip was to the post-office, and the -next day I went over to take Yulka and ntonia for a sleigh-ride. - -It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo robes into the box, -and took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets. When I got to the -Shimerdas' I did not go up to the house, but sat in my sleigh at the -bottom of the draw and called. ntonia and Yulka came running out, wearing -little rabbit-skin hats their father had made for them. They had heard -about my sledge from Ambrosch and knew why I had come. They tumbled in -beside me and we set off toward the north, along a road that happened to -be broken. - -The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the glittering white -stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As ntonia said, the whole world -was changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for familiar landmarks. -The deep arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound was now only a cleft -between snow-drifts--very blue when one looked down into it. The tree-tops -that had been gold all the autumn were dwarfed and twisted, as if they -would never have any life in them again. The few little cedars, which were -so dull and dingy before, now stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind -had the burning taste of fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if -some one had opened a hartshorn bottle. The cold stung, and at the same -time delighted one. My horse's breath rose like steam, and whenever we -stopped he smoked all over. The cornfields got back a little of their -color under the dazzling light, and stood the palest possible gold in the -sun and snow. All about us the snow was crusted in shallow terraces, with -tracings like ripple-marks at the edges, curly waves that were the actual -impression of the stinging lash in the wind. - -The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls; they kept shivering -beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other for warmth. But they were -so glad to get away from their ugly cave and their mother's scolding that -they begged me to go on and on, as far as Russian Peter's house. The great -fresh open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like -wild things. They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go -home again. Could n't we settle down and live in Russian Peter's house, -Yulka asked, and could n't I go to town and buy things for us to keep -house with? - -All the way to Russian Peter's we were extravagantly happy, but when we -turned back,--it must have been about four o'clock,--the east wind grew -stronger and began to howl; the sun lost its heartening power and the sky -became gray and somber. I took off my long woolen comforter and wound it -around Yulka's throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her head -under the buffalo robe. ntonia and I sat erect, but I held the reins -clumsily, and my eyes were blinded by the wind a good deal of the time. It -was growing dark when we got to their house, but I refused to go in with -them and get warm. I knew my hands would ache terribly if I went near a -fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my comforter, and I had to drive home -directly against the wind. The next day I came down with an attack of -quinsy, which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks. - -The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in those days--like a -tight little boat in a winter sea. The men were out in the fields all day, -husking corn, and when they came in at noon, with long caps pulled down -over their ears and their feet in red-lined overshoes, I used to think -they were like Arctic explorers. - -In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs darning, or making -husking-gloves, I read "The Swiss Family Robinson" aloud to her, and I -felt that the Swiss family had no advantages over us in the way of an -adventurous life. I was convinced that man's strongest antagonist is the -cold. I admired the cheerful zest with which grandmother went about -keeping us warm and comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when -she was preparing for the return of the hungry men, that this country was -not like Virginia, and that here a cook had, as she said, "very little to -do with." On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as we could eat, and on -other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat. She baked either pies or -cake for us every day, unless, for a change, she made my favorite pudding, -striped with currants and boiled in a bag. - -Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and supper were the most -interesting things we had to think about. Our lives centered around warmth -and food and the return of the men at nightfall. I used to wonder, when -they came in tired from the fields, their feet numb and their hands -cracked and sore, how they could do all the chores so conscientiously: -feed and water and bed the horses, milk the cows, and look after the pigs. -When supper was over, it took them a long while to get the cold out of -their bones. While grandmother and I washed the dishes and grandfather -read his paper upstairs, Jake and Otto sat on the long bench behind the -stove, "easing" their inside boots, or rubbing mutton tallow into their -cracked hands. - -Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy, and Otto Fuchs used to -sing, "For I Am a Cowboy and Know I've Done Wrong," or, "Bury Me Not on -the Lone Prairee." He had a good baritone voice and always led the singing -when we went to church services at the sod schoolhouse. - -I can still see those two men sitting on the bench; Otto's close-clipped -head and Jake's shaggy hair slicked flat in front by a wet comb. I can see -the sag of their tired shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good -fellows they were, how much they knew, and how many things they had kept -faith with! - -Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a bar-tender, a miner; had -wandered all over that great Western country and done hard work -everywhere, though, as grandmother said, he had nothing to show for it. -Jake was duller than Otto. He could scarcely read, wrote even his name -with difficulty, and he had a violent temper which sometimes made him -behave like a crazy man--tore him all to pieces and actually made him ill. -But he was so soft-hearted that any one could impose upon him. If he, as -he said, "forgot himself" and swore before grandmother, he went about -depressed and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial about the -cold in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime and -to meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare -themselves. Yet they were the sort of men who never get on, somehow, or do -anything but work hard for a dollar or two a day. - -On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the old stove that fed -us and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could hear the coyotes howling -down by the corrals, and their hungry, wintry cry used to remind the boys -of wonderful animal stories; about gray wolves and bears in the Rockies, -wildcats and panthers in the Virginia mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be -persuaded to talk about the outlaws and desperate characters he had known. -I remember one funny story about himself that made grandmother, who was -working her bread on the bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with -her bare arm, her hands being floury. It was like this:-- - -When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was asked by one of his -relatives to look after a woman who was crossing on the same boat, to join -her husband in Chicago. The woman started off with two children, but it -was clear that her family might grow larger on the journey. Fuchs said he -"got on fine with the kids," and liked the mother, though she played a -sorry trick on him. In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but -three! This event made Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he -was traveling with her. The steerage stewardess was indignant with him, -the doctor regarded him with suspicion. The first-cabin passengers, who -made up a purse for the woman, took an embarrassing interest in Otto, and -often inquired of him about his charge. When the triplets were taken -ashore at New York, he had, as he said, "to carry some of them." The trip -to Chicago was even worse than the ocean voyage. On the train it was very -difficult to get milk for the babies and to keep their bottles clean. The -mother did her best, but no woman, out of her natural resources, could -feed three babies. The husband, in Chicago, was working in a furniture -factory for modest wages, and when he met his family at the station he was -rather crushed by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in -some fashion to blame. "I was sure glad," Otto concluded, "that he did n't -take his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he had a sullen eye for -me, all right! Now, did you ever hear of a young feller's having such hard -luck, Mrs. Burden?" - -Grandmother told him she was sure the Lord had remembered these things to -his credit, and had helped him out of many a scrape when he did n't -realize that he was being protected by Providence. - - - - -X - - -FOR several weeks after my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the -Shimerdas. My sore throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold -which made the housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to -have a day of rest. One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen Mr. -Shimerda out hunting. - -"He's made himself a rabbit-skin cap, Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that -he buttons on outside his coat. They ain't got but one overcoat among 'em -over there, and they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of -cold, and stick in that hole in the bank like badgers." - -"All but the crazy boy," Jake put in. "He never wears the coat. Krajiek -says he's turrible strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be -getting scarce in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield -yesterday where I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he'd shot. -He asked me if they was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on, -to scare him, but he just looked like he was smarter'n me and put 'em back -in his sack and walked off." - -Grandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to grandfather. "Josiah, you -don't suppose Krajiek would let them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do -you?" - -"You had better go over and see our neighbors to-morrow, Emmaline," he -replied gravely. - -Fuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs were clean beasts and -ought to be good for food, but their family connections were against them. -I asked what he meant, and he grinned and said they belonged to the rat -family. - -When I went downstairs in the morning, I found grandmother and Jake -packing a hamper basket in the kitchen. - -"Now, Jake," grandmother was saying, "if you can find that old rooster -that got his comb froze, just give his neck a twist, and we'll take him -along. There's no good reason why Mrs. Shimerda could n't have got hens -from her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I reckon she -was confused and did n't know where to begin. I've come strange to a new -country myself, but I never forgot hens are a good thing to have, no -matter what you don't have." - -"Just as you say, mam," said Jake, "but I hate to think of Krajiek getting -a leg of that old rooster." He tramped out through the long cellar and -dropped the heavy door behind him. - -After breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled ourselves up and -climbed into the cold front wagon-seat. As we approached the Shimerdas' we -heard the frosty whine of the pump and saw ntonia, her head tied up and -her cotton dress blown about her, throwing all her weight on the -pump-handle as it went up and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over -her shoulder, and catching up her pail of water, started at a run for the -hole in the bank. - -Jake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he would bring the -provisions after he had blanketed his horses. We went slowly up the icy -path toward the door sunk in the drawside. Blue puffs of smoke came from -the stovepipe that stuck out through the grass and snow, but the wind -whisked them roughly away. - -Mrs. Shimerda opened the door before we knocked and seized grandmother's -hand. She did not say "How do!" as usual, but at once began to cry, -talking very fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were -tied up in rags, and looking about accusingly at every one. - -The old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove, crouching over as if -he were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the floor at his feet, her -kitten in her lap. She peeped out at me and smiled, but, glancing up at -her mother, hid again. ntonia was washing pans and dishes in a dark -corner. The crazy boy lay under the only window, stretched on a gunnysack -stuffed with straw. As soon as we entered he threw a grainsack over the -crack at the bottom of the door. The air in the cave was stifling, and it -was very dark, too. A lighted lantern, hung over the stove, threw out a -feeble yellow glimmer. - -Mrs. Shimerda snatched off the covers of two barrels behind the door, and -made us look into them. In one there were some potatoes that had been -frozen and were rotting, in the other was a little pile of flour. -Grandmother murmured something in embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman -laughed scornfully, a kind of whinny-laugh, and catching up an empty -coffee-pot from the shelf, shook it at us with a look positively -vindictive. - -Grandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia way, not admitting -their stark need or her own remissness, until Jake arrived with the -hamper, as if in direct answer to Mrs. Shimerda's reproaches. Then the -poor woman broke down. She dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid -her face on her knees, and sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed -to her, but called ntonia to come and help empty the basket. Tony left -her corner reluctantly. I had never seen her crushed like this before. - -"You not mind my poor mamenka, Mrs. Burden. She is so sad," she whispered, -as she wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things grandmother -handed her. - -The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft, gurgling noises and -stroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time with a sack of -potatoes. Grandmother looked about in perplexity. - -"Have n't you got any sort of cave or cellar outside, ntonia? This is no -place to keep vegetables. How did your potatoes get frozen?" - -"We get from Mr. Bushy, at the post-office,--what he throw out. We got no -potatoes, Mrs. Burden," Tony admitted mournfully. - -When Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and stuffed up the -door-crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow, Mr. Shimerda came out from -behind the stove. He stood brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as -if he were trying to clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and -neat as usual, with his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took -grandmother's arm and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room. -In the rear wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger -than an oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth. When I got up on one -of the stools and peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw. -The old man held the lantern. "Yulka," he said in a low, despairing voice, -"Yulka; my ntonia!" - -Grandmother drew back. "You mean they sleep in there,--your girls?" He -bowed his head. - -Tony slipped under his arm. "It is very cold on the floor, and this is -warm like the badger hole. I like for sleep there," she insisted eagerly. -"My mamenka have nice bed, with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie. -See, Jim?" She pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against -the wall for himself before the Shimerdas came. - -Grandmother sighed. "Sure enough, where _would_ you sleep, dear! I don't -doubt you're warm there. You'll have a better house after while, ntonia, -and then you'll forget these hard times." - -Mr. Shimerda made grandmother sit down on the only chair and pointed his -wife to a stool beside her. Standing before them with his hand on -ntonia's shoulder, he talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated. -He wanted us to know that they were not beggars in the old country; he -made good wages, and his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with -more than a thousand dollars in savings, after their passage money was -paid. He had in some way lost on exchange in New York, and the railway -fare to Nebraska was more than they had expected. By the time they paid -Krajiek for the land, and bought his horses and oxen and some old farm -machinery, they had very little money left. He wished grandmother to know, -however, that he still had some money. If they could get through until -spring came, they would buy a cow and chickens and plant a garden, and -would then do very well. Ambrosch and ntonia were both old enough to work -in the fields, and they were willing to work. But the snow and the bitter -weather had disheartened them all. - -ntonia explained that her father meant to build a new house for them in -the spring; he and Ambrosch had already split the logs for it, but the -logs were all buried in the snow, along the creek where they had been -felled. - -While grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I sat down on the floor -with Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek slid cautiously toward us -and began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I knew he wanted to make his -queer noises for me--to bark like a dog or whinny like a horse,--but he did -not dare in the presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be -agreeable, poor fellow, as if he had it on his mind that he must make up -for his deficiencies. - -Mrs. Shimerda grew more calm and reasonable before our visit was over, -and, while ntonia translated, put in a word now and then on her own -account. The woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases whenever she -heard English spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her wooden chest and -brought out a bag made of bed-ticking, about as long as a flour sack and -half as wide, stuffed full of something. At sight of it, the crazy boy -began to smack his lips. When Mrs. Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the -contents with her hand, it gave out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent, -even among the other odors of that cave. She measured a teacup full, tied -it up in a bit of sacking, and presented it ceremoniously to grandmother. - -"For cook," she announced. "Little now; be very much when cook," spreading -out her hands as if to indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon. -"Very good. You no have in this country. All things for eat better in my -country." - -"Maybe so, Mrs. Shimerda," grandmother said drily. "I can't say but I -prefer our bread to yours, myself." - - [Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest] - -ntonia undertook to explain. "This very good, Mrs. Burden,"--she clasped -her hands as if she could not express how good,--"it make very much when -you cook, like what my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in -the gravy,--oh, so good!" - -All the way home grandmother and Jake talked about how easily good -Christian people could forget they were their brothers' keepers. - -"I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and sisters are hard to keep. -Where's a body to begin, with these people? They're wanting in everything, -and most of all in horse-sense. Nobody can give 'em that, I guess. Jimmy, -here, is about as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon -that boy Ambrosch has any real push in him?" - -"He's a worker, all right, mam, and he's got some ketch-on about him; but -he's a mean one. Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and -then, ag'in, they can be too mean." - -That night, while grandmother was getting supper, we opened the package -Mrs. Shimerda had given her. It was full of little brown chips that looked -like the shavings of some root. They were as light as feathers, and the -most noticeable thing about them was their penetrating, earthy odor. We -could not determine whether they were animal or vegetable. - -"They might be dried meat from some queer beast, Jim. They ain't dried -fish, and they never grew on stalk or vine. I'm afraid of 'em. Anyhow, I -should n't want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with old -clothes and goose pillows." - -She threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a corner of one of the -chips I held in my hand, and chewed it tentatively. I never forgot the -strange taste; though it was many years before I knew that those little -brown shavings, which the Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so -jealously, were dried mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some -deep Bohemian forest {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} - - - - -XI - - -DURING the week before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of -our household, for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. -But on the 21st of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down -so thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the -windmill--its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a shadow. The -snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed. The -cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless. The men could -not go farther than the barns and corral. They sat about the house most of -the day as if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their -suspenders, plaiting whiplashes. - -On the morning of the 22d, grandfather announced at breakfast that it -would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for Christmas purchases. Jake was -sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in -saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and -a newcomer in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would -never allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain. - -We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town. I had -wanted to get some picture-books for Yulka and ntonia; even Yulka was -able to read a little now. Grandmother took me into the ice-cold -storeroom, where she had some bolts of gingham and sheeting. She cut -squares of cotton cloth and we sewed them together into a book. We bound -it between pasteboards, which I covered with brilliant calico, -representing scenes from a circus. For two days I sat at the dining-room -table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka. We had files of those -good old family magazines which used to publish colored lithographs of -popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these. I took -"Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine" for my frontispiece. On the -white pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I -had brought from my "old country." Fuchs got out the old candle-moulds and -made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake-cutters and -baked gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar -and red cinnamon drops. - -On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the -Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on grandfather's gray gelding. -When he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung -to his belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was -planning a surprise for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from -the sitting-room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west -hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a -coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through. I put on my -cap and ran out to meet Jake. When I got to the pond I could see that he -was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel. He used to help my -father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten -how much I liked them. - -By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling little tree in a corner -of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas Eve. After supper we all -gathered there, and even grandfather, reading his paper by the table, -looked up with friendly interest now and then. The cedar was about five -feet high and very shapely. We hung it with the gingerbread animals, -strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which Fuchs had fitted into -pasteboard sockets. Its real splendors, however, came from the most -unlikely place in the world--from Otto's cowboy trunk. I had never seen -anything in that trunk but old boots and spurs and pistols, and a -fascinating mixture of yellow leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker's -wax. From under the lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly -colored paper figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand -alone. They had been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in -Austria. There was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were -the three kings, gorgeously appareled, and the ox and the ass and the -shepherds; there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, -singing; there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the -three kings. Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends -and stories nestled like birds in its branches. Grandmother said it -reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool under -it for a snow-field, and Jake's pocket-mirror for a frozen lake. - -I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the -lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face -seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half-ear and the savage scar -that made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted mustache. As -I remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness -and violence made them defenseless. These boys had no practiced manner -behind which they could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had -only their hard fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of -those drifting, case-hardened laborers who never marry or have children of -their own. Yet he was so fond of children! - - - - -XII - - -ON Christmas morning, when I got down to the kitchen, the men were just -coming in from their morning chores--the horses and pigs always had their -breakfast before we did. Jake and Otto shouted "Merry Christmas"! to me, -and winked at each other when they saw the waffle-irons on the stove. -Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday coat. Morning -prayers were longer than usual. He read the chapters from St. Matthew -about the birth of Christ, and as we listened it all seemed like something -that had happened lately, and near at hand. In his prayer he thanked the -Lord for the first Christmas, and for all that it had meant to the world -ever since. He gave thanks for our food and comfort, and prayed for the -poor and destitute in great cities, where the struggle for life was harder -than it was here with us. Grandfather's prayers were often very -interesting. He had the gift of simple and moving expression. Because he -talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not worn dull -from constant use. His prayers reflected what he was thinking about at the -time, and it was chiefly through them that we got to know his feelings and -his views about things. - -After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake told us how pleased the -Shimerdas had been with their presents; even Ambrosch was friendly and -went to the creek with him to cut the Christmas tree. It was a soft gray -day outside, with heavy clouds working across the sky, and occasional -squalls of snow. There were always odd jobs to be done about the barn on -holidays, and the men were busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played -dominoes, while Otto wrote a long letter home to his mother. He always -wrote to her on Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he was, and no -matter how long it had been since his last letter. All afternoon he sat in -the dining-room. He would write for a while, then sit idle, his clenched -fist lying on the table, his eyes following the pattern of the oilcloth. -He spoke and wrote his own language so seldom that it came to him -awkwardly. His effort to remember entirely absorbed him. - -At about four o'clock a visitor appeared: Mr. Shimerda, wearing his -rabbit-skin cap and collar, and new mittens his wife had knitted. He had -come to thank us for the presents, and for all grandmother's kindness to -his family. Jake and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat about the -stove, enjoying the deepening gray of the winter afternoon and the -atmosphere of comfort and security in my grandfather's house. This feeling -seemed completely to take possession of Mr. Shimerda. I suppose, in the -crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to believe that peace -and order had vanished from the earth, or existed only in the old world he -had left so far behind. He sat still and passive, his head resting against -the back of the wooden rocking-chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms. His -face had a look of weariness and pleasure, like that of sick people when -they feel relief from pain. Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass -of Virginia apple-brandy after his long walk in the cold, and when a faint -flush came up in his cheeks, his features might have been cut out of a -shell, they were so transparent. He said almost nothing, and smiled -rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense of his utter content. - - [Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree] - -As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the Christmas tree before -the lamp was brought. When the candle ends sent up their conical yellow -flames, all the colored figures from Austria stood out clear and full of -meaning against the green boughs. Mr. Shimerda rose, crossed himself, and -quietly knelt down before the tree, his head sunk forward. His long body -formed a letter "S." I saw grandmother look apprehensively at grandfather. -He was rather narrow in religious matters, and sometimes spoke out and -hurt people's feelings. There had been nothing strange about the tree -before, but now, with some one kneeling before it,--images, candles, {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} -Grandfather merely put his finger-tips to his brow and bowed his venerable -head, thus Protestantizing the atmosphere. - -We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He needed little -urging. As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me that he liked to -look at us, and that our faces were open books to him. When his -deep-seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were looking far ahead into -the future for me, down the road I would have to travel. - -At nine o'clock Mr. Shimerda lighted one of our lanterns and put on his -overcoat and fur collar. He stood in the little entry hall, the lantern -and his fur cap under his arm, shaking hands with us. When he took -grandmother's hand, he bent over it as he always did, and said slowly, -"Good wo-man!" He made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap and -went off in the dark. As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfather -looked at me searchingly. "The prayers of all good people are good," he -said quietly. - - - - -XIII - - -THE week following Christmas brought in a thaw, and by New Year's Day all -the world about us was a broth of gray slush, and the guttered slope -between the windmill and the barn was running black water. The soft black -earth stood out in patches along the roadsides. I resumed all my chores, -carried in the cobs and wood and water, and spent the afternoons at the -barn, watching Jake shell corn with a hand-sheller. - -One morning, during this interval of fine weather, ntonia and her mother -rode over on one of their shaggy old horses to pay us a visit. It was the -first time Mrs. Shimerda had been to our house, and she ran about -examining our carpets and curtains and furniture, all the while commenting -upon them to her daughter in an envious, complaining tone. In the kitchen -she caught up an iron pot that stood on the back of the stove and said: -"You got many, Shimerdas no got." I thought it weak-minded of grandmother -to give the pot to her. - -After dinner, when she was helping to wash the dishes, she said, tossing -her head: "You got many things for cook. If I got all things like you, I -make much better." - -She was a conceited, boastful old thing, and even misfortune could not -humble her. I was so annoyed that I felt coldly even toward ntonia and -listened unsympathetically when she told me her father was not well. - -"My papa sad for the old country. He not look good. He never make music -any more. At home he play violin all the time; for weddings and for dance. -Here never. When I beg him for play, he shake his head no. Some days he -take his violin out of his box and make with his fingers on the strings, -like this, but never he make the music. He don't like this kawn-tree." - -"People who don't like this country ought to stay at home," I said -severely. "We don't make them come here." - -"He not want to come, nev-er!" she burst out. "My mamenka make him come. -All the time she say: 'America big country; much money, much land for my -boys, much husband for my girls.' My papa, he cry for leave his old -friends what make music with him. He love very much the man what play the -long horn like this"--she indicated a slide trombone. "They go to school -together and are friends from boys. But my mama, she want Ambrosch for be -rich, with many cattle." - -"Your mama," I said angrily, "wants other people's things." - -"Your grandfather is rich," she retorted fiercely. "Why he not help my -papa? Ambrosch be rich, too, after while, and he pay back. He is very -smart boy. For Ambrosch my mama come here." - -Ambrosch was considered the important person in the family. Mrs. Shimerda -and ntonia always deferred to him, though he was often surly with them -and contemptuous toward his father. Ambrosch and his mother had everything -their own way. Though ntonia loved her father more than she did any one -else, she stood in awe of her elder brother. - -After I watched ntonia and her mother go over the hill on their miserable -horse, carrying our iron pot with them, I turned to grandmother, who had -taken up her darning, and said I hoped that snooping old woman would n't -come to see us any more. - -Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright needle across a hole in Otto's -sock. "She's not old, Jim, though I expect she seems old to you. No, I -would n't mourn if she never came again. But, you see, a body never knows -what traits poverty might bring out in 'em. It makes a woman grasping to -see her children want for things. Now read me a chapter in 'The Prince of -the House of David.' Let's forget the Bohemians." - -We had three weeks of this mild, open weather. The cattle in the corral -ate corn almost as fast as the men could shell it for them, and we hoped -they would be ready for an early market. One morning the two big bulls, -Gladstone and Brigham Young, thought spring had come, and they began to -tease and butt at each other across the barbed wire that separated them. -Soon they got angry. They bellowed and pawed up the soft earth with their -hoofs, rolling their eyes and tossing their heads. Each withdrew to a far -corner of his own corral, and then they made for each other at a gallop. -Thud, thud, we could hear the impact of their great heads, and their -bellowing shook the pans on the kitchen shelves. Had they not been -dehorned, they would have torn each other to pieces. Pretty soon the fat -steers took it up and began butting and horning each other. Clearly, the -affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and watched admiringly while -Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork and prodded the bulls again -and again, finally driving them apart. - -The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh birthday, the 20th of -January. When I went down to breakfast that morning, Jake and Otto came in -white as snow-men, beating their hands and stamping their feet. They began -to laugh boisterously when they saw me, calling:-- - -"You've got a birthday present this time, Jim, and no mistake. They was a -full-grown blizzard ordered for you." - -All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this time, it simply -spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds being emptied. That -afternoon the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the men brought in their tools -and made two great wooden shovels with long handles. Neither grandmother -nor I could go out in the storm, so Jake fed the chickens and brought in a -pitiful contribution of eggs. - -Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach the barn--and the snow -was still falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my -grandfather had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not try -to reach the cattle--they were fat enough to go without their corn for a -day or two; but to-morrow we must feed them and thaw out their water-tap -so that they could drink. We could not so much as see the corrals, but we -knew the steers were over there, huddled together under the north bank. -Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by this time, were probably warming -each other's backs. "This'll take the bile out of 'em!" Fuchs remarked -gleefully. - -At noon that day the hens had not been heard from. After dinner Jake and -Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them, stretched their stiff arms and -plunged again into the drifts. They made a tunnel under the snow to the -henhouse, with walls so solid that grandmother and I could walk back and -forth in it. We found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had -come to stay. One old rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid -lump of ice in their water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, -the hens set up a great cackling and flew about clumsily, scattering -down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always resentful of -captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried to poke their -ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five o'clock the chores -were done--just when it was time to begin them all over again! That was a -strange, unnatural sort of day. - - - - -XIV - - -ON the morning of the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, -I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in -the kitchen--grandmother's was so shrill that I knew she must be almost -beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What -could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn -had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was -lost in the storm. - -Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his -hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing -their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both -looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with -a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed -reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips -were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: "Oh, dear -Saviour!" "Lord, Thou knowest!" - -Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: "Jimmy, we will not have -prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda -is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in -the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys -have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That -is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys." - -After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to -talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother's warning glances. I held my -tongue, but I listened with all my ears. - -"No, sir," Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, "nobody -heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a -road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch -come in it was dark and he did n't see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of -queer. One of 'em ripped around and got away from him--bolted clean out of -the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a -lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him." - -"Poor soul, poor soul!" grandmother groaned. "I'd like to think he never -done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How -could he forget himself and bring this on us!" - -"I don't think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden," Fuchs -declared. "He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of -fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed -hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. ntonia heated the -water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he -was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he -was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn -and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, -where he always slept. When we found him, everything was decent -except,"--Fuchs wrinkled his brow and hesitated,--"except what he could n't -nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the -bed. He'd took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it -smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the neck -and rolled up his sleeves." - -"I don't see how he could do it!" grandmother kept saying. - -Otto misunderstood her. "Why, mam, it was simple enough; he pulled the -trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the -barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He -found it all right!" - -"Maybe he did," said Jake grimly. "There's something mighty queer about -it." - -"Now what do you mean, Jake?" grandmother asked sharply. - -"Well, mam, I found Krajiek's axe under the manger, and I picks it up and -carries it over to the corpse, and I take my oath it just fit the gash in -the front of the old man's face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin' -round, pale and quiet, and when he seen me examinin' the axe, he begun -whimperin', 'My God, man, don't do that!' 'I reckon I'm a-goin' to look -into this,' says I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about -wringin' his hands. 'They'll hang me!' says he. 'My God, they'll hang me -sure!'" - -Fuchs spoke up impatiently. "Krajiek's gone silly, Jake, and so have you. -The old man would n't have made all them preparations for Krajiek to -murder him, would he? It don't hang together. The gun was right beside him -when Ambrosch found him." - -"Krajiek could 'a' put it there, could n't he?" Jake demanded. - -Grandmother broke in excitedly: "See here, Jake Marpole, don't you go -trying to add murder to suicide. We're deep enough in trouble. Otto reads -you too many of them detective stories." - -"It will be easy to decide all that, Emmaline," said grandfather quietly. -"If he shot himself in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the -inside outward." - -"Just so it is, Mr. Burden," Otto affirmed. "I seen bunches of hair and -stuff sticking to the poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up -there by gunshot, no question." - -Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the Shimerdas with -him. - -"There is nothing you can do," he said doubtfully. "The body can't be -touched until we get the coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a -matter of several days, this weather." - -"Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, and say a word of comfort to -them poor little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a -right hand to him. He might have thought of her. He's left her alone in a -hard world." She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was now eating his -breakfast at the kitchen table. - -Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all night, was going to -make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the priest and the coroner. On -the gray gelding, our best horse, he would try to pick his way across the -country with no roads to guide him. - -"Don't you worry about me, Mrs. Burden," he said cheerfully, as he put on -a second pair of socks. "I've got a good nose for directions, and I never -did need much sleep. It's the gray I'm worried about. I'll save him what I -can, but it'll strain him, as sure as I'm telling you!" - -"This is no time to be over-considerate of animals, Otto; do the best you -can for yourself. Stop at the Widow Steavens's for dinner. She's a good -woman, and she'll do well by you." - -After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I saw a side of him I had -not seen before. He was deeply, even slavishly, devout. He did not say a -word all morning, but sat with his rosary in his hands, praying, now -silently, now aloud. He never looked away from his beads, nor lifted his -hands except to cross himself. Several times the poor boy fell asleep -where he sat, wakened with a start, and began to pray again. - -No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas' until a road was broken, and that -would be a day's job. Grandfather came from the barn on one of our big -black horses, and Jake lifted grandmother up behind him. She wore her -black hood and was bundled up in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy -white beard inside his overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set -off, I thought. Jake and Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black -and my pony, carrying bundles of clothes that we had got together for Mrs. -Shimerda. I watched them go past the pond and over the hill by the drifted -cornfield. Then, for the first time, I realized that I was alone in the -house. - -I felt a considerable extension of power and authority, and was anxious to -acquit myself creditably. I carried in cobs and wood from the long cellar, -and filled both the stoves. I remembered that in the hurry and excitement -of the morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had not -been gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their corn, -emptied the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with water. After -the cat had had his milk, I could think of nothing else to do, and I sat -down to get warm. The quiet was delightful, and the ticking clock was the -most pleasant of companions. I got "Robinson Crusoe" and tried to read, -but his life on the island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I -looked with satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed -upon me that if Mr. Shimerda's soul were lingering about in this world at -all, it would be here, in our house, which had been more to his liking -than any other in the neighborhood. I remembered his contented face when -he was with us on Christmas Day. If he could have lived with us, this -terrible thing would never have happened. - -I knew it was homesickness that had killed Mr. Shimerda, and I wondered -whether his released spirit would not eventually find its way back to his -own country. I thought of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, -to Baltimore,--and then the great wintry ocean. No, he would not at once -set out upon that long journey. Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of -cold and crowding and the struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting -now in this quiet house. - -I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not wish to disturb him. -I went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked away so snugly -underground, always seemed to me the heart and center of the house. There, -on the bench behind the stove, I thought and thought about Mr. Shimerda. -Outside I could hear the wind singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It -was as if I had let the old man in out of the tormenting winter, and were -sitting there with him. I went over all that ntonia had ever told me -about his life before he came to this country; how he used to play the -fiddle at weddings and dances. I thought about the friends he had mourned -to leave, the trombone-player, the great forest full of game,--belonging, -as ntonia said, to the "nobles,"--from which she and her mother used to -steal wood on moonlight nights. There was a white hart that lived in that -forest, and if any one killed it, he would be hanged, she said. Such vivid -pictures came to me that they might have been Mr. Shimerda's memories, not -yet faded out from the air in which they had haunted him. - -It had begun to grow dark when my household returned, and grandmother was -so tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I got supper, and while we -were washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of -things over at the Shimerdas'. Nobody could touch the body until the -coroner came. If any one did, something terrible would happen, apparently. -The dead man was frozen through, "just as stiff as a dressed turkey you -hang out to freeze," Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the -barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of -blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there was -no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. -Shimerda's head. ntonia and Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down -to pray beside him. The crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel -the cold. I believed he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to -be thought insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor -Marek! - -Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed -him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and -about his father's soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and -would remain there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal -for him. "As I understand it," Jake concluded, "it will be a matter of -years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he's in torment." - -"I don't believe it," I said stoutly. "I almost know it is n't true." I -did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen -all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I -went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me -crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. -But Mr. Shimerda had not been rich and selfish; he had only been so -unhappy that he could not live any longer. - - - - -XV - - -OTTO FUCHS got back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that -the coroner would reach the Shimerdas' sometime that afternoon, but the -missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred miles -away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few hours' sleep at -the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained -himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip -through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. - -Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a -homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his -fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw -Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, -handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle -in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into -our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks -bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur -cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. - -"I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to -poor strangers from my kawn-tree." - -He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye -when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he -would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk -corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school -by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me -he had a nice "lady-teacher" and that he liked to go to school. - -At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to -strangers. - -"Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?" he asked. - -Jelinek looked serious. "Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father -has done a great sin," he looked straight at grandfather. "Our Lord has -said that." - -Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. "We believe that, too, Jelinek. -But we believe that Mr. Shimerda's soul will come to its Creator as well -off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor." - -The young man shook his head. "I know how you think. My teacher at the -school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the -dead. I have seen too much." - -We asked him what he meant. - -He glanced around the table. "You want I shall tell you? When I was a -little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make -my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By -'n' by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many -soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, -and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give -the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with -the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness -but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because -we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us." He -paused, looking at grandfather. "That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened -to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the -old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on -horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, -pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we -pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, -and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family." - -We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, -manly faith. - -"I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these -things," said grandfather, "and I would never be the one to say you were -not in God's care when you were among the soldiers." - -After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong -black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the -Shimerdas', so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was -the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. - -Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us -that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who "batched" -with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. -From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, -and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was -completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and -the horses would emerge black and shining. - -Our heavy carpenter's bench had to be brought from the barn and carried -down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks -grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for -the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the -doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode -away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas', and Fuchs took off his coat -and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did -not touch his tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of -paper, and measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus -engaged, he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his -half-ear. Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At -last he folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us. - -"The hardest part of my job's done," he announced. "It's the head end of -it that comes hard with me, especially when I'm out of practice. The last -time I made one of these, Mrs. Burden," he continued, as he sorted and -tried his chisels, "was for a fellow in the Black Tiger mine, up above -Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of that mine goes right into the face of -the cliff, and they used to put us in a bucket and run us over on a -trolley and shoot us into the shaft. The bucket traveled across a box -caon three hundred feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes -had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you'll -believe it, they went to work the next day. You can't kill a Swede. But in -my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it turned out -different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, and I happened -to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for him. It's a handy -thing to know, when you knock about like I've done." - -"We'd be hard put to it now, if you did n't know, Otto," grandmother said. - -"Yes, 'm," Fuchs admitted with modest pride. "So few folks does know how -to make a good tight box that'll turn water. I sometimes wonder if -there'll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I'm not at all -particular that way." - -All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting -wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such -cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a -pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so -soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the -boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow -shavings grew higher and higher. I wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to -cabinet-work, he settled down to it with such ease and content. He handled -the tools as if he liked the feel of them; and when he planed, his hands -went back and forth over the boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he -were blessing them. He broke out now and then into German hymns, as if -this occupation brought back old times to him. - -At four o'clock Mr. Bushy, the postmaster, with another neighbor who lived -east of us, stopped in to get warm. They were on their way to the -Shimerdas'. The news of what had happened over there had somehow got -abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother gave the visitors -sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers were gone, the brother of -the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our door, -and after him came the father of the German family, our nearest neighbors -on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were -all eager for any details about the suicide, and they were greatly -concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic -cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could get -so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were sure that a man who had -killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic graveyard. There was a -burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, west of Squaw Creek; perhaps -the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in. - -After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to -the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and -Otto again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the -plane. One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more -than usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but "Only -papers, to-day," or, "I've got a sackful of mail for ye," until this -afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear woman; to herself or to the -Lord, if there was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally -taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used -to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed -eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the -Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the -queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until -you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. - -The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring -the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the -Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the -Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. - -Grandmother was indignant. "If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. -Bushy, we'll have to have an American graveyard that will be more -liberal-minded. I'll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If -anything was to happen to me, I don't want the Norwegians holding -inquisitions over me to see whether I'm good enough to be laid amongst -'em." - -Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that -important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil -War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case -very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have -sworn out a warrant against Krajiek. "The way he acted, and the way his -axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man." - -Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake -and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he -behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps -he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old -man's misery and loneliness. - -At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had -hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, -disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they -should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed -and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch -wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; -indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had -explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence -and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross -exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, "It makes no matter." - -Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some -superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the -cross-roads. - -Jelinek said he did n't know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once -been such a custom in Bohemia. "Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind," he -added. "I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the -neighbors; but she say so it must be. 'There I will bury him, if I dig the -grave myself,' she say. I have to promise her I help Ambrosch make the -grave to-morrow." - -Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. "I don't know whose -wish should decide the matter, if not hers. But if she thinks she will -live to see the people of this country ride over that old man's head, she -is mistaken." - - - - -XVI - - -MR. SHIMERDA lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they buried -him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the grave, -chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we breakfasted -before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin. Jake and Jelinek -went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from the pool of blood in -which it was frozen fast to the ground. - -When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas' house, we found the -women-folk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the barn. Mrs. Shimerda sat -crouching by the stove, ntonia was washing dishes. When she saw me she -ran out of her dark corner and threw her arms around me. "Oh, Jimmy," she -sobbed, "what you tink for my lovely papa!" It seemed to me that I could -feel her heart breaking as she clung to me. - -Mrs. Shimerda, sitting on the stump by the stove, kept looking over her -shoulder toward the door while the neighbors were arriving. They came on -horseback, all except the postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon -over the only broken wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm -eight miles down the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the -cave-house, and it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to -fall, and every one was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the -burial over with. - -Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell Mrs. Shimerda that it was time to -start. After bundling her mother up in clothes the neighbors had brought, -ntonia put on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her -father had made for her. Four men carried Mr. Shimerda's box up the hill; -Krajiek slunk along behind them. The coffin was too wide for the door, so -it was put down on the slope outside. I slipped out from the cave and -looked at Mr. Shimerda. He was lying on his side, with his knees drawn up. -His body was draped in a black shawl, and his head was bandaged in white -muslin, like a mummy's; one of his long, shapely hands lay out on the -black cloth; that was all one could see of him. - -Mrs. Shimerda came out and placed an open prayer-book against the body, -making the sign of the cross on the bandaged head with her fingers. -Ambrosch knelt down and made the same gesture, and after him ntonia and -Marek. Yulka hung back. Her mother pushed her forward, and kept saying -something to her over and over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put -out her hand a little way, but she drew it back and began to cry wildly. -She was afraid to touch the bandage. Mrs. Shimerda caught her by the -shoulders and pushed her toward the coffin, but grandmother interfered. - -"No, Mrs. Shimerda," she said firmly, "I won't stand by and see that child -frightened into spasms. She is too little to understand what you want of -her. Let her alone." - -At a look from grandfather, Fuchs and Jelinek placed the lid on the box, -and began to nail it down over Mr. Shimerda. I was afraid to look at -ntonia. She put her arms round Yulka and held the little girl close to -her. - -The coffin was put into the wagon. We drove slowly away, against the fine, -icy snow which cut our faces like a sand-blast. When we reached the grave, -it looked a very little spot in that snow-covered waste. The men took the -coffin to the edge of the hole and lowered it with ropes. We stood about -watching them, and the powdery snow lay without melting on the caps and -shoulders of the men and the shawls of the women. Jelinek spoke in a -persuasive tone to Mrs. Shimerda, and then turned to grandfather. - -"She says, Mr. Burden, she is very glad if you can make some prayer for -him here in English, for the neighbors to understand." - -Grandmother looked anxiously at grandfather. He took off his hat, and the -other men did likewise. I thought his prayer remarkable. I still remember -it. He began, "Oh, great and just God, no man among us knows what the -sleeper knows, nor is it for us to judge what lies between him and Thee." -He prayed that if any man there had been remiss toward the stranger come -to a far country, God would forgive him and soften his heart. He recalled -the promises to the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the -way before this widow and her children, and to "incline the hearts of men -to deal justly with her." In closing, he said we were leaving Mr. Shimerda -at "Thy judgment seat, which is also Thy mercy seat." - -All the time he was praying, grandmother watched him through the black -fingers of her glove, and when he said "Amen," I thought she looked -satisfied with him. She turned to Otto and whispered, "Can't you start a -hymn, Fuchs? It would seem less heathenish." - -Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general approval of her -suggestion, then began, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul," and all the men and -women took it up after him. Whenever I have heard the hymn since, it has -made me remember that white waste and the little group of people; and the -bluish air, full of fine, eddying snow, like long veils flying:-- - - "While the nearer waters roll, - While the tempest still is high." - - - -Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were over, and the red grass -had been ploughed under and under until it had almost disappeared from the -prairie; when all the fields were under fence, and the roads no longer ran -about like wild things, but followed the surveyed section-lines, Mr. -Shimerda's grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and -an unpainted wooden cross. As grandfather had predicted, Mrs. Shimerda -never saw the roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a -little to the east just there, and the road from the west swung out a -little to the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was -never mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moon -or the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft gray -rivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion, and -in all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the dim -superstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave there; and -still more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the sentence--the -error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of the soft earth roads along -which the home-coming wagons rattled after sunset. Never a tired driver -passed the wooden cross, I am sure, without wishing well to the sleeper. - - - - -XVII - - -WHEN spring came, after that hard winter, one could not get enough of the -nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter -was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch -in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only--spring -itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it -everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in -the warm, high wind--rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and -playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If -I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known -that it was spring. - -Everywhere now there was the smell of burning grass. Our neighbors burned -off their pasture before the new grass made a start, so that the fresh -growth would not be mixed with the dead stand of last year. Those light, -swift fires, running about the country, seemed a part of the same kindling -that was in the air. - -The Shimerdas were in their new log house by then. The neighbors had -helped them to build it in March. It stood directly in front of their old -cave, which they used as a cellar. The family were now fairly equipped to -begin their struggle with the soil. They had four comfortable rooms to -live in, a new windmill,--bought on credit,--a chicken-house and poultry. -Mrs. Shimerda had paid grandfather ten dollars for a milk cow, and was to -give him fifteen more as soon as they harvested their first crop. - -When I rode up to the Shimerdas' one bright windy afternoon in April, -Yulka ran out to meet me. It was to her, now, that I gave reading lessons; -ntonia was busy with other things. I tied my pony and went into the -kitchen where Mrs. Shimerda was baking bread, chewing poppy seeds as she -worked. By this time she could speak enough English to ask me a great many -questions about what our men were doing in the fields. She seemed to think -that my elders withheld helpful information, and that from me she might -get valuable secrets. On this occasion she asked me very craftily when -grandfather expected to begin planting corn. I told her, adding that he -thought we should have a dry spring and that the corn would not be held -back by too much rain, as it had been last year. - -She gave me a shrewd glance. "He not Jesus," she blustered; "he not know -about the wet and the dry." - -I did not answer her; what was the use? As I sat waiting for the hour when -Ambrosch and ntonia would return from the fields, I watched Mrs. Shimerda -at her work. She took from the oven a coffee-cake which she wanted to keep -warm for supper, and wrapped it in a quilt stuffed with feathers. I have -seen her put even a roast goose in this quilt to keep it hot. When the -neighbors were there building the new house they saw her do this, and the -story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their food in their feather beds. - -When the sun was dropping low, ntonia came up the big south draw with her -team. How much older she had grown in eight months! She had come to us a -child, and now she was a tall, strong young girl, although her fifteenth -birthday had just slipped by. I ran out and met her as she brought her -horses up to the windmill to water them. She wore the boots her father had -so thoughtfully taken off before he shot himself, and his old fur cap. Her -outgrown cotton dress switched about her calves, over the boot-tops. She -kept her sleeves rolled up all day, and her arms and throat were burned as -brown as a sailor's. Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like -the bole of a tree out of the turf. One sees that draft-horse neck among -the peasant women in all old countries. - -She greeted me gayly, and began at once to tell me how much ploughing she -had done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on the north quarter, breaking -sod with the oxen. - -"Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day. I don't want that Jake get -more done in one day than me. I want we have very much corn this fall." - -While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each other, and then drank -again, ntonia sat down on the windmill step and rested her head on her -hand. "You see the big prairie fire from your place last night? I hope -your grandpa ain't lose no stacks?" - -"No, we did n't. I came to ask you something, Tony. Grandmother wants to -know if you can't go to the term of school that begins next week over at -the sod schoolhouse. She says there's a good teacher, and you'd learn a -lot." - -ntonia stood up, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were -stiff. "I ain't got time to learn. I can work like mans now. My mother -can't say no more how Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work -as much as him. School is all right for little boys. I help make this land -one good farm." - -She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I walked beside her, -feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I -wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her -silence, and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face -from me and looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark -prairie. - -I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she -unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had -come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank. - -ntonia took my hand. "Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you -learn at the school, won't you, Jimmy?" she asked with a sudden rush of -feeling in her voice. "My father, he went much to school. He know a great -deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn -and violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to -talk to him. You won't forget my father, Jim?" - -"No," I said, "I will never forget him." - -Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and ntonia had -washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the -kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda -ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush -we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had -been kept warm in the feathers. ntonia and Ambrosch were talking in -Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. -Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. - - [Illustration: ntonia ploughing in the field] - -Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: "You take them ox to-morrow -and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart." - -His sister laughed. "Don't be mad. I know it's awful hard work for break -sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want." - -Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. "That cow not give so much milk like -what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him -back the cow." - -"He does n't talk about the fifteen dollars," I exclaimed indignantly. "He -does n't find fault with people." - -"He say I break his saw when we build, and I never," grumbled Ambrosch. - -I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began -to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. -ntonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table -and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother -had said, "Heavy field work'll spoil that girl. She'll lose all her nice -ways and get rough ones." She had lost them already. - -After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since -winter I had seen very little of ntonia. She was out in the fields from -sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, -she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her -plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making -me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she -helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased -with ntonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, "She -will help some fellow get ahead in the world." - -Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much -she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, -that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that -the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I -saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her -dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to -think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet -managed to say so much when he exclaimed, "My n-tonia!" - - - - -XVIII - - -AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We -were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback -and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, -but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with -ntonia for her indifference. Since the father's death, Ambrosch was more -than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as -well as the fortunes of his women-folk. ntonia often quoted his opinions -to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me -only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct -coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. - -One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which -Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful -blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses -along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year's dried sunflower -stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and -their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet -gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. - -We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was -cleaning out the stable, and ntonia and her mother were making garden, -off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill -tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked -for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to -grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. - -"Now, don't you say you have n't got it, Ambrosch, because I know you -have, and if you ain't a-going to look for it, I will." - -Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the -stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he -returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used--trampled in the dirt -and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. - -"This what you want?" he asked surlily. - -Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough -stubble on his face. "That ain't the piece of harness I loaned you, -Ambrosch; or if it is, you've used it shameful. I ain't a-going to carry -such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden." - -Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. "All right," he said coolly, -took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the -belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch's feet had scarcely -touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake's -stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. -This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at -fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head--it -sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, -stunned. - -We heard squeals, and looking up saw ntonia and her mother coming on the -run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the -muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming -and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was -sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. "Let's get out of -this, Jim," he called. - -Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were -going to pull down lightning. "Law, law!" she shrieked after us. "Law for -knock my Ambrosch down!" - -"I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden," ntonia panted. "No -friends any more!" - -Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second. "Well, you're a damned -ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you," he shouted back. "I guess the -Burdens can get along without you. You've been a sight of trouble to them, -anyhow!" - -We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for -us. I had n't a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and -trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. "They ain't the -same, Jimmy," he kept saying in a hurt tone. "These foreigners ain't the -same. You can't trust 'em to be fair. It's dirty to kick a feller. You -heard how the women turned on you--and after all we went through on account -of 'em last winter! They ain't to be trusted. I don't want to see you get -too thick with any of 'em." - -"I'll never be friends with them again, Jake," I declared hotly. "I -believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath." - -Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to -ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had -knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was -inclined to make trouble--her son was still under age--she would be -forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market -the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had -started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking -neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black -Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would -follow the matter up. - -Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for -that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town -that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell -his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great -satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met -ntonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her -work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing -voice:-- - -"Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!" - -Otto pretended not to be surprised at ntonia's behavior. He only lifted -his brows and said, "You can't tell me anything new about a Czech; I'm an -Austrian." - -Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our feud with the -Shimerdas. Ambrosch and ntonia always greeted him respectfully, and he -asked them about their affairs and gave them advice as usual. He thought -the future looked hopeful for them. Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he -soon realized that his oxen were too heavy for any work except breaking -sod, and he succeeded in selling them to a newly arrived German. With the -money he bought another team of horses, which grandfather selected for -him. Marek was strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never -teach him to cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got -through poor Marek's thick head was that all exertion was meritorious. He -always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and drove the blades so -deep into the earth that the horses were soon exhausted. - -In June Ambrosch went to work at Mr. Bushy's for a week, and took Marek -with him at full wages. Mrs. Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; -she and ntonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at night. -While the two women were running the place alone, one of the new horses -got colic and gave them a terrible fright. - -ntonia had gone down to the barn one night to see that all was well -before she went to bed, and she noticed that one of the roans was swollen -about the middle and stood with its head hanging. She mounted another -horse, without waiting to saddle him, and hammered on our door just as we -were going to bed. Grandfather answered her knock. He did not send one of -his men, but rode back with her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece -of carpet he kept for hot applications when our horses were sick. He found -Mrs. Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing -her hands. It took but a few moments to release the gases pent up in the -poor beast, and the two women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan -visibly diminish in girth. - -"If I lose that horse, Mr. Burden," ntonia exclaimed, "I never stay here -till Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before morning." - -When Ambrosch came back from Mr. Bushy's, we learned that he had given -Marek's wages to the priest at Black Hawk, for masses for their father's -soul. Grandmother thought ntonia needed shoes more than Mr. Shimerda -needed prayers, but grandfather said tolerantly, "If he can spare six -dollars, pinched as he is, it shows he believes what he professes." - -It was grandfather who brought about a reconciliation with the Shimerdas. -One morning he told us that the small grain was coming on so well, he -thought he would begin to cut his wheat on the first of July. He would -need more men, and if it were agreeable to every one he would engage -Ambrosch for the reaping and thrashing, as the Shimerdas had no small -grain of their own. - -"I think, Emmaline," he concluded, "I will ask ntonia to come over and -help you in the kitchen. She will be glad to earn something, and it will -be a good time to end misunderstandings. I may as well ride over this -morning and make arrangements. Do you want to go with me, Jim?" His tone -told me that he had already decided for me. - -After breakfast we set off together. When Mrs. Shimerda saw us coming, she -ran from her door down into the draw behind the stable, as if she did not -want to meet us. Grandfather smiled to himself while he tied his horse, -and we followed her. - -Behind the barn we came upon a funny sight. The cow had evidently been -grazing somewhere in the draw. Mrs. Shimerda had run to the animal, pulled -up the lariat pin, and, when we came upon her, she was trying to hide the -cow in an old cave in the bank. As the hole was narrow and dark, the cow -held back, and the old woman was slapping and pushing at her hind -quarters, trying to spank her into the draw-side. - -Grandfather ignored her singular occupation and greeted her politely. -"Good-morning, Mrs. Shimerda. Can you tell me where I will find Ambrosch? -Which field?" - -"He with the sod corn." She pointed toward the north, still standing in -front of the cow as if she hoped to conceal it. - -"His sod corn will be good for fodder this winter," said grandfather -encouragingly. "And where is ntonia?" - -"She go with." Mrs. Shimerda kept wiggling her bare feet about nervously -in the dust. - -"Very well. I will ride up there. I want them to come over and help me cut -my oats and wheat next month. I will pay them wages. Good-morning. By the -way, Mrs. Shimerda," he said as he turned up the path, "I think we may as -well call it square about the cow." - -She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing that she did not -understand, grandfather turned back. "You need not pay me anything more; -no more money. The cow is yours." - -"Pay no more, keep cow?" she asked in a bewildered tone, her narrow eyes -snapping at us in the sunlight. - -"Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow." He nodded. - -Mrs. Shimerda dropped the rope, ran after us, and crouching down beside -grandfather, she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been -so much embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that -seemed to bring the Old World very close. - -We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: "I expect she thought we had -come to take the cow away for certain, Jim. I wonder if she would n't have -scratched a little if we'd laid hold of that lariat rope!" - -Our neighbors seemed glad to make peace with us. The next Sunday Mrs. -Shimerda came over and brought Jake a pair of socks she had knitted. She -presented them with an air of great magnanimity, saying, "Now you not come -any more for knock my Ambrosch down?" - -Jake laughed sheepishly. "I don't want to have no trouble with Ambrosch. -If he'll let me alone, I'll let him alone." - -"If he slap you, we ain't got no pig for pay the fine," she said -insinuatingly. - -Jake was not at all disconcerted. "Have the last word, mam," he said -cheerfully. "It's a lady's privilege." - - - - -XIX - - -JULY came on with that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains -of Kansas and Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if -we could hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a -faint crackling in the dewy, heavy-odored cornfields where the feathered -stalks stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the Missouri -to the Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat regulated by a -thermometer, it could not have been better for the yellow tassels that -were ripening and fertilizing each other day by day. The cornfields were -far apart in those times, with miles of wild grazing land between. It took -a clear, meditative eye like my grandfather's to foresee that they would -enlarge and multiply until they would be, not the Shimerdas' cornfields, -or Mr. Bushy's, but the world's cornfields; that their yield would be one -of the great economic facts, like the wheat crop of Russia, which underlie -all the activities of men, in peace or war. - -The burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional rains at night, -secured the corn. After the milky ears were once formed, we had little to -fear from dry weather. The men were working so hard in the wheatfields -that they did not notice the heat,--though I was kept busy carrying water -for them,--and grandmother and ntonia had so much to do in the kitchen -that they could not have told whether one day was hotter than another. -Each morning, while the dew was still on the grass, ntonia went with me -up to the garden to get early vegetables for dinner. Grandmother made her -wear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached the garden she threw it on the -grass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I remember how, as we bent over -the pea-vines, beads of perspiration used to gather on her upper lip like -a little mustache. - -"Oh, better I like to work out of doors than in a house!" she used to sing -joyfully. "I not care that your grandmother say it makes me like a man. I -like to be like a man." She would toss her head and ask me to feel the -muscles swell in her brown arm. - -We were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay and responsive that -one did not mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans. -Grandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that ntonia worked for -us. - - [Illustration: Jim and ntonia in the garden] - -All the nights were close and hot during that harvest season. The -harvesters slept in the hayloft because it was cooler there than in the -house. I used to lie in my bed by the open window, watching the heat -lightning play softly along the horizon, or looking up at the gaunt frame -of the windmill against the blue night sky. One night there was a -beautiful electric storm, though not enough rain fell to damage the cut -grain. The men went down to the barn immediately after supper, and when -the dishes were washed ntonia and I climbed up on the slanting roof of -the chicken-house to watch the clouds. The thunder was loud and metallic, -like the rattle of sheet iron, and the lightning broke in great zigzags -across the heavens, making everything stand out and come close to us for a -moment. Half the sky was checkered with black thunderheads, but all the -west was luminous and clear: in the lightning-flashes it looked like deep -blue water, with the sheen of moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the -sky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast -city, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our -upturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out -into the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we -could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the -farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would -get wet out there. - -"In a minute we come," ntonia called back to her. "I like your -grandmother, and all things here," she sighed. "I wish my papa live to see -this summer. I wish no winter ever come again." - -"It will be summer a long while yet," I reassured her. "Why are n't you -always nice like this, Tony?" - -"How nice?" - -"Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be -like Ambrosch?" - -She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. "If I -live here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But -they will be hard for us." - - - - - -BOOK II--THE HIRED GIRLS - - - - -I - - -I HAD been living with my grandfather for nearly three years when he -decided to move to Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the -heavy work of a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be -going to school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to "that good woman, -the Widow Steavens," and her bachelor brother, and we bought Preacher -White's house, at the north end of Black Hawk. This was the first town -house one passed driving in from the farm, a landmark which told country -people their long ride was over. - -We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon as grandfather had -fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his intention. Otto said he -would not be likely to find another place that suited him so well; that he -was tired of farming and thought he would go back to what he called the -"wild West." Jake Marpole, lured by Otto's stories of adventure, decided -to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so handicapped by -illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he would be an easy prey -to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian -people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted -to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in -Colorado. - -Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the -carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother's -kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without -warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, -had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With -me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and -manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now -they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, -with their oilcloth valises--and I never saw them again. Months afterward -we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain -fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were -doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to -me, "unclaimed." After that we never heard from them. - -Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, -well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards -about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing -along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows -of new brick "store" buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and -four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our -upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two -miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost -freedom of the farming country. - -We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town -people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother -was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite -another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, -I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was -over I could fight, play "keeps," tease the little girls, and use -forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from -utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, -kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not -permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. - -We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. -Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn -where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more -often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and -rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our -house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I -came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back -yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker's -bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I -kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring ntonia and Yulka to see our new -house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the -trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor -ceiling. - -When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his -horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything -about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was -slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his -coat and say, "They all right, I guess." - -Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of ntonia as we -had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, -she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from -farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers -liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand -than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until -Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from -this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. - - - - -II - - -GRANDMOTHER often said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God -she lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, -and their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and -an orchard and grazing lots,--even a windmill. The Harlings were -Norwegians, and Mrs. Harling had lived in Christiania until she was ten -years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain merchant and -cattle buyer, and was generally considered the most enterprising business -man in our county. He controlled a line of grain elevators in the little -towns along the railroad to the west of us, and was away from home a great -deal. In his absence his wife was the head of the household. - -Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house. -Every inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the -moment she entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright, -twinkling eyes and a stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger, quick -to laughter, and jolly from the depths of her soul. How well I remember -her laugh; it had in it the same sudden recognition that flashed into her -eyes, was a burst of humor, short and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps -shook her own floors, and she routed lassitude and indifference wherever -she came. She could not be negative or perfunctory about anything. Her -enthusiasm, and her violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all -the every-day occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, -at the Harlings'. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and -house-cleaning was like a revolution. When Mrs. Harling made garden that -spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking through the willow hedge -that separated our place from hers. - -Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only -son,--they had lost an older boy,--was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the -musical one, was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short -hair, was a year younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily -clever at all boys' sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow -hair, bobbed about her ears, and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. -She raced all over town on one roller skate, often cheated at "keeps," but -was such a quick shot one could n't catch her at it. - -The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important person in our world. -She was her father's chief clerk, and virtually managed his Black Hawk -office during his frequent absences. Because of her unusual business -ability, he was stern and exacting with her. He paid her a good salary, -but she had few holidays and never got away from her responsibilities. -Even on Sundays she went to the office to open the mail and read the -markets. With Charley, who was not interested in business, but was already -preparing for Annapolis, Mr. Harling was very indulgent; bought him guns -and tools and electric batteries, and never asked what he did with them. - -Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall. In winter she wore a -sealskin coat and cap, and she and Mr. Harling used to walk home together -in the evening, talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two men. -Sometimes she came over to see grandfather after supper, and her visits -flattered him. More than once they put their wits together to rescue some -unfortunate farmer from the clutches of Wick Cutter, the Black Hawk -money-lender. Grandfather said Frances Harling was as good a judge of -credits as any banker in the county. The two or three men who had tried to -take advantage of her in a deal acquired celebrity by their defeat. She -knew every farmer for miles about; how much land he had under cultivation, -how many cattle he was feeding, what his liabilities were. Her interest in -these people was more than a business interest. She carried them all in -her mind as if they were characters in a book or a play. - -When Frances drove out into the country on business, she would go miles -out of her way to call on some of the old people, or to see the women who -seldom got to town. She was quick at understanding the grandmothers who -spoke no English, and the most reticent and distrustful of them would tell -her their story without realizing they were doing so. She went to country -funerals and weddings in all weathers. A farmer's daughter who was to be -married could count on a wedding present from Frances Harling. - -In August the Harlings' Danish cook had to leave them. Grandmother -entreated them to try ntonia. She cornered Ambrosch the next time he came -to town, and pointed out to him that any connection with Christian Harling -would strengthen his credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday Mrs. -Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas' with Frances. She said -she wanted to see "what the girl came from" and to have a clear -understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when they came driving -home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to me as they passed, and -I could see they were in great good humor. After supper, when grandfather -set off to church, grandmother and I took my short cut through the willow -hedge and went over to hear about the visit to the Shimerdas. - -We found Mrs. Harling with Charley and Sally on the front porch, resting -after her hard drive. Julia was in the hammock--she was fond of repose--and -Frances was at the piano, playing without a light and talking to her -mother through the open window. - -Mrs. Harling laughed when she saw us coming. "I expect you left your -dishes on the table to-night, Mrs. Burden," she called. Frances shut the -piano and came out to join us. - -They had liked ntonia from their first glimpse of her; felt they knew -exactly what kind of girl she was. As for Mrs. Shimerda, they found her -very amusing. Mrs. Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. "I expect I -am more at home with that sort of bird than you are, Mrs. Burden. They're -a pair, Ambrosch and that old woman!" - -They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about ntonia's allowance for -clothes and pocket-money. It was his plan that every cent of his sister's -wages should be paid over to him each month, and he would provide her with -such clothing as he thought necessary. When Mrs. Harling told him firmly -that she would keep fifty dollars a year for ntonia's own use, he -declared they wanted to take his sister to town and dress her up and make -a fool of her. Mrs. Harling gave us a lively account of Ambrosch's -behavior throughout the interview; how he kept jumping up and putting on -his cap as if he were through with the whole business, and how his mother -tweaked his coat-tail and prompted him in Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally -agreed to pay three dollars a week for ntonia's services--good wages in -those days--and to keep her in shoes. There had been hot dispute about the -shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. -Harling three fat geese every year to "make even." Ambrosch was to bring -his sister to town next Saturday. - -"She'll be awkward and rough at first, like enough," grandmother said -anxiously, "but unless she's been spoiled by the hard life she's led, she -has it in her to be a real helpful girl." - -Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. "Oh, I'm not worrying, Mrs. -Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She's barely seventeen, -not too old to learn new ways. She's good-looking, too!" she added warmly. - -Frances turned to grandmother. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you did n't tell us -that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and -ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in -her cheeks--like those big dark red plums." - -We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. "When she -first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch -over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a -life she's led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would -have been very different with poor ntonia if her father had lived." - -The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda's death and the big -snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had -told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. - -"The girl will be happy here, and she'll forget those things," said Mrs. -Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. - - - - -III - - -ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and ntonia jumped down -from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was -wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a -playful shake by the shoulders. "You ain't forget about me, Jim?" - -Grandmother kissed her. "God bless you, child! Now you've come, you must -try to do right and be a credit to us." - -ntonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything. "Maybe I be -the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town," she suggested -hopefully. - -How good it was to have ntonia near us again; to see her every day and -almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she -so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would -race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the -barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off -Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she -could speak as well as any of us. - -I was jealous of Tony's admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was -always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or -the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort -of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She -loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his -ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of -nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with -his father. ntonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. -Harling's old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley, -fairly panting with eagerness to please him. - -Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she -was rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all -sorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest -disappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, -and she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her -and tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I -used to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so -many tears as Nina's. Mrs. Harling and ntonia invariably took her part. -We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: "You have -made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic." -I liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were -lovely; but I often wanted to shake her. - -We had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was -at home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my -house to play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded -all his wife's attention. He used to take her away to their room in the -west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we did -not realize it then, Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we -always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick -laugh. - -Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the -window, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home, -I could see his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant -shadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to any one else if he was there. Before -he went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies -and beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, -and his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to -want it. - -Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic -ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby carriage after office hours, -moved the sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on -Sunday. Mr. Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in -his ways. He walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man -who felt that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so -haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something -daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the "nobles" of -whom ntonia was always talking probably looked very much like Christian -Harling, wore caped overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond -upon the little finger. - -Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet. -Mrs. Harling and Nina and ntonia made as much noise as a houseful of -children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only -one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they all played. -When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When -Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed -the plantation melodies that negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even -Nina played the Swedish Wedding March. - -Mrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she -managed to practice every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on -an errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait -quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her short, -square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving -quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with -intelligent concentration. - - - - -IV - - - "I won't have none of your weevily wheat, and I won't have none of your - barley, - But I'll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for - Charley." - -WE were singing rhymes to tease ntonia while she was beating up one of -Charley's favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp autumn -evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag in the -yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll popcorn balls -with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and Tony dropped her -spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the -doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her -blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly -about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. - -"Hello, Tony. Don't you know me?" she asked in a smooth, low voice, -looking in at us archly. - -ntonia gasped and stepped back. "Why, it's Lena! Of course I did n't know -you, so dressed up!" - -Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for -a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head--or -with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, -brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with -perfect composure. - -"Hello, Jim," she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and -looked about her. "I've come to town to work, too, Tony." - -"Have you, now? Well, ain't that funny!" ntonia stood ill at ease, and -did n't seem to know just what to do with her visitor. - -The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting -and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. - -"You are Lena Lingard, are n't you? I've been to see your mother, but you -were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard's oldest -girl." - -Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen -eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances -pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on -her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but ntonia hung back--said she had -to get her cake into the oven. - -"So you have come to town," said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on -Lena. "Where are you working?" - -"For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She -says I have quite a knack. I'm through with the farm. There ain't any end -to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I'm going to be -a dressmaker." - -"Well, there have to be dressmakers. It's a good trade. But I would n't -run down the farm, if I were you," said Mrs. Harling rather severely. "How -is your mother?" - -"Oh, mother's never very well; she has too much to do. She'd get away from -the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn -to do sewing, I can make money and help her." - -"See that you don't forget to," said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took -up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. - -"No, 'm, I won't," said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn -we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her -fingers sticky. - -Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. "I thought you were going -to be married, Lena," she said teasingly. "Did n't I hear that Nick -Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?" - -Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. "He did go with me quite -a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n't give -Nick any land if he married me, so he's going to marry Annie Iverson. I -would n't like to be her; Nick's awful sullen, and he'll take it out on -her. He ain't spoke to his father since he promised." - -Frances laughed. "And how do you feel about it?" - -"I don't want to marry Nick, or any other man," Lena murmured. "I've seen -a good deal of married life, and I don't care for it. I want to be so I -can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of -anybody." - -"That's right," said Frances. "And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn -dressmaking?" - -"Yes, 'm. I've always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. -Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. -Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, -but it's lovely!" Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. "Tony -knows I never did like out-of-door work," she added. - -Mrs. Harling glanced at her. "I expect you'll learn to sew all right, -Lena, if you'll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all -the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do." - -"Yes, 'm. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She's going to work at -the Boys' Home Hotel. She'll see lots of strangers," Lena added wistfully. - -"Too many, like enough," said Mrs. Harling. "I don't think a hotel is a -good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her -waitresses." - -Lena's candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long -lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with nave admiration. -Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. "I guess I must be leaving," she -said irresolutely. - -Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice -about anything. Lena replied that she did n't believe she would ever get -lonesome in Black Hawk. - -She lingered at the kitchen door and begged ntonia to come and see her -often. "I've got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas's, with a carpet." - -Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. "I'll come sometime, but -Mrs. Harling don't like to have me run much," she said evasively. - -"You can do what you please when you go out, can't you?" Lena asked in a -guarded whisper. "Ain't you crazy about town, Tony? I don't care what -anybody says, I'm done with the farm!" She glanced back over her shoulder -toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. - -When Lena was gone, Frances asked ntonia why she had n't been a little -more cordial to her. - -"I did n't know if your mother would like her coming here," said ntonia, -looking troubled. "She was kind of talked about, out there." - -"Yes, I know. But mother won't hold it against her if she behaves well -here. You need n't say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim -has heard all that gossip?" - -When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We -were good friends, Frances and I. - -I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were -glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. - -Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used -to herd her father's cattle in the open country between his place and the -Shimerdas'. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among -her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered -clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I -thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, -because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a -ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in -spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which -somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily -clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her -soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough -and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get -off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a -house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by -her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even -then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes--a shade of deep violet--and -their soft, confiding expression. - -Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family. -Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and -even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a -good daughter to her mother. As Tony said, she had been talked about. She -was accused of making Ole Benson lose the little sense he had--and that at -an age when she should still have been in pinafores. - - [Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings] - -Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of the settlement. He -was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had become a habit with -him. After he had had every other kind of misfortune, his wife, "Crazy -Mary," tried to set a neighbor's barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum -at Lincoln. She was kept there for a few months, then escaped and walked -all the way home, nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding -in barns and haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian -settlement, her poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, -and was allowed to stay at home--though every one realized she was as crazy -as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow, telling her -domestic troubles to her neighbors. - -Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I heard a young Dane, who -was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto that Chris Lingard's oldest -girl had put Ole Benson out of his head, until he had no more sense than -his crazy wife. When Ole was cultivating his corn that summer, he used to -get discouraged in the field, tie up his team, and wander off to wherever -Lena Lingard was herding. There he would sit down on the draw-side and -help her watch her cattle. All the settlement was talking about it. The -Norwegian preacher's wife went to Lena and told her she ought not to allow -this; she begged Lena to come to church on Sundays. Lena said she had n't -a dress in the world any less ragged than the one on her back. Then the -minister's wife went through her old trunks and found some things she had -worn before her marriage. - -The next Sunday Lena appeared at church, a little late, with her hair done -up neatly on her head, like a young woman, wearing shoes and stockings, -and the new dress, which she had made over for herself very becomingly. -The congregation stared at her. Until that morning no one--unless it were -Ole--had realized how pretty she was, or that she was growing up. The -swelling lines of her figure had been hidden under the shapeless rags she -wore in the fields. After the last hymn had been sung, and the -congregation was dismissed, Ole slipped out to the hitch-bar and lifted -Lena on her horse. That, in itself, was shocking; a married man was not -expected to do such things. But it was nothing to the scene that followed. -Crazy Mary darted out from the group of women at the church door, and ran -down the road after Lena, shouting horrible threats. - -"Look out, you Lena Lingard, look out! I'll come over with a corn-knife -one day and trim some of that shape off you. Then you won't sail round so -fine, making eyes at the men! {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}" - -The Norwegian women did n't know where to look. They were formal -housewives, most of them, with a severe sense of decorum. But Lena Lingard -only laughed her lazy, good-natured laugh and rode on, gazing back over -her shoulder at Ole's infuriated wife. - -The time came, however, when Lena did n't laugh. More than once Crazy Mary -chased her across the prairie and round and round the Shimerdas' -cornfield. Lena never told her father; perhaps she was ashamed; perhaps -she was more afraid of his anger than of the corn-knife. I was at the -Shimerdas' one afternoon when Lena came bounding through the red grass as -fast as her white legs could carry her. She ran straight into the house -and hid in ntonia's feather-bed. Mary was not far behind; she came right -up to the door and made us feel how sharp her blade was, showing us very -graphically just what she meant to do to Lena. Mrs. Shimerda, leaning out -of the window, enjoyed the situation keenly, and was sorry when ntonia -sent Mary away, mollified by an apronful of bottle-tomatoes. Lena came out -from Tony's room behind the kitchen, very pink from the heat of the -feathers, but otherwise calm. She begged ntonia and me to go with her, -and help get her cattle together; they were scattered and might be gorging -themselves in somebody's cornfield. - -"Maybe you lose a steer and learn not to make somethings with your eyes at -married men," Mrs. Shimerda told her hectoringly. - -Lena only smiled her sleepy smile. "I never made anything to him with my -eyes. I can't help it if he hangs around, and I can't order him off. It -ain't my prairie." - - - - -V - - -AFTER Lena came to Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be -matching sewing silk or buying "findings" for Mrs. Thomas. If I happened -to walk home with her, she told me all about the dresses she was helping -to make, or about what she saw and heard when she was with Tiny Soderball -at the hotel on Saturday nights. - -The Boys' Home was the best hotel on our branch of the Burlington, and all -the commercial travelers in that territory tried to get into Black Hawk -for Sunday. They used to assemble in the parlor after supper on Saturday -nights. Marshall Field's man, Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang -all the latest sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the -dishes, she and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the -parlor and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the -jokes and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man -when I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on -trains all day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the -hotel there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big -trunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk -merchants went to look at these things and order goods, and Mrs. Thomas, -though she was "retail trade," was permitted to see them and to "get -ideas." They were all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny -Soderball handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and -so many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed -some of them on Lena. - -One afternoon in the week before Christmas I came upon Lena and her funny, -square-headed little brother Chris, standing before the drug-store, gazing -in at the wax dolls and blocks and Noah's arks arranged in the frosty show -window. The boy had come to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas -shopping, for he had money of his own this year. He was only twelve, but -that winter he had got the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and -making the fire in it every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, -too! - -We went into Duckford's dry-goods store, and Chris unwrapped all his -presents and showed them to me--something for each of the six younger than -himself, even a rubber pig for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny -Soderball's bottles of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get -some handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n't much -money left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for view at -Duckford's. Chris wanted those with initial letters in the corner, because -he had never seen any before. He studied them seriously, while Lena looked -over his shoulder, telling him she thought the red letters would hold -their color best. He seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n't -enough money, after all. Presently he said gravely,-- - -"Sister, you know mother's name is Berthe. I don't know if I ought to get -B for Berthe, or M for Mother." - -Lena patted his bristly head. "I'd get the B, Chrissy. It will please her -for you to think about her name. Nobody ever calls her by it now." - -That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he took three reds and -three blues. When the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start, -Lena wound Chris's comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket -collar--he had no overcoat--and we watched him climb into the wagon and -start on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the windy street, -Lena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove. "I get awful -homesick for them, all the same," she murmured, as if she were answering -some remembered reproach. - - - - -VI - - -WINTER comes down savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind -that sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screens -that hide one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw -closer together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the green -tree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier than -when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs. - -In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against the wind, I -could n't see anything but the road in front of me; but in the late -afternoon, when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate to -me. The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify--it was like -the light of truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and -the red sun went down behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs -and the blue drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter -song, as if it said: "This is reality, whether you like it or not. All -those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of -green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was -underneath. This is the truth." It was as if we were being punished for -loving the loveliness of summer. - -If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-office -for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, it -would be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the -frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining -pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as I -passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of them was hurrying toward a -fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were like magnets. When one passed -an old man, one could see nothing of his face but a red nose sticking out -between a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young men capered along -with their hands in their pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icy -sidewalk. The children, in their bright hoods and comforters, never -walked, but always ran from the moment they left their door, beating their -mittens against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, I -was about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was when there happened -to be a light in the church, and the painted glass window shone out at us -as we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for -color came over people, like the Laplander's craving for fats and sugar. -Without knowing why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the church -when the lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting, -shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude -reds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there. - -On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings' windows drew me like the -painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was color, too. After -supper I used to catch up my cap, stick my hands in my pockets, and dive -through the willow hedge as if witches were after me. Of course, if Mr. -Harling was at home, if his shadow stood out on the blind of the west -room, I did not go in, but turned and walked home by the long way, through -the street, wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two -old people. - -Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted -charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlor, with Sally always -dressed like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that winter, and she said, -from the first lesson, that ntonia would make the best dancer among us. -On Saturday nights, Mrs. Harling used to play the old operas for -us,--"Martha," "Norma," "Rigoletto,"--telling us the story while she played. -Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, and -the dining-room were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs -and sofas, and gay pictures on the walls. One always felt at ease there. -ntonia brought her sewing and sat with us--she was already beginning to -make pretty clothes for herself. After the long winter evenings on the -prairie, with Ambrosch's sullen silences and her mother's complaints, the -Harlings' house seemed, as she said, "like Heaven" to her. She was never -too tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in -her ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchen -and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three meals -that day. - -While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffy -to cool, Nina used to coax ntonia to tell her stories--about the calf that -broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowning in the -freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Nina -interpreted the stories about the crche fancifully, and in spite of our -derision she cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a short -time before the Shimerdas left that country. We all liked Tony's stories. -Her voice had a peculiarly engaging quality; it was deep, a little husky, -and one always heard the breath vibrating behind it. Everything she said -seemed to come right out of her heart. - -One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy, Tony told -us a new story. - -"Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the Norwegian -settlement last summer, when I was thrashing there? We were at Iversons', -and I was driving one of the grain wagons." - -Mrs. Harling came out and sat down among us. "Could you throw the wheat -into the bin yourself, Tony?" She knew what heavy work it was. - -"Yes, mam, I did. I could shovel just as fast as that fat Andern boy that -drove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to -the field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the -horses and got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on the deck, -cutting bands. I was sitting against a straw stack, trying to get some -shade. My wagon was n't going out first, and somehow I felt the heat awful -that day. The sun was so hot like it was going to burn the world up. After -a while I see a man coming across the stubble, and when he got close I see -it was a tramp. His toes stuck out of his shoes, and he had n't shaved for -a long while, and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had some -sickness. He comes right up and begins to talk like he knows me already. -He says: 'The ponds in this country is done got so low a man could n't -drownd himself in one of 'em.' - -"I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we did n't have -rain soon we'd have to pump water for the cattle. - -"'Oh, cattle,' he says, 'you'll all take care of your cattle! Ain't you -got no beer here?' I told him he'd have to go to the Bohemians for beer; -the Norwegians did n't have none when they thrashed. 'My God!' he says, -'so it's Norwegians now, is it? I thought this was Americy.' - -"Then he goes up to the machine and yells out to Ole Iverson, 'Hello, -partner, let me up there. I can cut bands, and I'm tired of trampin'. I -won't go no farther.' - -"I tried to make signs to Ole, 'cause I thought that man was crazy and -might get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down out of -the sun and chaff--it gets down your neck and sticks to you something awful -when it's hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the -wagons for shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right -for a few minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his hand to me and -jumped head-first right into the thrashing machine after the wheat. - -"I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the horses, but the belt had -sucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped he was all beat and -cut to pieces. He was wedged in so tight it was a hard job to get him out, -and the machine ain't never worked right since." - -"Was he clear dead, Tony?" we cried. - -"Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There, now, Nina's all upset. We won't -talk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you while -Tony's here." - -Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. "Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always send you -upstairs when ntonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out -where he came from, ntonia?" - -"Never, mam. He had n't been seen nowhere except in a little town they -call Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there was n't any saloon. -Maybe he came in on a freight, but the brakeman had n't seen him. They -could n't find no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife -in his pocket and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of -paper, and some poetry." - -"Some poetry?" we exclaimed. - -"I remember," said Frances. "It was 'The Old Oaken Bucket,' cut out of a -newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and -showed it to me." - -"Now, was n't that strange, Miss Frances?" Tony asked thoughtfully. "What -would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In thrashing time, -too! It's nice everywhere then." - -"So it is, ntonia," said Mrs. Harling heartily. "Maybe I'll go home and -help you thrash next summer. Is n't that taffy nearly ready to eat? I've -been smelling it a long while." - -There was a basic harmony between ntonia and her mistress. They had -strong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, and -were not always trying to imitate other people. They loved children and -animals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked to -prepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft white -beds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people -and were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there -was a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but -very invigorating. I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly -conscious of it. I could not imagine ntonia's living for a week in any -other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings'. - - - - -VII - - -WINTER lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and -shabby, old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and -men's affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice. -But in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and -pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk. - -Through January and February I went to the river with the Harlings on -clear nights, and we skated up to the big island and made bonfires on the -frozen sand. But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on -the river bluffs was gray and mournful-looking. I was tired of school, -tired of winter clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and -the piles of cinders that had lain in the yards so long. There was only -one break in the dreary monotony of that month; when Blind d'Arnault, the -negro pianist, came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on -Monday night, and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our -comfortable hotel. Mrs. Harling had known d'Arnault for years. She told -ntonia she had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there -would certainly be music at the Boys' Home. - -Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the hotel and slipped -quietly into the parlor. The chairs and sofas were already occupied, and -the air smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The parlor had once been two -rooms, and the floor was sway-backed where the partition had been cut -away. The wind from without made waves in the long carpet. A coal stove -glowed at either end of the room, and the grand piano in the middle stood -open. - -There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the house that night, for -Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha for a week. Johnnie had been having drinks -with the guests until he was rather absent-minded. It was Mrs. Gardener -who ran the business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the -desk and welcomed incoming travelers. He was a popular fellow, but no -manager. - -Mrs. Gardener was admittedly the best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove -the best horse, and had a smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh. -She seemed indifferent to her possessions, was not half so solicitous -about them as her friends were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something -Indian-like in the rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and -she talked little. Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a -favor when they stayed at her house. Even the smartest traveling men were -flattered when Mrs. Gardener stopped to chat with them for a moment. The -patrons of the hotel were divided into two classes; those who had seen -Mrs. Gardener's diamonds, and those who had not. - -When I stole into the parlor Anson Kirkpatrick, Marshall Field's man, was -at the piano, playing airs from a musical comedy then running in Chicago. -He was a dapper little Irishman, very vain, homely as a monkey, with -friends everywhere, and a sweetheart in every port, like a sailor. I did -not know all the men who were sitting about, but I recognized a furniture -salesman from Kansas City, a drug man, and Willy O'Reilly, who traveled -for a jewelry house and sold musical instruments. The talk was all about -good and bad hotels, actors and actresses and musical prodigies. I learned -that Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear Booth and Barrett, who were -to play there next week, and that Mary Anderson was having a great success -in "A Winter's Tale," in London. - -The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener came in, directing -Blind d'Arnault,--he would never consent to be led. He was a heavy, bulky -mulatto, on short legs, and he came tapping the floor in front of him with -his gold-headed cane. His yellow face was lifted in the light, with a show -of white teeth, all grinning, and his shrunken, papery eyelids lay -motionless over his blind eyes. - -"Good evening, gentlemen. No ladies here? Good-evening, gentlemen. We -going to have a little music? Some of you gentlemen going to play for me -this evening?" It was the soft, amiable negro voice, like those I -remembered from early childhood, with the note of docile subservience in -it. He had the negro head, too; almost no head at all; nothing behind the -ears but folds of neck under close-clipped wool. He would have been -repulsive if his face had not been so kindly and happy. It was the -happiest face I had seen since I left Virginia. - -He felt his way directly to the piano. The moment he sat down, I noticed -the nervous infirmity of which Mrs. Harling had told me. When he was -sitting, or standing still, he swayed back and forth incessantly, like a -rocking toy. At the piano, he swayed in time to the music, and when he was -not playing, his body kept up this motion, like an empty mill grinding on. -He found the pedals and tried them, ran his yellow hands up and down the -keys a few times, tinkling off scales, then turned to the company. - -"She seems all right, gentlemen. Nothing happened to her since the last -time I was here. Mrs. Gardener, she always has this piano tuned up before -I come. Now, gentlemen, I expect you've all got grand voices. Seems like -we might have some good old plantation songs to-night." - -The men gathered round him, as he began to play "My Old Kentucky Home." -They sang one negro melody after another, while the mulatto sat rocking -himself, his head thrown back, his yellow face lifted, its shriveled -eyelids never fluttering. - -He was born in the Far South, on the d'Arnault plantation, where the -spirit if not the fact of slavery persisted. When he was three weeks old -he had an illness which left him totally blind. As soon as he was old -enough to sit up alone and toddle about, another affliction, the nervous -motion of his body, became apparent. His mother, a buxom young negro wench -who was laundress for the d'Arnaults, concluded that her blind baby was -"not right" in his head, and she was ashamed of him. She loved him -devotedly, but he was so ugly, with his sunken eyes and his "fidgets," -that she hid him away from people. All the dainties she brought down from -the "Big House" were for the blind child, and she beat and cuffed her -other children whenever she found them teasing him or trying to get his -chicken-bone away from him. He began to talk early, remembered everything -he heard, and his mammy said he "was n't all wrong." She named him Samson, -because he was blind, but on the plantation he was known as "yellow -Martha's simple child." He was docile and obedient, but when he was six -years old he began to run away from home, always taking the same -direction. He felt his way through the lilacs, along the boxwood hedge, up -to the south wing of the "Big House," where Miss Nellie d'Arnault -practiced the piano every morning. This angered his mother more than -anything else he could have done; she was so ashamed of his ugliness that -she could n't bear to have white folks see him. Whenever she caught him -slipping away from the cabin, she whipped him unmercifully, and told him -what dreadful things old Mr. d'Arnault would do to him if he ever found -him near the "Big House." But the next time Samson had a chance, he ran -away again. If Miss d'Arnault stopped practicing for a moment and went -toward the window, she saw this hideous little pickaninny, dressed in an -old piece of sacking, standing in the open space between the hollyhock -rows, his body rocking automatically, his blind face lifted to the sun and -wearing an expression of idiotic rapture. Often she was tempted to tell -Martha that the child must be kept at home, but somehow the memory of his -foolish, happy face deterred her. She remembered that his sense of hearing -was nearly all he had,--though it did not occur to her that he might have -more of it than other children. - -One day Samson was standing thus while Miss Nellie was playing her lesson -to her music-master. The windows were open. He heard them get up from the -piano, talk a little while, and then leave the room. He heard the door -close after them. He crept up to the front windows and stuck his head in: -there was no one there. He could always detect the presence of any one in -a room. He put one foot over the window sill and straddled it. His mother -had told him over and over how his master would give him to the big -mastiff if he ever found him "meddling." Samson had got too near the -mastiff's kennel once, and had felt his terrible breath in his face. He -thought about that, but he pulled in his other foot. - -Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to its mouth. He touched -it softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He shivered and stood still. -Then he began to feel it all over, ran his finger tips along the slippery -sides, embraced the carved legs, tried to get some conception of its shape -and size, of the space it occupied in primeval night. It was cold and -hard, and like nothing else in his black universe. He went back to its -mouth, began at one end of the keyboard and felt his way down into the -mellow thunder, as far as he could go. He seemed to know that it must be -done with the fingers, not with the fists or the feet. He approached this -highly artificial instrument through a mere instinct, and coupled himself -to it, as if he knew it was to piece him out and make a whole creature of -him. After he had tried over all the sounds, he began to finger out -passages from things Miss Nellie had been practicing, passages that were -already his, that lay under the bones of his pinched, conical little -skull, definite as animal desires. The door opened; Miss Nellie and her -music-master stood behind it, but blind Samson, who was so sensitive to -presences, did not know they were there. He was feeling out the pattern -that lay all ready-made on the big and little keys. When he paused for a -moment, because the sound was wrong and he wanted another, Miss Nellie -spoke softly. He whirled about in a spasm of terror, leaped forward in the -dark, struck his head on the open window, and fell screaming and bleeding -to the floor. He had what his mother called a fit. The doctor came and -gave him opium. - -When Samson was well again, his young mistress led him back to the piano. -Several teachers experimented with him. They found he had absolute pitch, -and a remarkable memory. As a very young child he could repeat, after a -fashion, any composition that was played for him. No matter how many wrong -notes he struck, he never lost the intention of a passage, he brought the -substance of it across by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his -teachers out. He could never learn like other people, never acquired any -finish. He was always a negro prodigy who played barbarously and -wonderfully. As piano playing, it was perhaps abominable, but as music it -was something real, vitalized by a sense of rhythm that was stronger than -his other physical senses,--that not only filled his dark mind, but worried -his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch him, was to see a negro -enjoying himself as only a negro can. It was as if all the agreeable -sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were heaped up on -those black and white keys, and he were gloating over them and trickling -them through his yellow fingers. - -In the middle of a crashing waltz d'Arnault suddenly began to play softly, -and, turning to one of the men who stood behind him, whispered, "Somebody -dancing in there." He jerked his bullet head toward the dining-room. "I -hear little feet,--girls, I 'spect." - -Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and peeped over the transom. Springing -down, he wrenched open the doors and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny -and Lena, ntonia and Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the -floor. They separated and fled toward the kitchen, giggling. - -Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows. "What's the matter with you girls? -Dancing out here by yourselves, when there's a roomful of lonesome men on -the other side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny." - -The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. Tiny looked alarmed. -"Mrs. Gardener would n't like it," she protested. "She'd be awful mad if -you was to come out here and dance with us." - -"Mrs. Gardener's in Omaha, girl. Now, you're Lena, are you?--and you're -Tony and you're Mary. Have I got you all straight?" - -O'Reilly and the others began to pile the chairs on the tables. Johnnie -Gardener ran in from the office. - -"Easy, boys, easy!" he entreated them. "You'll wake the cook, and there'll -be the devil to pay for me. She won't hear the music, but she'll be down -the minute anything's moved in the dining-room." - -"Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring -another. Come along, nobody'll tell tales." - -Johnnie shook his head. "'S a fact, boys," he said confidentially. "If I -take a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!" - -His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, we'll make it all -right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie." - -Molly was Mrs. Gardener's name, of course. "Molly Bawn" was painted in -large blue letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and "Molly" -was engraved inside Johnnie's ring and on his watch-case--doubtless on his -heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a -wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a -clerk in some other man's hotel. - -At a word from Kirkpatrick, d'Arnault spread himself out over the piano, -and began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone -on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening -African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the -dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out -softly, "Who's that goin' back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! -Now, you girls, you ain't goin' to let that floor get cold?" - -ntonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena -and Tiny over Willy O'Reilly's shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and -slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles--she wore her dresses -very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than -the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly -marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut -hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding -dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold -and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were -handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in -their eyes that brilliancy which is called,--by no metaphor, alas!--"the -light of youth." - -D'Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left -us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, -given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and -had heard d'Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way -upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with -ntonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a -long while at the Harlings' gate, whispering in the cold until the -restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. - - - - -VIII - - -THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented -and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We -were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break -the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up -vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear -Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke -into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds -were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek -with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer -every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can't stand still, not -even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether -they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. - -It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and ntonia were preserving -cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion -had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted -poles up from the depot. - -That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, -looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a -long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. -They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I -overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and -confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in -summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught -dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. - -The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot -surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a -merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. -Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their -children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o'clock one met little -girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the -time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni -received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great -deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore -her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral -combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow -teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the -harpist, taught the older ones. - -Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of -the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under -the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good -trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used -to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged -little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white -umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came -to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. -Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and -the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in -the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman's garden, -and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. - -The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour -suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the -harp struck up "Home, Sweet Home," all Black Hawk knew it was ten o'clock. -You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House -whistle. - -At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, -when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the -boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks--northward to the -edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the -post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place -where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh -aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed -to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple -trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted -sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni's harp came in silvery ripples -through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell -in--one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so -seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had -n't we had a tent before? - -Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer -before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the -exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times -any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, -the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands -who lived near enough to ride into town after their day's work was over. - -I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight -then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and -all the country girls were on the floor,--ntonia and Lena and Tiny, and -the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who -found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to -the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with -their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with "the hired -girls." - - - - -IX - - -THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt -the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town -to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle -out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family -to go to school. - -Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got -little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for -whom they made such sacrifices and who have had "advantages," never seem -to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The -older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from -life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, -like ntonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender -age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country -girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived -there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of -them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had -given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming -to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and -made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. - -That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk -more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court -in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the -daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly -and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in -summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never -moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing--not -to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, -gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like -cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put -there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. - -The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief -that they were "refined," and that the country girls, who "worked out," -were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as -their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with -little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had -borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the -Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters -go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they -sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get -positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the -language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from -debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after -they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they -had been when they ploughed and herded on their father's farm. Others, -like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth -they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and -sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping -to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. - -One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our -county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of -debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,--usually of like -nationality,--and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are -to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children -are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. - -I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. -If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard's grandfather was a clergyman, -and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it -matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n't speak English. -There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, -much less the personal distinction, of ntonia's father. Yet people saw no -difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all -"hired girls." - -I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into -their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant -can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to -the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian -girls are now the mistresses. - -The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and -living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat -upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young -fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his -father's bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the -window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in -her short skirt and striped stockings. - -The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their -beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious -mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. -The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk -youth. - -Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who -swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the -jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor -where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in -and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home -from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the -sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their -long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only -made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to -see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at -him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there -were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with -their white throats and their pink cheeks. - -The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which -the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the -drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from -Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire -from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the -place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The -three Marys were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about -the kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers -that they never had to look for a place. - -The Vannis' tent brought the town boys and the country girls together on -neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was cashier in his father's bank, -always found his way to the tent on Saturday night. He took all the dances -Lena Lingard would give him, and even grew bold enough to walk home with -her. If his sisters or their friends happened to be among the onlookers on -"popular nights," Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood -trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several times -I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry for him. He -reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the draw-side and watch Lena -herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when Lena went home for a week to -visit her mother, I heard from ntonia that young Lovett drove all the way -out there to see her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I -hoped that Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls -a better position in the town. - -Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make mistakes in his work; -had to stay at the bank until after dark to make his books balance. He was -daft about her, and every one knew it. To escape from his predicament he -ran away with a widow six years older than himself, who owned a -half-section. This remedy worked, apparently. He never looked at Lena -again, nor lifted his eyes as he ceremoniously tipped his hat when he -happened to meet her on the sidewalk. - -So that was what they were like, I thought, these white-handed, -high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at young Lovett from -a distance and only wished I had some way of showing my contempt for him. - - - - -X - - -IT was at the Vannis' tent that ntonia was discovered. Hitherto she had -been looked upon more as a ward of the Harlings than as one of the "hired -girls." She had lived in their house and yard and garden; her thoughts -never seemed to stray outside that little kingdom. But after the tent came -to town she began to go about with Tiny and Lena and their friends. The -Vannis often said that ntonia was the best dancer of them all. I -sometimes heard murmurs in the crowd outside the pavilion that Mrs. -Harling would soon have her hands full with that girl. The young men began -to joke with each other about "the Harlings' Tony" as they did about "the -Marshalls' Anna" or "the Gardeners' Tiny." - -ntonia talked and thought of nothing but the tent. She hummed the dance -tunes all day. When supper was late, she hurried with her dishes, dropped -and smashed them in her excitement. At the first call of the music, she -became irresponsible. If she had n't time to dress, she merely flung off -her apron and shot out of the kitchen door. Sometimes I went with her; the -moment the lighted tent came into view she would break into a run, like a -boy. There were always partners waiting for her; she began to dance before -she got her breath. - -ntonia's success at the tent had its consequences. The iceman lingered -too long now, when he came into the covered porch to fill the -refrigerator. The delivery boys hung about the kitchen when they brought -the groceries. Young farmers who were in town for Saturday came tramping -through the yard to the back door to engage dances, or to invite Tony to -parties and picnics. Lena and Norwegian Anna dropped in to help her with -her work, so that she could get away early. The boys who brought her home -after the dances sometimes laughed at the back gate and wakened Mr. -Harling from his first sleep. A crisis was inevitable. - -One Saturday night Mr. Harling had gone down to the cellar for beer. As he -came up the stairs in the dark, he heard scuffling on the back porch, and -then the sound of a vigorous slap. He looked out through the side door in -time to see a pair of long legs vaulting over the picket fence. ntonia -was standing there, angry and excited. Young Harry Paine, who was to marry -his employer's daughter on Monday, had come to the tent with a crowd of -friends and danced all evening. Afterward, he begged ntonia to let him -walk home with her. She said she supposed he was a nice young man, as he -was one of Miss Frances's friends, and she did n't mind. On the back porch -he tried to kiss her, and when she protested,--because he was going to be -married on Monday,--he caught her and kissed her until she got one hand -free and slapped him. - -Mr. Harling put his beer bottles down on the table. "This is what I've -been expecting, ntonia. You've been going with girls who have a -reputation for being free and easy, and now you've got the same -reputation. I won't have this and that fellow tramping about my back yard -all the time. This is the end of it, to-night. It stops, short. You can -quit going to these dances, or you can hunt another place. Think it over." - -The next morning when Mrs. Harling and Frances tried to reason with -ntonia, they found her agitated but determined. "Stop going to the tent?" -she panted. "I would n't think of it for a minute! My own father could n't -make me stop! Mr. Harling ain't my boss outside my work. I won't give up -my friends, either. The boys I go with are nice fellows. I thought Mr. -Paine was all right, too, because he used to come here. I guess I gave him -a red face for his wedding, all right!" she blazed out indignantly. - -"You'll have to do one thing or the other, ntonia," Mrs. Harling told her -decidedly. "I can't go back on what Mr. Harling has said. This is his -house." - -"Then I'll just leave, Mrs. Harling. Lena's been wanting me to get a place -closer to her for a long while. Mary Svoboda's going away from the -Cutters' to work at the hotel, and I can have her place." - -Mrs. Harling rose from her chair. "ntonia, if you go to the Cutters to -work, you cannot come back to this house again. You know what that man is. -It will be the ruin of you." - -Tony snatched up the tea-kettle and began to pour boiling water over the -glasses, laughing excitedly. "Oh, I can take care of myself! I'm a lot -stronger than Cutter is. They pay four dollars there, and there's no -children. The work's nothing; I can have every evening, and be out a lot -in the afternoons." - -"I thought you liked children. Tony, what's come over you?" - -"I don't know, something has." ntonia tossed her head and set her jaw. "A -girl like me has got to take her good times when she can. Maybe there -won't be any tent next year. I guess I want to have my fling, like the -other girls." - -Mrs. Harling gave a short, harsh laugh. "If you go to work for the -Cutters, you're likely to have a fling that you won't get up from in a -hurry." - -Frances said, when she told grandmother and me about this scene, that -every pan and plate and cup on the shelves trembled when her mother walked -out of the kitchen. Mrs. Harling declared bitterly that she wished she had -never let herself get fond of ntonia. - - - - -XI - - -WICK CUTTER was the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When -a farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling -or the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back. - -Cutter's first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious -bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, "for -sentiment's sake," as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a -town in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a -little Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early -Scandinavian settlers. - -In every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to escape -restraint. Cutter was one of the "fast set" of Black Hawk business men. He -was an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When we saw a light -burning in his office late at night, we knew that a game of poker was -going on. Cutter boasted that he never drank anything stronger than -sherry, and he said he got his start in life by saving the money that -other young men spent for cigars. He was full of moral maxims for boys. -When he came to our house on business, he quoted "Poor Richard's Almanack" -to me, and told me he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a -cow. He was particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he -would begin at once to talk about "the good old times" and simple living. -I detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow whiskers, always soft and -glistening. It was said he brushed them every night, as a woman does her -hair. His white teeth looked factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as -if from perpetual sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud -baths. He was notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had -lived in his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had -taken to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted -her. He still visited her. - -Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet, -apparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy, -scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a -fussy white fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about -horses, and usually had a colt which he was training for the track. On -Sunday mornings one could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around -the race-course in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a -black-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the -breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a -quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no -change and would "fix it up next time." No one could cut his lawn or wash -his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about his place that -a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead cat into his back -yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley. It was a peculiar -combination of old-maidishness and licentiousness that made Cutter seem so -despicable. - -He had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a -terrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with -iron-gray hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. -When she meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head -incessantly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and curved, -like a horse's; people said babies always cried if she smiled at them. Her -face had a kind of fascination for me; it was the very color and shape of -anger. There was a gleam of something akin to insanity in her full, -intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made calls in rustling, -steel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with bristling aigrettes. - -Mrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her washbowls and -pitchers, and her husband's shaving-mug, were covered with violets and -lilies. Once when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife's china to a -caller, he dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips -as if she were going to faint and said grandly: "Mr. Cutter, you have -broken all the Commandments--spare the finger-bowls!" - -They quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they went -to bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to the town -at large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful -husbands out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised -handwriting. Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in -the paper-rack, and triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from -which it had been cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether -he ought to put on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about -whether he had taken cold or not. - -The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief of -these was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband it was -plainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs. Cutter had -purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him and to -share his property with her "people," whom he detested. To this she would -reply that unless he changed his mode of life, she would certainly outlive -him. After listening to her insinuations about his physical soundness, -Cutter would resume his dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at -the hour when his wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out -to the track with his trotting-horse. - -Once when they had quarreled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put on -her brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for painted -china, saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her "to live by her brush." -Cutter was n't shamed as she had expected; he was delighted! - -Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried the -house. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped of the -"privacy" which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his -opportunity, surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters seemed -to find their relations to each other interesting and stimulating, and -certainly the rest of us found them so. Wick Cutter was different from any -other rascal I have ever known, but I have found Mrs. Cutters all over the -world; sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly -fed--easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed. - - - - -XII - - -AFTER ntonia went to live with the Cutters, she seemed to care about -nothing but picnics and parties and having a good time. When she was not -going to a dance, she sewed until midnight. Her new clothes were the -subject of caustic comment. Under Lena's direction she copied Mrs. -Gardener's new party dress and Mrs. Smith's street costume so ingeniously -in cheap materials that those ladies were greatly annoyed, and Mrs. -Cutter, who was jealous of them, was secretly pleased. - -Tony wore gloves now, and high-heeled shoes and feathered bonnets, and she -went downtown nearly every afternoon with Tiny and Lena and the Marshalls' -Norwegian Anna. We High-School boys used to linger on the playground at -the afternoon recess to watch them as they came tripping down the hill -along the board sidewalk, two and two. They were growing prettier every -day, but as they passed us, I used to think with pride that ntonia, like -Snow-White in the fairy tale, was still "fairest of them all." - -Being a Senior now, I got away from school early. Sometimes I overtook the -girls downtown and coaxed them into the ice-cream parlor, where they would -sit chattering and laughing, telling me all the news from the country. I -remember how angry Tiny Soderball made me one afternoon. She declared she -had heard grandmother was going to make a Baptist preacher of me. "I guess -you'll have to stop dancing and wear a white necktie then. Won't he look -funny, girls?" - -Lena laughed. "You'll have to hurry up, Jim. If you're going to be a -preacher, I want you to marry me. You must promise to marry us all, and -then baptize the babies." - -Norwegian Anna, always dignified, looked at her reprovingly. - -"Baptists don't believe in christening babies, do they, Jim?" - -I told her I did n't know what they believed, and did n't care, and that I -certainly was n't going to be a preacher. - -"That's too bad," Tiny simpered. She was in a teasing mood. "You'd make -such a good one. You're so studious. Maybe you'd like to be a professor. -You used to teach Tony, did n't you?" - -ntonia broke in. "I've set my heart on Jim being a doctor. You'd be good -with sick people, Jim. Your grandmother's trained you up so nice. My papa -always said you were an awful smart boy." - -I said I was going to be whatever I pleased. "Won't you be surprised, Miss -Tiny, if I turn out to be a regular devil of a fellow?" - -They laughed until a glance from Norwegian Anna checked them; the -High-School Principal had just come into the front part of the shop to buy -bread for supper. Anna knew the whisper was going about that I was a sly -one. People said there must be something queer about a boy who showed no -interest in girls of his own age, but who could be lively enough when he -was with Tony and Lena or the three Marys. - - - -The enthusiasm for the dance, which the Vannis had kindled, did not at -once die out. After the tent left town, the Euchre Club became the Owl -Club, and gave dances in the Masonic Hall once a week. I was invited to -join, but declined. I was moody and restless that winter, and tired of the -people I saw every day. Charley Harling was already at Annapolis, while I -was still sitting in Black Hawk, answering to my name at roll-call every -morning, rising from my desk at the sound of a bell and marching out like -the grammar-school children. Mrs. Harling was a little cool toward me, -because I continued to champion ntonia. What was there for me to do after -supper? Usually I had learned next day's lessons by the time I left the -school building, and I could n't sit still and read forever. - -In the evening I used to prowl about, hunting for diversion. There lay the -familiar streets, frozen with snow or liquid with mud. They led to the -houses of good people who were putting the babies to bed, or simply -sitting still before the parlor stove, digesting their supper. Black Hawk -had two saloons. One of them was admitted, even by the church people, to -be as respectable as a saloon could be. Handsome Anton Jelinek, who had -rented his homestead and come to town, was the proprietor. In his saloon -there were long tables where the Bohemian and German farmers could eat the -lunches they brought from home while they drank their beer. Jelinek kept -rye bread on hand, and smoked fish and strong imported cheeses to please -the foreign palate. I liked to drop into his bar-room and listen to the -talk. But one day he overtook me on the street and clapped me on the -shoulder. - -"Jim," he said, "I am good friends with you and I always like to see you. -But you know how the church people think about saloons. Your grandpa has -always treated me fine, and I don't like to have you come into my place, -because I know he don't like it, and it puts me in bad with him." - -So I was shut out of that. - -One could hang about the drug-store, and listen to the old men who sat -there every evening, talking politics and telling raw stories. One could -go to the cigar factory and chat with the old German who raised canaries -for sale, and look at his stuffed birds. But whatever you began with him, -the talk went back to taxidermy. There was the depot, of course; I often -went down to see the night train come in, and afterward sat awhile with -the disconsolate telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to -Omaha or Denver, "where there was some life." He was sure to bring out his -pictures of actresses and dancers. He got them with cigarette coupons, and -nearly smoked himself to death to possess these desired forms and faces. -For a change, one could talk to the station agent; but he was another -malcontent; spent all his spare time writing letters to officials -requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming where he could go -trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say "there was nothing in life for -him but trout streams, ever since he'd lost his twins." - -These were the distractions I had to choose from. There were no other -lights burning downtown after nine o'clock. On starlight nights I used to -pace up and down those long, cold streets, scowling at the little, -sleeping houses on either side, with their storm-windows and covered back -porches. They were flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of light -wood, with spindle porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. -Yet for all their frailness, how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness -some of them managed to contain! The life that went on in them seemed to -me made up of evasions and negations; shifts to save cooking, to save -washing and cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of gossip. This -guarded mode of existence was like living under a tyranny. People's -speech, their voices, their very glances, became furtive and repressed. -Every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. -The people asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice -in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over -the surface of things in the dark. The growing piles of ashes and cinders -in the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful, consuming -process of life went on at all. On Tuesday nights the Owl Club danced; -then there was a little stir in the streets, and here and there one could -see a lighted window until midnight. But the next night all was dark -again. - -After I refused to join "the Owls," as they were called, I made a bold -resolve to go to the Saturday night dances at Firemen's Hall. I knew it -would be useless to acquaint my elders with any such plan. Grandfather did -n't approve of dancing anyway; he would only say that if I wanted to dance -I could go to the Masonic Hall, among "the people we knew." It was just my -point that I saw altogether too much of the people we knew. - -My bedroom was on the ground floor, and as I studied there, I had a stove -in it. I used to retire to my room early on Saturday night, change my -shirt and collar and put on my Sunday coat. I waited until all was quiet -and the old people were asleep, then raised my window, climbed out, and -went softly through the yard. The first time I deceived my grandparents I -felt rather shabby, perhaps even the second time, but I soon ceased to -think about it. - -The dance at the Firemen's Hall was the one thing I looked forward to all -the week. There I met the same people I used to see at the Vannis' tent. -Sometimes there were Bohemians from Wilber, or German boys who came down -on the afternoon freight from Bismarck. Tony and Lena and Tiny were always -there, and the three Bohemian Marys, and the Danish laundry girls. - -The four Danish girls lived with the laundryman and his wife in their -house behind the laundry, with a big garden where the clothes were hung -out to dry. The laundryman was a kind, wise old fellow, who paid his girls -well, looked out for them, and gave them a good home. He told me once that -his own daughter died just as she was getting old enough to help her -mother, and that he had been "trying to make up for it ever since." On -summer afternoons he used to sit for hours on the sidewalk in front of his -laundry, his newspaper lying on his knee, watching his girls through the -big open window while they ironed and talked in Danish. The clouds of -white dust that blew up the street, the gusts of hot wind that withered -his vegetable garden, never disturbed his calm. His droll expression -seemed to say that he had found the secret of contentment. Morning and -evening he drove about in his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed -clothes, and collecting bags of linen that cried out for his suds and -sunny drying-lines. His girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they -did standing by the ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine -pieces, their white arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the -brightest wild roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and -curling in little damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much -English, and were not so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were kind, -simple girls and they were always happy. When one danced with them, one -smelled their clean, freshly ironed clothes that had been put away with -rosemary leaves from Mr. Jensen's garden. - -There were never girls enough to go round at those dances, but every one -wanted a turn with Tony and Lena. Lena moved without exertion, rather -indolently, and her hand often accented the rhythm softly on her partner's -shoulder. She smiled if one spoke to her, but seldom answered. The music -seemed to put her into a soft, waking dream, and her violet-colored eyes -looked sleepily and confidingly at one from under her long lashes. When -she sighed she exhaled a heavy perfume of sachet powder. To dance "Home, -Sweet Home," with Lena was like coming in with the tide. She danced every -dance like a waltz, and it was always the same waltz--the waltz of coming -home to something, of inevitable, fated return. After a while one got -restless under it, as one does under the heat of a soft, sultry summer -day. - -When you spun out into the floor with Tony, you did n't return to -anything. You set out every time upon a new adventure. I liked to -schottische with her; she had so much spring and variety, and was always -putting in new steps and slides. She taught me to dance against and around -the hard-and-fast beat of the music. If, instead of going to the end of -the railroad, old Mr. Shimerda had stayed in New York and picked up a -living with his fiddle, how different ntonia's life might have been! - -ntonia often went to the dances with Larry Donovan, a passenger conductor -who was a kind of professional ladies' man, as we said. I remember how -admiringly all the boys looked at her the night she first wore her -velveteen dress, made like Mrs. Gardener's black velvet. She was lovely to -see, with her eyes shining, and her lips always a little parted when she -danced. That constant, dark color in her cheeks never changed. - -One evening when Donovan was out on his run, ntonia came to the hall with -Norwegian Anna and her young man, and that night I took her home. When we -were in the Cutter's yard, sheltered by the evergreens, I told her she -must kiss me good-night. - -"Why, sure, Jim." A moment later she drew her face away and whispered -indignantly, "Why, Jim! You know you ain't right to kiss me like that. -I'll tell your grandmother on you!" - -"Lena Lingard lets me kiss her," I retorted, "and I'm not half as fond of -her as I am of you." - -"Lena does?" Tony gasped. "If she's up to any of her nonsense with you, -I'll scratch her eyes out!" She took my arm again and we walked out of the -gate and up and down the sidewalk. "Now, don't you go and be a fool like -some of these town boys. You're not going to sit around here and whittle -store-boxes and tell stories all your life. You are going away to school -and make something of yourself. I'm just awful proud of you. You won't go -and get mixed up with the Swedes, will you?" - -"I don't care anything about any of them but you," I said. "And you'll -always treat me like a kid, I suppose." - -She laughed and threw her arms around me. "I expect I will, but you're a -kid I'm awful fond of, anyhow! You can like me all you want to, but if I -see you hanging round with Lena much, I'll go to your grandmother, as sure -as your name's Jim Burden! Lena's all right, only--well, you know yourself -she's soft that way. She can't help it. It's natural to her." - -If she was proud of me, I was so proud of her that I carried my head high -as I emerged from the dark cedars and shut the Cutters' gate softly behind -me. Her warm, sweet face, her kind arms, and the true heart in her; she -was, oh, she was still my ntonia! I looked with contempt at the dark, -silent little houses about me as I walked home, and thought of the stupid -young men who were asleep in some of them. I knew where the real women -were, though I was only a boy; and I would not be afraid of them, either! - -I hated to enter the still house when I went home from the dances, and it -was long before I could get to sleep. Toward morning I used to have -pleasant dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out in the country, sliding -down straw-stacks as we used to do; climbing up the yellow mountains over -and over, and slipping down the smooth sides into soft piles of chaff. - -One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was always the same. I was -in a harvest-field full of shocks, and I was lying against one of them. -Lena Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a -curved reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a -kind of luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to -me with a soft sigh and said, "Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you -as much as I like." - -I used to wish I could have this flattering dream about ntonia, but I -never did. - - - - -XIII - - -I NOTICED one afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed -to drag as she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I -was studying and went to her, asking if she did n't feel well, and if I -could n't help her with her work. - -"No, thank you, Jim. I'm troubled, but I guess I'm well enough. Getting a -little rusty in the bones, maybe," she added bitterly. - -I stood hesitating. "What are you fretting about, grandmother? Has -grandfather lost any money?" - -"No, it ain't money. I wish it was. But I've heard things. You must 'a' -known it would come back to me sometime." She dropped into a chair, and -covering her face with her apron, began to cry. "Jim," she said, "I was -never one that claimed old folks could bring up their grandchildren. But -it came about so; there was n't any other way for you, it seemed like." - -I put my arms around her. I could n't bear to see her cry. - -"What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen's dances?" - -She nodded. - -"I'm sorry I sneaked off like that. But there's nothing wrong about the -dances, and I have n't done anything wrong. I like all those country -girls, and I like to dance with them. That's all there is to it." - -"But it ain't right to deceive us, son, and it brings blame on us. People -say you are growing up to be a bad boy, and that ain't just to us." - -"I don't care what they say about me, but if it hurts you, that settles -it. I won't go to the Firemen's Hall again." - -I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring months dull enough. I -sat at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin that -was not in our High-School course. I had made up my mind to do a lot of -college requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman class at -the University without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get away as -soon as possible. - -Disapprobation hurt me, I found,--even that of people whom I did not -admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell back -on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for companionship. -I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a May-basket for Nina -Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from an old German woman who -always had more window plants than any one else, and spent an afternoon -trimming a little work-basket. When dusk came on, and the new moon hung in -the sky, I went quietly to the Harlings' front door with my offering, rang -the bell, and then ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I -could hear Nina's cries of delight, and I felt comforted. - -On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered downtown to walk home -with Frances, and talked to her about my plans and about the reading I was -doing. One evening she said she thought Mrs. Harling was not seriously -offended with me. - -"Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I guess. But you know she -was hurt about ntonia, and she can't understand why you like to be with -Tiny and Lena better than with the girls of your own set." - -"Can you?" I asked bluntly. - -Frances laughed. "Yes, I think I can. You knew them in the country, and -you like to take sides. In some ways you're older than boys of your age. -It will be all right with mama after you pass your college examinations -and she sees you're in earnest." - -"If you were a boy," I persisted, "you would n't belong to the Owl Club, -either. You'd be just like me." - -She shook her head. "I would and I would n't. I expect I know the country -girls better than you do. You always put a kind of glamour over them. The -trouble with you, Jim, is that you're romantic. Mama's going to your -Commencement. She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to -be about. She wants you to do well." - -I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervor a great many things -I had lately discovered. Mrs. Harling came to the Opera House to hear the -Commencement exercises, and I looked at her most of the time while I made -my speech. Her keen, intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she -came back to the dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our -hands, walked up to me, and said heartily: "You surprised me, Jim. I did -n't believe you could do as well as that. You did n't get that speech out -of books." Among my graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from -Mrs. Harling, with my name on the handle. - -I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed the Methodist -Church, I saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up and down under -the arching maple trees, where the moonlight filtered through the lush -June foliage. They hurried toward me; they were waiting for me--Lena and -Tony and Anna Hansen. - -"Oh, Jim, it was splendid!" Tony was breathing hard, as she always did -when her feelings outran her language. "There ain't a lawyer in Black Hawk -could make a speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to -him. He won't tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself, did -n't he, girls?" - -Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly: "What made you so solemn? I -thought you were scared. I was sure you'd forget." - -Anna spoke wistfully. "It must make you happy, Jim, to have fine thoughts -like that in your mind all the time, and to have words to put them in. I -always wanted to go to school, you know." - -"Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could hear you! Jim,"--ntonia -took hold of my coat lapels,--"there was something in your speech that made -me think so about my papa!" - -"I thought about your papa when I wrote my speech, Tony," I said. "I -dedicated it to him." - -She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was all wet with tears. - -I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller and smaller down the -sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other success that pulled at my -heartstrings like that one. - - - - -XIV - - -THE day after Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty -room where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I -worked off a year's trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil alone. -Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny little room, -looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of the blond pastures -between, scanning the neid aloud and committing long passages to memory. -Sometimes in the evening Mrs. Harling called to me as I passed her gate, -and asked me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for -Charley, she said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents -had misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off -to college alone, Mrs. Harling took up my cause vigorously. Grandfather -had such respect for her judgment that I knew he would not go against her. - -I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I met ntonia downtown -on Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going -to the river next day with Anna Hansen--the elder was all in bloom now, and -Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine. - -"Anna's to drive us down in the Marshalls' delivery wagon, and we'll take -a nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n't you happen -along, Jim? It would be like old times." - -I considered a moment. "Maybe I can, if I won't be in the way." - -On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black Hawk while the dew was -still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summer -flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and the -cone-flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, in -the long grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in -that part of the State. I left the road and went around through a stretch -of pasture that was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia -came up year after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety -red that is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except -for the larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me -and to come very close. - -The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of us -had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the wooded -shore to a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, all -overgrown with wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girls -would not be along yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I would -be homesick for that river after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean -white beaches and their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, -were a sort of No Man's Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to -the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these woods, -fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the river shores -and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow. - -After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heard -the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream and -shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. They -stopped the horse, and the two girls in the bottom of the cart stood up, -steadying themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they -could see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the -cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of the -thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving to -them. - -"How pretty you look!" I called. - -"So do you!" they shouted altogether, and broke into peals of laughter. -Anna Hansen shook the reins and they drove on, while I zigzagged back to -my inlet and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the -sun, and dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the -sunlight flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and the -woodpecker hammered away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the -water. As I went along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off -little pieces of scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking -them up in my hands. - -When I came upon the Marshalls' delivery horse, tied in the shade, the -girls had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road which -wound through the sand and scrub. I could hear them calling to each other. -The elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the -bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their roots -were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms were -unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer. - -I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to a -slope that fell away abruptly to the water's edge. A great chunk of the -shore had been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was masked -by elder bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did not -touch them. I was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warm -silence about me. There was no sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild -bees and the sunny gurgle of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge -of the bank to see the little stream that made the noise; it flowed along -perfectly clear over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main -current by a long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I -saw ntonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked up when -she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. I slid down -into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the matter. - -"It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this smell," she said softly. -"We have this flower very much at home, in the old country. It always grew -in our yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. In -summer, when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that -played the trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hear -them talk--beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country." - -"What did they talk about?" I asked her. - -She sighed and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know! About music, and the -woods, and about God, and when they were young." She turned to me suddenly -and looked into my eyes. "You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father's spirit -can go back to those old places?" - -I told her about the feeling of her father's presence I had on that winter -day when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was left -alone in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back to -his own country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I always -thought of him as being among the woods and fields that were so dear to -him. - -ntonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love and -credulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces. "Why did n't you -ever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him." After a -while she said: "You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He -did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with him -because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper about it. -They said he could have paid my mother money, and not married her. But he -was older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. He -lived in his mother's house, and she was a poor girl come in to do the -work. After my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother come -into her house again. When I went to my grandmother's funeral was the only -time I was ever in my grandmother's house. Don't that seem strange?" - -While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and looked up at the blue sky -between the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming and -singing, but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not come -down into the shadow of the leaves. ntonia seemed to me that day exactly -like the little girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda. - -"Some day, Tony, I am going over to your country, and I am going to the -little town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?" - -"Jim," she said earnestly, "if I was put down there in the middle of the -night, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the river -to the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all the -little paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip -you. I ain't never forgot my own country." - -There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peered -down over the edge of the bank. - -"You lazy things!" she cried. "All this elder, and you two lying there! -Did n't you hear us calling you?" Almost as flushed as she had been in my -dream, she leaned over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our -flowery pagoda. I had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with -zeal, and the perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper -lip. I sprang to my feet and ran up the bank. - -It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and scrub-oaks began to turn -up the silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the foliage looked soft -and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk -bluffs, where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. The -flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Below -us we could see the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped among -its trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it met -the sky. We could recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the -girls pointed out to me the direction in which her father's farm lay, and -told me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn. - -"My old folks," said Tiny Soderball, "have put in twenty acres of rye. -They get it ground at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my -mother ain't been so homesick, ever since father's raised rye flour for -her." - -"It must have been a trial for our mothers," said Lena, "coming out here -and having to do everything different. My mother had always lived in town. -She says she started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up." - -"Yes, a new country's hard on the old ones, sometimes," said Anna -thoughtfully. "My grandmother's getting feeble now, and her mind wanders. -She's forgot about this country, and thinks she's at home in Norway. She -keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside and the fish market. -She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home I take her canned salmon -and mackerel." - -"Mercy, it's hot!" Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, resting -after the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled -slippers she had been silly enough to wear. "Come here, Jim. You never got -the sand out of your hair." She began to draw her fingers slowly through -my hair. - -ntonia pushed her away. "You'll never get it out like that," she said -sharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off with -something like a box on the ear. "Lena, you ought n't to try to wear those -slippers any more. They're too small for your feet. You'd better give them -to me for Yulka." - -"All right," said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings under -her skirt. "You get all Yulka's things, don't you? I wish father did n't -have such bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more things -for my sisters. I'm going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky -plough's never paid for!" - -Tiny asked her why she did n't wait until after Christmas, when coats -would be cheaper. "What do you think of poor me?" she added; "with six at -home, younger than I am? And they all think I'm rich, because when I go -back to the country I'm dressed so fine!" She shrugged her shoulders. -"But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them playthings -better than what they need." - -"I know how that is," said Anna. "When we first came here, and I was -little, we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll -somebody gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I -still hate him for it." - -"I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, like -me!" Lena remarked cynically. - -"Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. I -was fond of them all. The youngest one, that we did n't any of us want, is -the one we love best now." - -Lena sighed. "Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don't come in -winter. Ours nearly always did. I don't see how mother stood it. I tell -you what girls," she sat up with sudden energy; "I'm going to get my -mother out of that old sod house where she's lived so many years. The men -will never do it. Johnnie, that's my oldest brother, he's wanting to get -married now, and build a house for his girl instead of his mother. Mrs. -Thomas says she thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go -into business for myself. If I don't get into business, I'll maybe marry a -rich gambler." - -"That would be a poor way to get on," said Anna sarcastically. "I wish I -could teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She'll be the first -Scandinavian girl to get a position in the High School. We ought to be -proud of her." - -Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy things -like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration. - -Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. "If I was -smart like her, I'd be at my books day and night. But she was born -smart--and look how her father's trained her! He was something high up in -the old country." - -"So was my mother's father," murmured Lena, "but that's all the good it -does us! My father's father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a -Lapp. I guess that's what's the matter with me; they say Lapp blood will -out." - -"A real Lapp, Lena?" I exclaimed. "The kind that wear skins?" - -"I don't know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapp all right, and his -folks felt dreadful about it. He was sent up north on some Government job -he had, and fell in with her. He would marry her." - -"But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, like -Chinese?" I objected. - -"I don't know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lapp -girls, though; mother says the Norwegians up north are always afraid their -boys will run after them." - -In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively game -of "Pussy Wants a Corner," on the flat bluff-top, with the little trees -for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she would n't -play any more. We threw ourselves down on the grass, out of breath. - -"Jim," ntonia said dreamily, "I want you to tell the girls about how the -Spanish first came here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. -I've tried to tell them, but I leave out so much." - -They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the trunk and the other -girls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I was -able to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven Golden -Cities. At school we were taught that he had not got so far north as -Nebraska, but had given up his quest and turned back somewhere in Kansas. -But Charley Harling and I had a strong belief that he had been along this -very river. A farmer in the county north of ours, when he was breaking -sod, had turned up a metal stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a -Spanish inscription on the blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, who -brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were on -exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, had -found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an abbreviation that -stood for the city of Cordova. - -"And that I saw with my own eyes," ntonia put in triumphantly. "So Jim -and Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!" - -The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come so -far? What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado never -gone back to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I could -n't tell them. I only knew the school books said he "died in the -wilderness, of a broken heart." - -"More than him has done that," said ntonia sadly, and the girls murmured -assent. - -We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly -grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. -There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the -sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow -thickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to -stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off -in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each -other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads. - -Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going -down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disc -rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure -suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining -our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland -farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking -just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it -stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the -disc; the handles, the tongue, the share--black against the molten red. -There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. - -Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped -and dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us -were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk -back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie. - - - - -XV - - -LATE in August the Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving ntonia -in charge of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick -Cutter could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him. - -The day after the Cutters left, ntonia came over to see us. Grandmother -noticed that she seemed troubled and distracted. "You've got something on -your mind, ntonia," she said anxiously. - -"Yes, Mrs. Burden. I could n't sleep much last night." She hesitated, and -then told us how strangely Mr. Cutter had behaved before he went away. He -put all the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed, and with it a -box of papers which he told her were valuable. He made her promise that -she would not sleep away from the house, or be out late in the evening, -while he was gone. He strictly forbade her to ask any of the girls she -knew to stay with her at night. She would be perfectly safe, he said, as -he had just put a new Yale lock on the front door. - -Cutter had been so insistent in regard to these details that now she felt -uncomfortable about staying there alone. She had n't liked the way he kept -coming into the kitchen to instruct her, or the way he looked at her. "I -feel as if he is up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to -scare me, somehow." - -Grandmother was apprehensive at once. "I don't think it's right for you to -stay there, feeling that way. I suppose it would n't be right for you to -leave the place alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be -willing to go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I'd -feel safer, knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take -care of their silver and old usury notes as well as you could." - -ntonia turned to me eagerly. "Oh, would you, Jim? I'd make up my bed nice -and fresh for you. It's a real cool room, and the bed's right next the -window. I was afraid to leave the window open last night." - -I liked my own room, and I did n't like the Cutters' house under any -circumstances; but Tony looked so troubled that I consented to try this -arrangement. I found that I slept there as well as anywhere, and when I -got home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After -prayers she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times in -the country. - -The third night I spent at the Cutters', I awoke suddenly with the -impression that I had heard a door open and shut. Everything was still, -however, and I must have gone to sleep again immediately. - -The next thing I knew, I felt some one sit down on the edge of the bed. I -was only half awake, but I decided that he might take the Cutters' silver, -whoever he was. Perhaps if I did not move, he would find it and get out -without troubling me. I held my breath and lay absolutely still. A hand -closed softly on my shoulder, and at the same moment I felt something -hairy and cologne-scented brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been -flooded with electric light, I could n't have seen more clearly the -detestable bearded countenance that I knew was bending over me. I caught a -handful of whiskers and pulled, shouting something. The hand that held my -shoulder was instantly at my throat. The man became insane; he stood over -me, choking me with one fist and beating me in the face with the other, -hissing and chuckling and letting out a flood of abuse. - -"So this is what she's up to when I'm away, is it? Where is she, you nasty -whelp, where is she? Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks! -Wait till I get at you! I'll fix this rat you've got in here. He's caught, -all right!" - -So long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no chance for me at all. -I got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until he let go with a yell. In -a bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent him sprawling to the floor. -Then I made a dive for the open window, struck the wire screen, knocked it -out, and tumbled after it into the yard. - -Suddenly I found myself running across the north end of Black Hawk in my -nightshirt, just as one sometimes finds one's self behaving in bad dreams. -When I got home I climbed in at the kitchen window. I was covered with -blood from my nose and lip, but I was too sick to do anything about it. I -found a shawl and an overcoat on the hatrack, lay down on the parlor sofa, -and in spite of my hurts, went to sleep. - -Grandmother found me there in the morning. Her cry of fright awakened me. -Truly, I was a battered object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a -glimpse of myself in the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a -snout. My nose looked like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut -and hideously discolored. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at -once, but I implored her, as I had never begged for anything before, not -to send for him. I could stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw -me or knew what had happened to me. I entreated her not to let -grandfather, even, come into my room. She seemed to understand, though I -was too faint and miserable to go into explanations. When she took off my -nightshirt, she found such bruises on my chest and shoulders that she -began to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing and poulticing me, and -rubbing me with arnica. I heard ntonia sobbing outside my door, but I -asked grandmother to send her away. I felt that I never wanted to see her -again. I hated her almost as much as I hated Cutter. She had let me in for -all this disgustingness. Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought to -be that I had been there instead of ntonia. But I lay with my disfigured -face to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one concern was that -grandmother should keep every one away from me. If the story once got -abroad, I would never hear the last of it. I could well imagine what the -old men down at the drug-store would do with such a theme. - -While grandmother was trying to make me comfortable, grandfather went to -the depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come home on the night express -from the east, and had left again on the six o'clock train for Denver that -morning. The agent said his face was striped with court-plaster, and he -carried his left hand in a sling. He looked so used up, that the agent -asked him what had happened to him since ten o'clock the night before; -whereat Cutter began to swear at him and said he would have him discharged -for incivility. - -That afternoon, while I was asleep, ntonia took grandmother with her, and -went over to the Cutters' to pack her trunk. They found the place locked -up, and they had to break the window to get into ntonia's bedroom. There -everything was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her -closet, thrown into the middle of the room, and trampled and torn. My own -garments had been treated so badly that I never saw them again; -grandmother burned them in the Cutters' kitchen range. - -While ntonia was packing her trunk and putting her room in order, to -leave it, the front-door bell rang violently. There stood Mrs. -Cutter,--locked out, for she had no key to the new lock--her head trembling -with rage. "I advised her to control herself, or she would have a stroke," -grandmother said afterwards. - -Grandmother would not let her see ntonia at all, but made her sit down in -the parlor while she related to her just what had occurred the night -before. ntonia was frightened, and was going home to stay for a while, -she told Mrs. Cutter; it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she -knew nothing of what had happened. - -Then Mrs. Cutter told her story. She and her husband had started home from -Omaha together the morning before. They had to stop over several hours at -Waymore Junction to catch the Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter -left her at the depot and went to the Waymore bank to attend to some -business. When he returned, he told her that he would have to stay -overnight there, but she could go on home. He bought her ticket and put -her on the train. She saw him slip a twenty-dollar bill into her handbag -with her ticket. That bill, she said, should have aroused her suspicions -at once--but did not. - -The trains are never called at little junction towns; everybody knows when -they come in. Mr. Cutter showed his wife's ticket to the conductor, and -settled her in her seat before the train moved off. It was not until -nearly nightfall that she discovered she was on the express bound for -Kansas City, that her ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter -must have planned it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was -due at Waymore twelve minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at -once that her husband had played this trick in order to get back to Black -Hawk without her. She had no choice but to go on to Kansas City and take -the first fast train for home. - -Cutter could have got home a day earlier than his wife by any one of a -dozen simpler devices; he could have left her in the Omaha hotel, and said -he was going on to Chicago for a few days. But apparently it was part of -his fun to outrage her feelings as much as possible. - -"Mr. Cutter will pay for this, Mrs. Burden. He will pay!" Mrs. Cutter -avouched, nodding her horselike head and rolling her eyes. - -Grandmother said she had n't a doubt of it. - -Certainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a devil. In some way he -depended upon the excitement he could arouse in her hysterical nature. -Perhaps he got the feeling of being a rake more from his wife's rage and -amazement than from any experiences of his own. His zest in debauchery -might wane, but never Mrs. Cutter's belief in it. The reckoning with his -wife at the end of an escapade was something he counted on--like the last -powerful liqueur after a long dinner. The one excitement he really could -n't do without was quarreling with Mrs. Cutter! - - - - - -BOOK III--LENA LINGARD - - - - -I - - -AT the University I had the good fortune to come immediately under the -influence of a brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had -arrived in Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as -head of the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his -physicians, his health having been enfeebled by a long illness in Italy. -When I took my entrance examinations he was my examiner, and my course was -arranged under his supervision. - -I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but stayed in Lincoln, -working off a year's Greek, which had been my only condition on entering -the Freshman class. Cleric's doctor advised against his going back to New -England, and except for a few weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln -all that summer. We played tennis, read, and took long walks together. I -shall always look back on that time of mental awakening as one of the -happiest in my life. Gaston Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas; -when one first enters that world everything else fades for a time, and all -that went before is as if it had not been. Yet I found curious survivals; -some of the figures of my old life seemed to be waiting for me in the new. - -In those days there were many serious young men among the students who had -come up to the University from the farms and the little towns scattered -over the thinly settled State. Some of those boys came straight from the -cornfields with only a summer's wages in their pockets, hung on through -the four years, shabby and underfed, and completed the course by really -heroic self-sacrifice. Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering -pioneer school-teachers, stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few -enthusiastic young men just out of graduate schools. There was an -atmosphere of endeavor, of expectancy and bright hopefulness about the -young college that had lifted its head from the prairie only a few years -before. - -Our personal life was as free as that of our instructors. There were no -college dormitories; we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms -with an old couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their -children and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near -the open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and -on that account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom, -originally a linen closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to -contain my cot bed, but it enabled me to call the other room my study. The -dresser, and the great walnut wardrobe which held all my clothes, even my -hats and shoes, I had pushed out of the way, and I considered them -non-existent, as children eliminate incongruous objects when they are -playing house. I worked at a commodious green-topped table placed directly -in front of the west window which looked out over the prairie. In the -corner at my right were all my books, in shelves I had made and painted -myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark, old-fashioned wall-paper -was covered by a large map of ancient Rome, the work of some German -scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he was sending for books from -abroad. Over the bookcase hung a photograph of the Tragic Theater at -Pompeii, which he had given me from his collection. - -When I sat at work I half faced a deep, upholstered chair which stood at -the end of my table, its high back against the wall. I had bought it with -great care. My instructor sometimes looked in upon me when he was out for -an evening tramp, and I noticed that he was more likely to linger and -become talkative if I had a comfortable chair for him to sit in, and if he -found a bottle of Bndictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he -liked, at his elbow. He was, I had discovered, parsimonious about small -expenditures--a trait absolutely inconsistent with his general character. -Sometimes when he came he was silent and moody, and after a few sarcastic -remarks went away again, to tramp the streets of Lincoln, which were -almost as quiet and oppressively domestic as those of Black Hawk. Again, -he would sit until nearly midnight, talking about Latin and English -poetry, or telling me about his long stay in Italy. - -I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and vividness of his talk. In a -crowd he was nearly always silent. Even for his classroom he had no -platitudes, no stock of professorial anecdotes. When he was tired his -lectures were clouded, obscure, elliptical; but when he was interested -they were wonderful. I believe that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a -great poet, and I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative -talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of -personal communication. How often I have seen him draw his dark brows -together, fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the -carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his -brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before one out of the -shadows--white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never forget his -face as it looked one night when he told me about the solitary day he -spent among the sea temples at Paestum: the soft wind blowing through the -roofless columns, the birds flying low over the flowering marsh grasses, -the changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung mountains. He had willfully -stayed the short summer night there, wrapped in his coat and rug, watching -the constellations on their path down the sky until "the bride of old -Tithonus" rose out of the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn. -It was there he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his -departure for Greece and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was -still, indeed, doing penance for it. - -I remember vividly another evening, when something led us to talk of -Dante's veneration for Virgil. Cleric went through canto after canto of -the "Commedia," repeating the discourse between Dante and his "sweet -teacher," while his cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long -fingers. I can hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who -spoke for Dante: "_I was famous on earth with the name which endures -longest and honors most. The seeds of my ardor were the sparks from that -divine flame whereby more than a thousand have kindled; I speak of the -neid, mother to me and nurse to me in poetry._" - -Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I was not deceived about -myself; I knew that I should never be a scholar. I could never lose myself -for long among impersonal things. Mental excitement was apt to send me -with a rush back to my own naked land and the figures scattered upon it. -While I was in the very act of yearning toward the new forms that Cleric -brought up before me, my mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found -myself thinking of the places and people of my own infinitesimal past. -They stood out strengthened and simplified now, like the image of the -plough against the sun. They were all I had for an answer to the new -appeal. I begrudged the room that Jake and Otto and Russian Peter took up -in my memory, which I wanted to crowd with other things. But whenever my -consciousness was quickened, all those early friends were quickened within -it, and in some strange way they accompanied me through all my new -experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely stopped to -wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how. - - - - -II - - -ONE March evening in my Sophomore year I was sitting alone in my room -after supper. There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards and -little streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out of -old snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing through -made me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone down, -the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light throbbing in it. -Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope, the evening star -hung like a lamp suspended by silver chains--like the lamp engraved upon -the title-page of old Latin texts, which is always appearing in new -heavens, and waking new desires in men. It reminded me, at any rate, to -shut my window and light my wick in answer. I did so regretfully, and the -dim objects in the room emerged from the shadows and took their place -about me with the helpfulness which custom breeds. - -I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the page of the Georgics -where to-morrow's lesson began. It opened with the melancholy reflection -that, in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first to flee. -"Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit." I turned back to the beginning of the third -book, which we had read in class that morning. "Primus ego in patriam -mecum {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} deducam Musas"; "for I shall be the first, if I live, to bring the -Muse into my country." Cleric had explained to us that "patria" here -meant, not a nation or even a province, but the little rural neighborhood -on the Mincio where the poet was born. This was not a boast, but a hope, -at once bold and devoutly humble, that he might bring the Muse (but lately -come to Italy from her cloudy Grecian mountains), not to the capital, the -palatia Romana, but to his own little "country"; to his father's fields, -"sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with broken tops." - -Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must have -remembered that passage. After he had faced the bitter fact that he was to -leave the neid unfinished, and had decreed that the great canvas, crowded -with figures of gods and men, should be burned rather than survive him -unperfected, then his mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance of -the Georgics, where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is to -the furrow; and he must have said to himself with the thankfulness of a -good man, "I was the first to bring the Muse into my country." - -We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had been brushed by the -wing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone knew Cleric intimately -enough to guess what that feeling was. In the evening, as I sat staring at -my book, the fervor of his voice stirred through the quantities on the -page before me. I was wondering whether that particular rocky strip of New -England coast about which he had so often told me was Cleric's patria. -Before I had got far with my reading I was disturbed by a knock. I hurried -to the door and when I opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall. - -"I expect you hardly know me, Jim." - -The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize her until she stepped -into the light of my doorway and I beheld--Lena Lingard! She was so quietly -conventionalized by city clothes that I might have passed her on the -street without seeing her. Her black suit fitted her figure smoothly, and -a black lace hat, with pale-blue forget-me-nots, sat demurely on her -yellow hair. - -I led her toward Cleric's chair, the only comfortable one I had, -questioning her confusedly. - -She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her with -the nave curiosity I remembered so well. "You are quite comfortable here, -are n't you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I'm in business for myself. -I have a dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street. I've made -a real good start." - -"But, Lena, when did you come?" - -"Oh, I've been here all winter. Did n't your grandmother ever write you? -I've thought about looking you up lots of times. But we've all heard what -a studious young man you've got to be, and I felt bashful. I did n't know -whether you'd be glad to see me." She laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that -was either very artless or very comprehending, one never quite knew which. -"You seem the same, though,--except you're a young man, now, of course. Do -you think I've changed?" - -"Maybe you're prettier--though you were always pretty enough. Perhaps it's -your clothes that make a difference." - -"You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty well in my business." She -took off her jacket and sat more at ease in her blouse, of some soft, -flimsy silk. She was already at home in my place, had slipped quietly into -it, as she did into everything. She told me her business was going well, -and she had saved a little money. - -"This summer I'm going to build the house for mother I've talked about so -long. I won't be able to pay up on it at first, but I want her to have it -before she is too old to enjoy it. Next summer I'll take her down new -furniture and carpets, so she'll have something to look forward to all -winter." - -I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and well cared-for, and -thought of how she used to run barefoot over the prairie until after the -snow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased her round and round the -cornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she should have got on so well -in the world. Certainly she had no one but herself to thank for it. - -"You must feel proud of yourself, Lena," I said heartily. "Look at me; -I've never earned a dollar, and I don't know that I'll ever be able to." - -"Tony says you're going to be richer than Mr. Harling some day. She's -always bragging about you, you know." - -"Tell me, how _is_ Tony?" - -"She's fine. She works for Mrs. Gardener at the hotel now. She's -housekeeper. Mrs. Gardener's health is n't what it was, and she can't see -after everything like she used to. She has great confidence in Tony. -Tony's made it up with the Harlings, too. Little Nina is so fond of her -that Mrs. Harling kind of overlooked things." - -"Is she still going with Larry Donovan?" - -"Oh, that's on, worse than ever! I guess they're engaged. Tony talks about -him like he was president of the railroad. Everybody laughs about it, -because she was never a girl to be soft. She won't hear a word against -him. She's so sort of innocent." - -I said I did n't like Larry, and never would. - -Lena's face dimpled. "Some of us could tell her things, but it would n't -do any good. She'd always believe him. That's ntonia's failing, you know; -if she once likes people, she won't hear anything against them." - -"I think I'd better go home and look after ntonia," I said. - -"I think you had." Lena looked up at me in frank amusement. "It's a good -thing the Harlings are friendly with her again. Larry's afraid of them. -They ship so much grain, they have influence with the railroad people. -What are you studying?" She leaned her elbows on the table and drew my -book toward her. I caught a faint odor of violet sachet. "So that's Latin, -is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theater sometimes, though, for I've -seen you there. Don't you just love a good play, Jim? I can't stay at home -in the evening if there's one in town. I'd be willing to work like a -slave, it seems to me, to live in a place where there are theaters." - -"Let's go to a show together sometime. You are going to let me come to see -you, are n't you?" - -"Would you like to? I'd be ever so pleased. I'm never busy after six -o'clock, and I let my sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to save -time, but sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I'd be glad to cook one -for you. Well,"--she began to put on her white gloves,--"it's been awful -good to see you, Jim." - -"You need n't hurry, need you? You've hardly told me anything yet." - -"We can talk when you come to see me. I expect you don't often have lady -visitors. The old woman downstairs did n't want to let me come up very -much. I told her I was from your home town, and had promised your -grandmother to come and see you. How surprised Mrs. Burden would be!" Lena -laughed softly as she rose. - -When I caught up my hat she shook her head. "No, I don't want you to go -with me. I'm to meet some Swedes at the drug-store. You would n't care for -them. I wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but I -must tell her how I left you right here with your books. She's always so -afraid some one will run off with you!" Lena slipped her silk sleeves into -the jacket I held for her, smoothed it over her person, and buttoned it -slowly. I walked with her to the door. "Come and see me sometimes when -you're lonesome. But maybe you have all the friends you want. Have you?" -She turned her soft cheek to me. "Have you?" she whispered teasingly in my -ear. In a moment I watched her fade down the dusky stairway. - - - -When I turned back to my room the place seemed much pleasanter than -before. Lena had left something warm and friendly in the lamplight. How I -loved to hear her laugh again! It was so soft and unexcited and -appreciative--gave a favorable interpretation to everything. When I closed -my eyes I could hear them all laughing--the Danish laundry girls and the -three Bohemian Marys. Lena had brought them all back to me. It came over -me, as it had never done before, the relation between girls like those and -the poetry of Virgil. If there were no girls like them in the world, there -would be no poetry. I understood that clearly, for the first time. This -revelation seemed to me inestimably precious. I clung to it as if it might -suddenly vanish. - -As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about Lena coming across -the harvest field in her short skirt seemed to me like the memory of an -actual experience. It floated before me on the page like a picture, and -underneath it stood the mournful line: Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit. - - - - -III - - -IN Lincoln the best part of the theatrical season came late, when the good -companies stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long runs in -New York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see Joseph -Jefferson in "Rip Van Winkle," and to a war play called "Shenandoah." She -was inflexible about paying for her own seat; said she was in business -now, and she would n't have a schoolboy spending his money on her. I liked -to watch a play with Lena; everything was wonderful to her, and everything -was true. It was like going to revival meetings with some one who was -always being converted. She handed her feelings over to the actors with a -kind of fatalistic resignation. Accessories of costume and scene meant -much more to her than to me. She sat entranced through "Robin Hood" and -hung upon the lips of the contralto who sang, "Oh, Promise Me!" - -Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I watched anxiously in -those days, bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which -two names were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an -actress of whom I had often heard, and the name "Camille." - -I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday evening, and we walked -down to the theater. The weather was warm and sultry and put us both in a -holiday humor. We arrived early, because Lena liked to watch the people -come in. There was a note on the programme, saying that the "incidental -music" would be from the opera "Traviata," which was made from the same -story as the play. We had neither of us read the play, and we did not know -what it was about--though I seemed to remember having heard it was a piece -in which great actresses shone. "The Count of Monte Cristo," which I had -seen James O'Neill play that winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I -knew. This play, I saw, was by his son, and I expected a family -resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run in off the prairie, could not -have been more innocent of what awaited them than were Lena and I. - -Our excitement began with the rise of the curtain, when the moody -Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated Nanine. Decidedly, there -was a new tang about this dialogue. I had never heard in the theater lines -that were alive, that presupposed and took for granted, like those which -passed between Varville and Marguerite in the brief encounter before her -friends entered. This introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most -enchantingly gay scene I had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne -bottles opened on the stage before--indeed, I had never seen them opened -anywhere. The memory of that supper makes me hungry now; the sight of it -then, when I had only a students' boarding-house dinner behind me, was -delicate torment. I seem to remember gilded chairs and tables (arranged -hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and stockings), linen of dazzling -whiteness, glittering glass, silver dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the -reddest of roses. The room was invaded by beautiful women and dashing -young men, laughing and talking together. The men were dressed more or -less after the period in which the play was written; the women were not. I -saw no inconsistency. Their talk seemed to open to one the brilliant world -in which they lived; every sentence made one older and wiser, every -pleasantry enlarged one's horizon. One could experience excess and satiety -without the inconvenience of learning what to do with one's hands in a -drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I missed some of -the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery. I strained my -ears and eyes to catch every exclamation. - -The actress who played Marguerite was even then old-fashioned, though -historic. She had been a member of Daly's famous New York company, and -afterward a "star" under his direction. She was a woman who could not be -taught, it is said, though she had a crude natural force which carried -with people whose feelings were accessible and whose taste was not -squeamish. She was already old, with a ravaged countenance and a physique -curiously hard and stiff. She moved with difficulty--I think she was lame--I -seem to remember some story about a malady of the spine. Her Armand was -disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth, perplexed in the -extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly in her power to -fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed her young, ardent, -reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish, avid of pleasure. I -wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted Armand in the -frilled shirt to convince her that there was still loyalty and devotion in -the world. Her sudden illness, when the gayety was at its height, her -pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against her lips, the cough she -smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept playing the piano -lightly--it all wrung my heart. But not so much as her cynicism in the long -dialogue with her lover which followed. How far was I from questioning her -unbelief! While the charmingly sincere young man pleaded with -her--accompanied by the orchestra in the old "Traviata" duet, "misterioso, -misterioso!"--she maintained her bitter skepticism, and the curtain fell on -her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent away -with his flower. - -Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing away -at the "Traviata" music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so -clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in -tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to -smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not -brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the Junior -dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena was at least -a woman, and I was a man. - -Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept -unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter of -idyllic love, dreading the return of the young man whose ineffable -happiness was only to be the measure of his fall. - -I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and -temperament from Dumas' appealing heroine than the veteran actress who -first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as heavy -and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea and on the -consonants. At all times she was highly tragic, devoured by remorse. -Lightness of stress or behavior was far from her. Her voice was heavy and -deep: "Ar-r-r-mond!" she would begin, as if she were summoning him to the -bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough. She had only to utter them. -They created the character in spite of her. - -The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never -been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in -Olympe's salon for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the -ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the men -played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests made -their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the card tables, -and young Duval had been warned by Prudence, Marguerite descended the -staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels--and her -face! One knew at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the -terrible words, "Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!" flung the -gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside -me and covered her face with her hands. - -The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there was n't a nerve -in me that had n't been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I -loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The -New Year's presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I -wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for -elegance and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund -woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover. - -When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with -rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling's useful Commencement -present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I -walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The -lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the -rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with -a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the -showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only -yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and -which had reached me only that night, across long years and several -languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one -that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is -put on, it is April. - - - - -IV - - -HOW well I remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: -the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long -mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment I -was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to my clothes -after I went away. Lena's success puzzled me. She was so easy-going; had -none of the push and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. -She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to -some cousins of Mrs. Thomas who lived there, and she was already making -clothes for the women of "the young married set." She evidently had great -natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, "what people looked -well in." She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the -evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on -a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could -n't help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n't enough -clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring -interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena "had -style," and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, -finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent -more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I -arrived at six o'clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her -awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say -apologetically:-- - -"You'll try to keep it under fifty for me, won't you, Miss Lingard? You -see, she's really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew -you could do more with her than anybody else." - -"Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we'll manage to get a -good effect," Lena replied blandly. - -I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she -had learned such self-possession. - -Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena -downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied -smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she -would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we -passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. "Don't let -me go in," she would murmur. "Get me by if you can." She was very fond of -sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. - -We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena's. At the back of her -long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a -reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains -that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and -sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making -everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol -lamp disappear altogether. Lena's curly black water-spaniel, Prince, -breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very well -until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to practice, when -Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. Lena's landlord, old -Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at first she was not at all -pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have -much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she -grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead -dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap on -his head--I had to take military drill at the University--and give him a -yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His gravity made us laugh -immoderately. - -Lena's talk always amused me. ntonia had never talked like the people -about her. Even after she learned to speak English readily there was -always something impulsive and foreign in her speech. But Lena had picked -up all the conventional expressions she heard at Mrs. Thomas's dressmaking -shop. Those formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and -the flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became -very funny, very engaging, when they were uttered in Lena's soft voice, -with her caressing intonation and arch navet. Nothing could be more -diverting than to hear Lena, who was almost as candid as Nature, call a -leg a "limb" or a house a "home." - -We used to linger a long while over our coffee in that sunny corner. Lena -was never so pretty as in the morning; she wakened fresh with the world -every day, and her eyes had a deeper color then, like the blue flowers -that are never so blue as when they first open. I could sit idle all -through a Sunday morning and look at her. Ole Benson's behavior was now no -mystery to me. - -"There was never any harm in Ole," she said once. "People need n't have -troubled themselves. He just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side -and forget about his bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company's welcome -when you're off with cattle all the time." - -"But was n't he always glum?" I asked. "People said he never talked at -all." - -"Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He'd been a sailor on an English boat and -had seen lots of queer places. He had wonderful tattoos. We used to sit -and look at them for hours; there was n't much to look at out there. He -was like a picture book. He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, -and on the other a girl standing before a little house, with a fence and -gate and all, waiting for her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor -had come back and was kissing her. 'The Sailor's Return,' he called it." - -I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a pretty girl once in a -while, with such a fright at home. - -"You know," Lena said confidentially, "he married Mary because he thought -she was strong-minded and would keep him straight. He never could keep -straight on shore. The last time he landed in Liverpool he'd been out on a -two years' voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he had n't -a cent left, and his watch and compass were gone. He'd got with some -women, and they'd taken everything. He worked his way to this country on a -little passenger boat. Mary was a stewardess, and she tried to convert him -on the way over. He thought she was just the one to keep him steady. Poor -Ole! He used to bring me candy from town, hidden in his feed-bag. He could -n't refuse anything to a girl. He'd have given away his tattoos long ago, -if he could. He's one of the people I'm sorriest for." - -If I happened to spend an evening with Lena and stayed late, the Polish -violin-teacher across the hall used to come out and watch me descend the -stairs, muttering so threateningly that it would have been easy to fall -into a quarrel with him. Lena had told him once that she liked to hear him -practice, so he always left his door open, and watched who came and went. - -There was a coolness between the Pole and Lena's landlord on her account. -Old Colonel Raleigh had come to Lincoln from Kentucky and invested an -inherited fortune in real estate, at the time of inflated prices. Now he -sat day after day in his office in the Raleigh Block, trying to discover -where his money had gone and how he could get some of it back. He was a -widower, and found very little congenial companionship in this casual -Western city. Lena's good looks and gentle manners appealed to him. He -said her voice reminded him of Southern voices, and he found as many -opportunities of hearing it as possible. He painted and papered her rooms -for her that spring, and put in a porcelain bathtub in place of the tin -one that had satisfied the former tenant. While these repairs were being -made, the old gentleman often dropped in to consult Lena's preferences. -She told me with amusement how Ordinsky, the Pole, had presented himself -at her door one evening, and said that if the landlord was annoying her by -his attentions, he would promptly put a stop to it. - -"I don't exactly know what to do about him," she said, shaking her head, -"he's so sort of wild all the time. I would n't like to have him say -anything rough to that nice old man. The Colonel is long-winded, but then -I expect he's lonesome. I don't think he cares much for Ordinsky, either. -He said once that if I had any complaints to make of my neighbors, I must -n't hesitate." - -One Saturday evening when I was having supper with Lena we heard a knock -at her parlor door, and there stood the Pole, coatless, in a dress shirt -and collar. Prince dropped on his paws and began to growl like a mastiff, -while the visitor apologized, saying that he could not possibly come in -thus attired, but he begged Lena to lend him some safety pins. - -"Oh, you'll have to come in, Mr. Ordinsky, and let me see what's the -matter." She closed the door behind him. "Jim, won't you make Prince -behave?" - -I rapped Prince on the nose, while Ordinsky explained that he had not had -his dress clothes on for a long time, and to-night, when he was going to -play for a concert, his waistcoat had split down the back. He thought he -could pin it together until he got it to a tailor. - -Lena took him by the elbow and turned him round. She laughed when she saw -the long gap in the satin. "You could never pin that, Mr. Ordinsky. You've -kept it folded too long, and the goods is all gone along the crease. Take -it off. I can put a new piece of lining-silk in there for you in ten -minutes." She disappeared into her work-room with the vest, leaving me to -confront the Pole, who stood against the door like a wooden figure. He -folded his arms and glared at me with his excitable, slanting brown eyes. -His head was the shape of a chocolate drop, and was covered with dry, -straw-colored hair that fuzzed up about his pointed crown. He had never -done more than mutter at me as I passed him, and I was surprised when he -now addressed me. - -"Miss Lingard," he said haughtily, "is a young woman for whom I have the -utmost, the utmost respect." - -"So have I," I said coldly. - -He paid no heed to my remark, but began to do rapid finger-exercises on -his shirt-sleeves, as he stood with tightly folded arms. - -"Kindness of heart," he went on, staring at the ceiling, "sentiment, are -not understood in a place like this. The noblest qualities are ridiculed. -Grinning college boys, ignorant and conceited, what do they know of -delicacy!" - -I controlled my features and tried to speak seriously. - -"If you mean me, Mr. Ordinsky, I have known Miss Lingard a long time, and -I think I appreciate her kindness. We come from the same town, and we grew -up together." - -His gaze traveled slowly down from the ceiling and rested on me. "Am I to -understand that you have this young woman's interests at heart? That you -do not wish to compromise her?" - -"That's a word we don't use much here, Mr. Ordinsky. A girl who makes her -own living can ask a college boy to supper without being talked about. We -take some things for granted." - -"Then I have misjudged you, and I ask your pardon,"--he bowed gravely. -"Miss Lingard," he went on, "is an absolutely trustful heart. She has not -learned the hard lessons of life. As for you and me, noblesse oblige,"--he -watched me narrowly. - -Lena returned with the vest. "Come in and let us look at you as you go -out, Mr. Ordinsky. I've never seen you in your dress suit," she said as -she opened the door for him. - -A few moments later he reappeared with his violin case--a heavy muffler -about his neck and thick woolen gloves on his bony hands. Lena spoke -encouragingly to him, and he went off with such an important, professional -air, that we fell to laughing as soon as we had shut the door. "Poor -fellow," Lena said indulgently, "he takes everything so hard." - -After that Ordinsky was friendly to me, and behaved as if there were some -deep understanding between us. He wrote a furious article, attacking the -musical taste of the town, and asked me to do him a great service by -taking it to the editor of the morning paper. If the editor refused to -print it, I was to tell him that he would be answerable to Ordinsky "in -person." He declared that he would never retract one word, and that he was -quite prepared to lose all his pupils. In spite of the fact that nobody -ever mentioned his article to him after it appeared--full of typographical -errors which he thought intentional--he got a certain satisfaction from -believing that the citizens of Lincoln had meekly accepted the epithet -"coarse barbarians." "You see how it is," he said to me, "where there is -no chivalry, there is no amour propre." When I met him on his rounds now, -I thought he carried his head more disdainfully than ever, and strode up -the steps of front porches and rang doorbells with more assurance. He told -Lena he would never forget how I had stood by him when he was "under -fire." - -All this time, of course, I was drifting. Lena had broken up my serious -mood. I was n't interested in my classes. I played with Lena and Prince, I -played with the Pole, I went buggy-riding with the old Colonel, who had -taken a fancy to me and used to talk to me about Lena and the "great -beauties" he had known in his youth. We were all three in love with Lena. - -Before the first of June, Gaston Cleric was offered an instructorship at -Harvard College, and accepted it. He suggested that I should follow him in -the fall, and complete my course at Harvard. He had found out about -Lena--not from me--and he talked to me seriously. - -"You won't do anything here now. You should either quit school and go to -work, or change your college and begin again in earnest. You won't recover -yourself while you are playing about with this handsome Norwegian. Yes, -I've seen her with you at the theater. She's very pretty, and perfectly -irresponsible, I should judge." - -Cleric wrote my grandfather that he would like to take me East with him. -To my astonishment, grandfather replied that I might go if I wished. I was -both glad and sorry on the day when the letter came. I stayed in my room -all evening and thought things over; I even tried to persuade myself that -I was standing in Lena's way--it is so necessary to be a little noble!--and -that if she had not me to play with, she would probably marry and secure -her future. - -The next evening I went to call on Lena. I found her propped up on the -couch in her bay window, with her foot in a big slipper. An awkward little -Russian girl whom she had taken into her work-room had dropped a flat-iron -on Lena's toe. On the table beside her there was a basket of early summer -flowers which the Pole had left after he heard of the accident. He always -managed to know what went on in Lena's apartment. - -Lena was telling me some amusing piece of gossip about one of her clients, -when I interrupted her and picked up the flower basket. - -"This old chap will be proposing to you some day, Lena." - -"Oh, he has--often!" she murmured. - -"What! After you've refused him?" - -"He does n't mind that. It seems to cheer him to mention the subject. Old -men are like that, you know. It makes them feel important to think they're -in love with somebody." - -"The Colonel would marry you in a minute. I hope you won't marry some old -fellow; not even a rich one." - -Lena shifted her pillows and looked up at me in surprise. "Why, I'm not -going to marry anybody. Did n't you know that?" - -"Nonsense, Lena. That's what girls say, but you know better. Every -handsome girl like you marries, of course." - -She shook her head. "Not me." - -"But why not? What makes you say that?" I persisted. - -Lena laughed. "Well, it's mainly because I don't want a husband. Men are -all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky -old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what's sensible -and what's foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer -to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody." - -"But you'll be lonesome. You'll get tired of this sort of life, and you'll -want a family." - -"Not me. I like to be lonesome. When I went to work for Mrs. Thomas I was -nineteen years old, and I had never slept a night in my life when there -were n't three in the bed. I never had a minute to myself except when I -was off with the cattle." - -Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the country at all, she -dismissed it with a single remark, humorous or mildly cynical. But -to-night her mind seemed to dwell on those early years. She told me she -could n't remember a time when she was so little that she was n't lugging -a heavy baby about, helping to wash for babies, trying to keep their -little chapped hands and faces clean. She remembered home as a place where -there were always too many children, a cross man, and work piling up -around a sick woman. - -"It was n't mother's fault. She would have made us comfortable if she -could. But that was no life for a girl! After I began to herd and milk I -could never get the smell of the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had -I kept in a cracker box. On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, -then I could take a bath if I was n't too tired. I could make two trips to -the windmill to carry water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove. -While the water was heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the cave, -and take my bath in the kitchen. Then I could put on a clean nightgown and -get into bed with two others, who likely had n't had a bath unless I'd -given it to them. You can't tell me anything about family life. I've had -plenty to last me." - -"But it's not all like that," I objected. - -"Near enough. It's all being under somebody's thumb. What's on your mind, -Jim? Are you afraid I'll want you to marry me some day?" - -Then I told her I was going away. - -"What makes you want to go away, Jim? Have n't I been nice to you?" - -"You've been just awfully good to me, Lena," I blurted. "I don't think -about much else. I never shall think about much else while I'm with you. -I'll never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that." I dropped -down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have forgotten -all my reasonable explanations. - -Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in her voice that had -hurt me was not there when she spoke again. - -"I ought n't to have begun it, ought I?" she murmured. "I ought n't to -have gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I've -always been a little foolish about you. I don't know what first put it -into my head, unless it was ntonia, always telling me I must n't be up to -any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a long while, though, did -n't I?" - -She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! - -At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. "You are -n't sorry I came to see you that time?" she whispered. "It seemed so -natural. I used to think I'd like to be your first sweetheart. You were -such a funny kid!" She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely -sending one away forever. - -We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to -hinder me or hold me back. "You are going, but you have n't gone yet, have -you?" she used to say. - -My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a -few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined -Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. - - - - - -BOOK IV--THE PIONEER WOMAN'S STORY - - - - -I - - -TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. -Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On -the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to -greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked -very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her -husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in -grandmother's parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. -One subject, however, we avoided all evening. - -When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at -her gate, she said simply, "You know, of course, about poor ntonia." - -Poor ntonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I -replied that grandmother had written me how ntonia went away to marry -Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted -her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew. - -"He never married her," Frances said. "I have n't seen her since she came -back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She -brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I'm afraid she's settled down -to be Ambrosch's drudge for good." - -I tried to shut ntonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in -her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena -Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading -dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart -away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had -got on in the world. - -Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of -Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year -before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that -Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to -think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used -to stop at Mrs. Gardener's hotel owned idle property along the water-front -in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his -empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors' lodging-house. This, -every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running -a decent place, she could n't keep it up; all sailors' boarding-houses -were alike. - -When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well -as I knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the -dining-room on her high heels, carrying a big tray full of dishes, -glancing rather pertly at the spruce traveling men, and contemptuously at -the scrubby ones--who were so afraid of her that they did n't dare to ask -for two kinds of pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, -might be afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat -talking about her on Frances Harling's front porch, if we could have known -what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up -together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was to lead the most adventurous -life and to achieve the most solid worldly success. - -This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was running her -lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. Miners and -sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and pouches of -gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring which nobody -had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business and set out for -Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife whom she had -persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went -in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the Yukon in flatboats. -They reached Circle City on the very day when some Siwash Indians came -into the settlement with the report that there had been a rich gold strike -farther up the river, on a certain Klondike Creek. Two days later Tiny and -her friends, and nearly every one else in Circle City, started for the -Klondike fields on the last steamer that went up the Yukon before it froze -for the winter. That boatload of people founded Dawson City. Within a few -weeks there were fifteen hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the -carpenter's wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners gave her a -lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There she sometimes fed -a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on snowshoes from their -placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh bread from her, and paid for -it in gold. - -That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs had been frozen one -night in a storm when he was trying to find his way back to his cabin. The -poor fellow thought it great good fortune to be cared for by a woman, and -a woman who spoke his own tongue. When he was told that his feet must be -amputated, he said he hoped he would not get well; what could a -working-man do in this hard world without feet? He did, in fact, die from -the operation, but not before he had deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on -Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel, invested half her money in Dawson -building lots, and with the rest she developed her claim. She went off -into the wilds and lived on it. She bought other claims from discouraged -miners, traded or sold them on percentages. - -After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny returned, with a considerable -fortune, to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. -She was a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in -manner. Curiously enough, she reminded me of Mrs. Gardener, for whom she -had worked in Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some of the -desperate chances she had taken in the gold country, but the thrill of -them was quite gone. She said frankly that nothing interested her much now -but making money. The only two human beings of whom she spoke with any -feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who had given her his claim, and Lena -Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to San Francisco and go into -business there. - -"Lincoln was never any place for her," Tiny remarked. "In a town of that -size Lena would always be gossiped about. Frisco's the right field for -her. She has a fine class of trade. Oh, she's just the same as she always -was! She's careless, but she's level-headed. She's the only person I know -who never gets any older. It's fine for me to have her there; somebody who -enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye on me and won't let me be -shabby. When she thinks I need a new dress, she makes it and sends it -home--with a bill that's long enough, I can tell you!" - -Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on Hunker Creek took toll -from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a sudden turn of weather, -like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from one of those pretty little -feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in pointed slippers and striped -stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation quite casually--did n't seem -sensitive about it. She was satisfied with her success, but not elated. -She was like some one in whom the faculty of becoming interested is worn -out. - - - - -II - - -SOON after I got home that summer I persuaded my grandparents to have -their photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer's -shop to arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of -his developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses on -his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms -holding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a heavy -frame, one of those depressing "crayon enlargements" often seen in -farmhouse parlors, the subject being a round-eyed baby in short dresses. -The photographer came out and gave a constrained, apologetic laugh. - -"That's Tony Shimerda's baby. You remember her; she used to be the -Harling's Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; would n't -hear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in for -it Saturday." - -I went away feeling that I must see ntonia again. Another girl would have -kept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture on -exhibition at the town photographer's, in a great gilt frame. How like -her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she had n't thrown herself -away on such a cheap sort of fellow. - -Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crew -aristocrats who are always afraid that some one may ask them to put up a -car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a menial service, -silently point to the button that calls the porter. Larry wore this air of -official aloofness even on the street, where there were no car-windows to -compromise his dignity. At the end of his run he stepped indifferently -from the train along with the passengers, his street hat on his head and -his conductor's cap in an alligator-skin bag, went directly into the -station and changed his clothes. It was a matter of the utmost importance -to him never to be seen in his blue trousers away from his train. He was -usually cold and distant with men, but with all women he had a silent, -grave familiarity, a special handshake, accompanied by a significant, -deliberate look. He took women, married or single, into his confidence; -walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling them what a mistake he -had made by not entering the office branch of the service, and how much -better fitted he was to fill the post of General Passenger Agent in Denver -than the roughshod man who then bore that title. His unappreciated worth -was the tender secret Larry shared with his sweethearts, and he was always -able to make some foolish heart ache over it. - -As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard, -digging round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now -no boy to help her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhere -on the Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate--it was with a feeling of -pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked the feel -of it under my hand. I took the spade away from Mrs. Harling, and while I -loosened the earth around the tree, she sat down on the steps and talked -about the oriole family that had a nest in its branches. - -"Mrs. Harling," I said presently, "I wish I could find out exactly how -ntonia's marriage fell through." - -"Why don't you go out and see your grandfather's tenant, the Widow -Steavens? She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped ntonia -get ready to be married, and she was there when ntonia came back. She -took care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything. -Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkable -memory." - - - - -III - - -ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out -for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was -over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of -smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now -being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was -disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were -wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards, -and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men -who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the -blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat -tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in -long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and -harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a -great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found -that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the -modeling of human faces. - -When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet -me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was -little, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator's. I -told her at once why I had come. - -"You'll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I'll talk to you after supper. I -can take more interest when my work is off my mind. You've no prejudice -against hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days." - -While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at -my watch and sighed; it was three o'clock, and I knew that I must eat him -at six. - -After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, -while her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm -papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining -outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess -put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the -heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little -stool comfortably under her tired feet. "I'm troubled with callouses, Jim; -getting old," she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and -sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. - -"Now, it's about that dear ntonia you want to know? Well, you've come to -the right person. I've watched her like she'd been my own daughter. - -"When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be -married, she was over here about every day. They've never had a sewing -machine at the Shimerdas', and she made all her things here. I taught her -hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at -that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it--she was so -strong--and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the -happiest thing in the world. - -"'ntonia,' I used to say, 'don't run that machine so fast. You won't -hasten the day none that way.' - -"Then she'd laugh and slow down for a little, but she'd soon forget and -begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to -housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had -given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We -hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. -Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony -told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She'd even -bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always -coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real -often, from the different towns along his run. - -"The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been -changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. 'I'm a country -girl,' she said, 'and I doubt if I'll be able to manage so well for him in -a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.' She soon -cheered up, though. - -"At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by -it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that -she'd begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she'd never let me see -it. - -"Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember -rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling -her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He -went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple -velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars -in money; I saw the check. He'd collected her wages all those first years -she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this -room. 'You're behaving like a man, Ambrosch,' I said, 'and I'm glad to see -it, son.' - -"'T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk -to take the night train for Denver--the boxes had been shipped before. He -stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her -arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I'd done for her. She -was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red -cheeks was all wet with rain. - -"'You're surely handsome enough for any man,' I said, looking her over. - -"She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, 'Good-bye, dear house!' -and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your -grandmother, as much as for me, so I'm particular to tell you. This house -had always been a refuge to her. - -"Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he -was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was -trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n't like -that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying -she was 'well and happy.' After that we heard nothing. A month went by, -and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me -as if I'd picked out the man and arranged the match. - -"One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the -fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west -road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another -behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her -veils, he thought 't was ntonia Shimerda, or ntonia Donovan, as her name -ought now to be. - -"The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my -feet ain't what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines -outside the Shimerdas' house was full of washing, though it was the middle -of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink--all -those underclothes we'd put so much work on, out there swinging in the -wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted -back into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, ntonia -was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda -was going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n't so -much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out -to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she -drew away. 'Don't, Mrs. Steavens,' she says, 'you'll make me cry, and I -don't want to.' - -"I whispered and asked her to come out of doors with me. I knew she could -n't talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we -walked up toward the garden. - -"'I'm not married, Mrs. Steavens,' she says to me very quiet and -natural-like, 'and I ought to be.' - -"'Oh, my child,' says I, 'what's happened to you? Don't be afraid to tell -me!' - -"She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. 'He's run away -from me,' she said. 'I don't know if he ever meant to marry me.' - -"'You mean he's thrown up his job and quit the country?' says I. - -"'He did n't have any job. He'd been fired; blacklisted for knocking down -fares. I did n't know. I thought he had n't been treated right. He was -sick when I got there. He'd just come out of the hospital. He lived with -me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n't really been -hunting work at all. Then he just did n't come back. One nice fellow at -the station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He -said he was afraid Larry'd gone bad and would n't come back any more. I -guess he's gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, -collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was -always talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.' - -"I asked her, of course, why she did n't insist on a civil marriage at -once--that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on -her hands, poor child, and said, 'I just don't know, Mrs. Steavens. I -guess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how -well I could do for him, he'd want to stay with me.' - -"Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside her and made lament. I cried -like a young thing. I could n't help it. I was just about heart-broke. It -was one of them lovely warm May days, and the wind was blowing and the -colts jumping around in the pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. My -ntonia, that had so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that -Lena Lingard, that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out -so well, and was coming home here every summer in her silks and her -satins, and doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit is -due, but you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference in -the principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that had -come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As we -went back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see if they -was drying well, and seemed to take pride in their whiteness--she said -she'd been living in a brick block, where she did n't have proper -conveniences to wash them. - -"The next time I saw ntonia, she was out in the fields ploughing corn. -All that spring and summer she did the work of a man on the farm; it -seemed to be an understood thing. Ambrosch did n't get any other hand to -help him. Poor Marek had got violent and been sent away to an institution -a good while back. We never even saw any of Tony's pretty dresses. She did -n't take them out of her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected -her industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. They -talked, to be sure; but not like they would if she'd put on airs. She was -so crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to humble her. She never -went anywhere. All that summer she never once came to see me. At first I -was hurt, but I got to feel that it was because this house reminded her of -too much. I went over there when I could, but the times when she was in -from the fields were the times when I was busiest here. She talked about -the grain and the weather as if she'd never had another interest, and if I -went over at night she always looked dead weary. She was afflicted with -toothache; one tooth after another ulcerated, and she went about with her -face swollen half the time. She would n't go to Black Hawk to a dentist -for fear of meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spell -long ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let -ntonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, 'If you put that in -her head, you better stay home.' And after that I did. - -"ntonia worked on through harvest and thrashing, though she was too -modest to go out thrashing for the neighbors, like when she was young and -free. I did n't see much of her until late that fall when she begun to -herd Ambrosch's cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big -dog town. Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and -I would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty -cattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or she -would n't have brought them so far. - -"It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be alone. While the steers -grazed, she used to sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun -herself for hours. Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she had -n't gone too far. - -"'It does seem like I ought to make lace, or knit like Lena used to,' she -said one day, 'but if I start to work, I look around and forget to go on. -It seems such a little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all -over this country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father -used to stand. Sometimes I feel like I'm not going to live very long, so -I'm just enjoying every day of this fall.' - -"After the winter begun she wore a man's long overcoat and boots, and a -man's felt hat with a wide brim. I used to watch her coming and going, and -I could see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, the -snow began to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw ntonia driving her cattle -homeward across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to -face it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. 'Deary me,' I says -to myself, 'the girl's stayed out too late. It'll be dark before she gets -them cattle put into the corral.' I seemed to sense she'd been feeling too -miserable to get up and drive them. - -"That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them into -the corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen, and -shut the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay -down on the bed and bore her child. - -"I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running down the -basement stairs, out of breath and screeching:-- - -"'Baby come, baby come!' she says. 'Ambrosch much like devil!' - -"Brother William is surely a patient man. He was just ready to sit down to -a hot supper after a long day in the fields. Without a word he rose and -went down to the barn and hooked up his team. He got us over there as -quick as it was humanly possible. I went right in, and began to do for -ntonia; but she laid there with her eyes shut and took no account of me. -The old woman got a tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked -what she was doing and I said out loud:-- - -"'Mrs. Shimerda, don't you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. -You'll blister its little skin.' I was indignant. - - [Illustration: ntonia driving her cattle home] - -"'Mrs. Steavens,' ntonia said from the bed, 'if you'll look in the top -tray of my trunk, you'll see some fine soap.' That was the first word she -spoke. - -"After I'd dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He was -muttering behind the stove and would n't look at it. - -"'You'd better put it out in the rain barrel,' he says. - -"'Now, see here, Ambrosch,' says I, 'there's a law in this land, don't -forget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world -sound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.' I pride -myself I cowed him. - -"Well, I expect you're not much interested in babies, but ntonia's got on -fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she'd had a ring on her -finger, and was never ashamed of it. It's a year and eight months old now, -and no baby was ever better cared-for. ntonia is a natural-born mother. I -wish she could marry and raise a family, but I don't know as there's much -chance now." - - - -I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, -with the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the -ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn -and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow -against the blue sky. - - - - -IV - - -THE next afternoon I walked over to the Shimerdas'. Yulka showed me the -baby and told me that ntonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter. -I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She -stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I -came. We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. -Her warm hand clasped mine. - -"I thought you'd come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens's last -night. I've been looking for you all day." - -She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens -said, "worked down," but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity -of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health -and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had -happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. - -ntonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward -that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to -talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut -Mr. Shimerda's plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had -never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the -spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I -found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to -go into the law office of one of my mother's relatives in New York City; -about Gaston Cleric's death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference -it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of -living, and my dearest hopes. - -"Of course it means you are going away from us for good," she said with a -sigh. "But that don't mean I'll lose you. Look at my papa here; he's been -dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody -else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the -time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand -him." - -She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. "I'd always be -miserable in a city. I'd die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know -every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live -and die here. Father Kelly says everybody's put into this world for -something, and I know what I've got to do. I'm going to see that my little -girl has a better chance than ever I had. I'm going to take care of that -girl, Jim." - -I told her I knew she would. "Do you know, ntonia, since I've been away, -I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. -I'd have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my -sister--anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of -my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of -times when I don't realize it. You really are a part of me." - -She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them -slowly. "How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when -I've disappointed you so? Ain't it wonderful, Jim, how much people can -mean to each other? I'm so glad we had each other when we were little. I -can't wait till my little girl's old enough to tell her about all the -things we used to do. You'll always remember me when you think about old -times, won't you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the -happiest people." - -As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a -great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in -the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, -thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two -luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on -opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and -shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, -drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields -seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn -magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a -little boy again, and that my way could end there. - -We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands -and held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and -good they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things -they had done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About -us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her -face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, -under all the shadows of women's faces, at the very bottom of my memory. - -"I'll come back," I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness. - -"Perhaps you will"--I felt rather than saw her smile. "But even if you -don't, you're here, like my father. So I won't be lonesome." - -As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that -a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do, laughing -and whispering to each other in the grass. - - - - - -BOOK V--CUZAK'S BOYS - - - - -I - - -I TOLD ntonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty -years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that she -married, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin of -Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when I -was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent ntonia some -photographs of her native village. Months afterward came a letter from -her, telling me the names and ages of her many children, but little else; -signed, "Your old friend, ntonia Cuzak." When I met Tiny Soderball in -Salt Lake, she told me that ntonia had not "done very well"; that her -husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard life. Perhaps -it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business took me West -several times every year, and it was always in the back of my mind that I -would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see ntonia. But I kept putting -it off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and broken; I -really dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with -many illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are -realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. - -I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see ntonia at last. I was in San -Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. -Tiny lives in a house of her own, and Lena's shop is in an apartment house -just around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the -two women together. Tiny audits Lena's accounts occasionally, and invests -her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n't -grow too miserly. "If there's anything I can't stand," she said to me in -Tiny's presence, "it's a shabby rich woman." Tiny smiled grimly and -assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. "And I don't -want to be," the other agreed complacently. - -Lena gave me a cheerful account of ntonia and urged me to make her a -visit. - -"You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such a satisfaction to her. -Never mind what Tiny says. There's nothing the matter with Cuzak. You'd -like him. He is n't a hustler, but a rough man would never have suited -Tony. Tony has nice children--ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. -I should n't care for a family of that size myself, but somehow it's just -right for Tony. She'd love to show them to you." - -On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set off -with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team to find the Cuzak farm. -At a little past midday, I knew I must be nearing my destination. Set back -on a swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farmhouse, with a red barn -and an ash grove, and cattle yards in front that sloped down to the high -road. I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in -here, when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the -road, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one, not more -than four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded, and his -close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection. The other -stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was comforting him in a -language I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped my horses -opposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came toward -me. He, too, looked grave. This was evidently a sad afternoon for them. - -"Are you Mrs. Cuzak's boys?" I asked. - -The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings, but -his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes. "Yes, sir." - -"Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her. Get in and -ride up with me." - -He glanced at his reluctant little brother. "I guess we'd better walk. But -we'll open the gate for you." - -I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind. When I pulled -up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and curly-headed, ran out of -the barn to tie my team for me. He was a handsome one, this chap, -fair-skinned and freckled, with red cheeks and a ruddy pelt as thick as a -lamb's wool, growing down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my team -with two flourishes of his hands, and nodded when I asked him if his -mother was at home. As he glanced at me, his face dimpled with a seizure -of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up the windmill tower with a -lightness that struck me as disdainful. I knew he was peering down at me -as I walked toward the house. - -Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunning -themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked through the -wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor. I saw a long -table, rows of wooden chairs against the wall, and a shining range in one -corner. Two girls were washing dishes at the sink, laughing and -chattering, and a little one, in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playing -with a rag baby. When I asked for their mother, one of the girls dropped -her towel, ran across the floor with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. -The older one, who wore shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me. -She was a buxom girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed. - -"Won't you come in? Mother will be here in a minute." - -Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle happened; -one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart, and take more courage -than the noisy, excited passages in life. ntonia came in and stood before -me; a stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little -grizzled. It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after -long years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this -woman had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously -at me were--simply ntonia's eyes. I had seen no others like them since I -looked into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of human -faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her -identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigor of her personality, -battered but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky, -breathy voice I remembered so well. - -"My husband's not at home, sir. Can I do anything?" - -"Don't you remember me, ntonia? Have I changed so much?" - -She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look -redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to -grow broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands. - -"Why, it's Jim! Anna, Yulka, it's Jim Burden!" She had no sooner caught my -hands than she looked alarmed. "What's happened? Is anybody dead?" - -I patted her arm. "No. I did n't come to a funeral this time. I got off -the train at Hastings and drove down to see you and your family." - -She dropped my hand and began rushing about. "Anton, Yulka, Nina, where -are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They're off looking for -that dog, somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!" She pulled them out -of corners and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her -kittens. "You don't have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy's not here. -He's gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won't let you go! -You've got to stay and see Rudolph and our papa." She looked at me -imploringly, panting with excitement. - -While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, the -barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gathering -about her. - -"Now, tell me their names, and how old they are." - -As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, and -they roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of the -windmill, she said, "This is Leo, and he's old enough to be better than he -is." - -He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like a -little ram, but his voice was quite desperate. "You've forgot! You always -forget mine. It's mean! Please tell him, mother!" He clenched his fists in -vexation and looked up at her impetuously. - -She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him. -"Well, how old are you?" - -"I'm twelve," he panted, looking not at me but at her; "I'm twelve years -old, and I was born on Easter day!" - -She nodded to me. "It's true. He was an Easter baby." - -The children all looked at me, as if they expected me to exhibit -astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of -each other, and of being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, -the eldest daughter, who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, -and came bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother's waist. - -"Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We'll finish the dishes -quietly and not disturb you." - -ntonia looked about, quite distracted. "Yes, child, but why don't we take -him into the parlor, now that we've got a nice parlor for company?" - -The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. "Well, you're -here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You -can show him the parlor after while." She smiled at me, and went back to -the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a -place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her -toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. - -"She's Nina, after Nina Harling," ntonia explained. "Ain't her eyes like -Nina's? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my -own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if -they'd grown up with you. I can't think of what I want to say, you've got -me so stirred up. And then, I've forgot my English so. I don't often talk -it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well." She said they -always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at -all--did n't learn it until they went to school. - -"I can't believe it's you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n't -have known me, would you, Jim? You've kept so young, yourself. But it's -easier for a man. I can't see how my Anton looks any older than the day I -married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n't got many left. But I -feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don't -have to work so hard now! We've got plenty to help us, papa and me. And -how many have you got, Jim?" - -When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed. "Oh, ain't that -too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he's the -worst of all." She leaned toward me with a smile. "And I love him the -best," she whispered. - -"Mother!" the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. - -ntonia threw up her head and laughed. "I can't help it. You know I do. -Maybe it's because he came on Easter day, I don't know. And he's never out -of mischief one minute!" - -I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered--about her teeth, -for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she -had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, ntonia -had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not -that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn -away. - -While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat -down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a -funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair -was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us -out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. - -"He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead," Anna -said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. - -ntonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows -on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while -he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and -hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and -in a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary -smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to -her and talking behind his hand. - -When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood -behind her mother's chair. "Why don't we show Mr. Burden our new fruit -cave?" she asked. - -We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys -were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran -ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after -us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the -thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum bushes, called -my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor. "Yes, it is a -good way from the house," he admitted. "But, you see, in winter there are -nearly always some of us around to come out and get things." - -Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles, -one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds. - -"You would n't believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!" their mother -exclaimed. "You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and -Saturdays! It's no wonder their poor papa can't get rich, he has to buy so -much sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for -flour,--but then there's that much less to sell." - -Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me -the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but glancing at me, traced -on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries and -strawberries and crab-apples within, trying by a blissful expression of -countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness. - -"Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don't have those," said one -of the older boys. "Mother uses them to make kolaches," he added. - -Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian. - -I turned to him. "You think I don't know what kolaches are, eh? You're -mistaken, young man. I've eaten your mother's kolaches long before that -Easter day when you were born." - -"Always too fresh, Leo," Ambrosch remarked with a shrug. - -Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me. - -We turned to leave the cave; ntonia and I went up the stairs first, and -the children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all came -running up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold heads -and brown, and flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of life -out of the dark cave into the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment. - -The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I had n't yet seen; -in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. The roof was -so steep that the eaves were not much above the forest of tall hollyhocks, -now brown and in seed. Through July, ntonia said, the house was buried in -them; the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front -yard was enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two -silvery, moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down -over the cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch -of stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer. - -At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards; a -cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows, and -an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds. The older -children turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie -crept through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid under the -low-branching mulberry bushes. - -As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in tall bluegrass, -ntonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree and another. "I love them -as if they were people," she said, rubbing her hand over the bark. "There -was n't a tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to -carry water for them, too--after we'd been working in the fields all day. -Anton, he was a city man, and he used to get discouraged. But I could n't -feel so tired that I would n't fret about these trees when there was a dry -time. They were on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep -I've got up and come out and carried water to the poor things. And now, -you see, we have the good of them. My man worked in the orange groves in -Florida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain't one of our neighbors -has an orchard that bears like ours." - -In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape-arbor, with seats built -along the sides and a warped plank table. The three children were waiting -for us there. They looked up at me bashfully and made some request of -their mother. - -"They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic here every -year. These don't go to school yet, so they think it's all like the -picnic." - -After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the youngsters ran away to an -open place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks, and squatted -down among them, crawling about and measuring with a string. "Jan wants to -bury his dog there," ntonia explained. "I had to tell him he could. He's -kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she used to take little -things? He has funny notions, like her." - -We sat down and watched them. ntonia leaned her elbows on the table. -There was the deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple -enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the -mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to the -protecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could see -nothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the -windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape -leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell the -ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beads -on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hens -and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallen -apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray bodies, their -heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers which grew close -and full, changing to blue like a peacock's neck. ntonia said they always -reminded her of soldiers--some uniform she had seen in the old country, -when she was a child. - -"Are there any quail left now?" I asked. I reminded her how she used to go -hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. "You were n't a -bad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and go -for ducks with Charley Harling and me?" - -"I know, but I'm afraid to look at a gun now." She picked up one of the -drakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. "Ever since I've had -children, I don't like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to -wring an old goose's neck. Ain't that strange, Jim?" - -"I don't know. The young Queen of Italy said the same thing once, to a -friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as -you do, and only shoots clay pigeons." - -"Then I'm sure she's a good mother," ntonia said warmly. - -She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when -the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten -years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and -often grew discouraged. "We'd never have got through if I had n't been so -strong. I've always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him -in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our -children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you -saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be -just like her. My Martha's married now, and has a baby of her own. Think -of that, Jim! - -"No, I never got down-hearted. Anton's a good man, and I loved my children -and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I'm -never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad -spells I used to have, when I did n't know what was the matter with me? -I've never had them out here. And I don't mind work a bit, if I don't have -to put up with sadness." She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down -through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. - -"You ought never to have gone to town, Tony," I said, wondering at her. - -She turned to me eagerly. "Oh, I'm glad I went! I'd never have known -anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n't. I learned nice ways -at the Harlings', and I've been able to bring my children up so much -better. Don't you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? -If it had n't been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I'd have -brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I'm glad I had a chance to learn; -but I'm thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The -trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved." - -While we were talking, ntonia assured me that she could keep me for the -night. "We've plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till -cold weather comes, but there's no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep -there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him." - -I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. - -"You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put -away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, -and I want to cook your supper myself." - -As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with -their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied -us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of -ironweed, calling, "I'm a jack rabbit," or, "I'm a big bull-snake." - -I walked between the two older boys--straight, well-made fellows, with good -heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, -told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would -feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an -old friend of the family--and not too old. I felt like a boy in their -company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, -after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the -sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, -over the close-cropped grass. - -"Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?" -Ambrosch asked. "We've had them framed and they're hung up in the parlor. -She was so glad to get them. I don't believe I ever saw her so pleased -about anything." There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that -made me wish I had given more occasion for it. - -I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, you know, was very much loved -by all of us. She was a beautiful girl." - -"Oh, we know!" They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I -should think it necessary to mention this. "Everybody liked her, did n't -they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people." - -"Sometimes," I ventured, "it does n't occur to boys that their mother was -ever young and pretty." - -"Oh, we know!" they said again, warmly. "She's not very old now," Ambrosch -added. "Not much older than you." - -"Well," I said, "if you were n't nice to her, I think I'd take a club and -go for the whole lot of you. I could n't stand it if you boys were -inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked -after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I -know there's nobody like her." - -The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. "She never told us -that," said Anton. "But she's always talked lots about you, and about what -good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of -the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up -to the windmill. You can't tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to -be smart." - -We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys -milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the -strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and -gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, -the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to -feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem -everlastingly the same, and the world so far away. - -What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of restless heads in the -lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon ntonia as she sat at -the head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on their -way. The children were seated according to a system; a little one next an -older one, who was to watch over his behavior and to see that he got his -food. Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh -plates of kolaches and pitchers of milk. - -After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka and Leo could play for -me. ntonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairs -enough to go round, so the younger children sat down on the bare floor. -Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a parlor carpet -if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal of -fussing, got out his violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda's instrument, which -ntonia had always kept, and it was too big for him. But he played very -well for a self-taught boy. Poor Yulka's efforts were not so successful. -While they were playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into -the middle of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the -boards with her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and -when she was through she stole back and sat down by her brother. - -ntonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face. He -seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples in -unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played some -Bohemian airs, without the organ to hold him back, and that went better. -The boy was so restless that I had not had a chance to look at his face -before. My first impression was right; he really was faun-like. He had n't -much head behind his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the -back of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the -other boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive -to the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put -together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken, -teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull would stand -for, or how sharp the new axe was. - -After the concert was over ntonia brought out a big boxful of -photographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her -brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and who -bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys and -their large families. - -"You would n't believe how steady those girls have turned out," ntonia -remarked. "Mary Svoboda's the best butter-maker in all this country, and a -fine manager. Her children will have a grand chance." - -As ntonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her -chair, looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan, -after trying to see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair, -climbed up on it, and stood close together, looking. The little boy forgot -his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into view. In -the group about ntonia I was conscious of a kind of physical harmony. -They leaned this way and that, and were not afraid to touch each other. -They contemplated the photographs with pleased recognition; looked at some -admiringly, as if these characters in their mother's girlhood had been -remarkable people. The little children, who could not speak English, -murmured comments to each other in their rich old language. - -ntonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San Francisco -last Christmas. "Does she still look like that? She has n't been home for -six years now." Yes, it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, -a trifle too plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy -eyes, and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of -her mouth. - -There was a picture of Frances Harling in a be-frogged riding costume that -I remembered well. "Is n't she fine!" the girls murmured. They all -assented. One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the -family legend. Only Leo was unmoved. - -"And there's Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, was -n't he, mother?" - -"He was n't any Rockefeller," put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which -reminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said that my -grandfather "was n't Jesus." His habitual skepticism was like a direct -inheritance from that old woman. - -"None of your smart speeches," said Ambrosch severely. - -Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke into a -giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with an -awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them; Jake and Otto -and I! We had it taken, I remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the -first Fourth of July I spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake's grin -again, and Otto's ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about -them. - -"He made grandfather's coffin, did n't he?" Anton asked. - -"Was n't they good fellows, Jim?" ntonia's eyes filled. "To this day I'm -ashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy and -impertinent to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wish -somebody had made me behave." - -"We are n't through with you, yet," they warned me. They produced a -photograph taken just before I went away to college; a tall youth in -striped trousers and a straw hat, trying to look easy and jaunty. - -"Tell us, Mr. Burden," said Charley, "about the rattler you killed at the -dog town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes -she says five." - -These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with ntonia as -the Harling children had been so many years before. They seemed to feel -the same pride in her, and to look to her for stories and entertainment as -we used to do. - -It was eleven o'clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets and -started for the barn with the boys. Their mother came to the door with us, -and we tarried for a moment to look out at the white slope of the corral -and the two ponds asleep in the moonlight, and the long sweep of the -pasture under the star-sprinkled sky. - -The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow, and I lay down -before a big window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the -stars. Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, -and lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and -tumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, they -were still. There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland slumber. - -I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving moon passed my window -on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about ntonia and her children; -about Anna's solicitude for her, Ambrosch's grave affection, Leo's -jealous, animal little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out -of the cave into the light, was a sight any man might have come far to -see. ntonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not -fade--that grew stronger with time. In my memory there was a succession of -such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts of one's first primer: -ntonia kicking her bare legs against the sides of my pony when we came -home in triumph with our snake; ntonia in her black shawl and fur cap, as -she stood by her father's grave in the snowstorm; ntonia coming in with -her work-team along the evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorial -human attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true. I -had not been mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; -but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still -stop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow revealed -the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the orchard, to put -her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel -the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last. All the -strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tireless -in serving generous emotions. - -It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich -mine of life, like the founders of early races. - - - - -II - - -WHEN I awoke in the morning long bands of sunshine were coming in at the -window and reaching back under the eaves where the two boys lay. Leo was -wide awake and was tickling his brother's leg with a dried cone-flower he -had pulled out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and turned over. I -closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on his back, elevated -one foot, and began exercising his toes. He picked up dried flowers with -his toes and brandished them in the belt of sunlight. After he had amused -himself thus for some time, he rose on one elbow and began to look at me, -cautiously, then critically, blinking his eyes in the light. His -expression was droll; it dismissed me lightly. "This old fellow is no -different from other people. He does n't know my secret." He seemed -conscious of possessing a keener power of enjoyment than other people; his -quick recognitions made him frantically impatient of deliberate judgments. -He always knew what he wanted without thinking. - -After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold water at the windmill. -Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen, and Yulka was baking -griddle-cakes. The three older boys set off for the fields early. Leo and -Yulka were to drive to town to meet their father, who would return from -Wilber on the noon train. - -"We'll only have a lunch at noon," ntonia said, "and cook the geese for -supper, when our papa will be here. I wish my Martha could come down to -see you. They have a Ford car now, and she don't seem so far away from me -as she used to. But her husband's crazy about his farm and about having -everything just right, and they almost never get away except on Sundays. -He's a handsome boy, and he'll be rich some day. Everything he takes hold -of turns out well. When they bring that baby in here, and unwrap him, he -looks like a little prince; Martha takes care of him so beautiful. I'm -reconciled to her being away from me now, but at first I cried like I was -putting her into her coffin." - -We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who was pouring cream into -the churn. She looked up at me. "Yes, she did. We were just ashamed of -mother. She went round crying, when Martha was so happy, and the rest of -us were all glad. Joe certainly was patient with you, mother." - -ntonia nodded and smiled at herself. "I know it was silly, but I could -n't help it. I wanted her right here. She'd never been away from me a -night since she was born. If Anton had made trouble about her when she was -a baby, or wanted me to leave her with my mother, I would n't have married -him. I could n't. But he always loved her like she was his own." - -"I did n't even know Martha was n't my full sister until after she was -engaged to Joe," Anna told me. - -Toward the middle of the afternoon the wagon drove in, with the father and -the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard, and as I went out to meet -them, ntonia came running down from the house and hugged the two men as -if they had been away for months. - -"Papa" interested me, from my first glimpse of him. He was shorter than -his older sons; a crumpled little man, with run-over boot heels, and he -carried one shoulder higher than the other. But he moved very quickly, and -there was an air of jaunty liveliness about him. He had a strong, ruddy -color, thick black hair, a little grizzled, a curly mustache, and red -lips. His smile showed the strong teeth of which his wife was so proud, -and as he saw me his lively, quizzical eyes told me that he knew all about -me. He looked like a humorous philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder -under the burdens of life, and gone on his way having a good time when he -could. He advanced to meet me and gave me a hard hand, burned red on the -back and heavily coated with hair. He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick -and hot for the weather, an unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie -with big white dots, like a little boy's, tied in a flowing bow. Cuzak -began at once to talk about his holiday--from politeness he spoke in -English. - -"Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the slack-wire in the street -at night. They throw a bright light on her and she float through the air -something beautiful, like a bird! They have a dancing bear, like in the -old country, and two three merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and -what you call the big wheel, Rudolph?" - -"A Ferris wheel," Rudolph entered the conversation in a deep baritone -voice. He was six foot two, and had a chest like a young blacksmith. "We -went to the big dance in the hall behind the saloon last night, mother, -and I danced with all the girls, and so did father. I never saw so many -pretty girls. It was a Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n't hear a word of -English on the street, except from the show people, did we, papa?" - -Cuzak nodded. "And very many send word to you, ntonia. You will -excuse"--turning to me--"if I tell her." While we walked toward the house he -related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke fluently, -and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their relations had -become--or remained. The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, -touched with humor. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective. -As they went up the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise, to see whether -she got his point, or how she received it. I noticed later that he always -looked at people sidewise, as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even -when he sat opposite me in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a -little toward the clock or the stove and look at me from the side, but -with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not suggest duplicity or -secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the horse. - -He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for ntonia's collection, -and several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little -disappointed when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got in -Denver--she had n't let the children touch it the night before. He put his -candy away in the cupboard, "for when she rains," and glanced at the box, -chuckling. "I guess you must have hear about how my family ain't so -small," he said. - -Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his women-folk and the little -children with equal amusement. He thought they were nice, and he thought -they were funny, evidently. He had been off dancing with the girls and -forgetting that he was an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised -him; he seemed to think it a joke that all these children should belong to -him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking -things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that -was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, -whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not -to startle him. Looking over the boy's head he said to me, "This one is -bashful. He gets left." - -Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He -opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to -relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated -several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he -were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. - -"You know? You have heard, maybe?" he asked incredulously. When I assured -him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that -Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be -able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard -her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our -talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend -her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her -looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know -whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved -much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n't -squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young -man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and -poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and "it was not very -nice, that." - -When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, -and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before -ntonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started -the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the -table at me. - -"Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you've -heard about the Cutters?" - -No, I had heard nothing at all about them. - -"Then you must tell him, son, though it's a terrible thing to talk about -at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about -the murder." - -"Hurrah! The murder!" the children murmured, looking pleased and -interested. - -Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from -his mother or father. - -Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that ntonia and -I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old -people. He shriveled up, ntonia said, until he looked like a little old -yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. -Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the -years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her -nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain -that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew -older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of -their "property." A new law was passed in the State, securing the -surviving wife a third of her husband's estate under all conditions. -Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than -he, and that eventually her "people," whom he had always hated so -violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the -boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by -whoever wished to loiter and listen. - -One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought -a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he "thought -he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it." (Here the -children interrupted Rudolph's narrative by smothered giggles.) - -Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for -an hour or so, and then went home. At six o'clock that evening, when -several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, -they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one -another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They -ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs -bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had -placed beside his head. - -"Walk in, gentlemen," he said weakly. "I am alive, you see, and competent. -You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her -own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no -mistake." - -One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into -Mrs. Cutter's room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and -wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she -was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her -breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. - -The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said -distinctly, "Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My -affairs are in order." Then, Rudolph said, "he let go and died." - -On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o'clock that -afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she -might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to -shoot himself at six o'clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot -through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him -"before life was extinct," as he wrote. - -"Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?" ntonia -turned to me after the story was told. "To go and do that poor woman out -of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!" - -"Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. -Burden?" asked Rudolph. - -I admitted that I had n't. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a -motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing -to match this one. When I asked how much the estate amounted to, Rudolph -said it was a little over a hundred thousand dollars. - -Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. "The lawyers, they got a good -deal of it, sure," he said merrily. - -A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune that had been scraped -together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter himself had died for in the -end! - -After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard and sat down by the -windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it were my business to know -it. - -His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and he, being a younger -son, was apprenticed to the latter's trade. You never got anywhere working -for your relatives, he said, so when he was a journeyman he went to Vienna -and worked in a big fur shop, earning good money. But a young fellow who -liked a good time did n't save anything in Vienna; there were too many -pleasant ways of spending every night what he'd made in the day. After -three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and went to -work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering big wages. -The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a few hundred -dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise oranges. He had -always thought he would like to raise oranges! The second year a hard -frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with malaria. He came to -Nebraska to visit his cousin, Anton Jelinek, and to look about. When he -began to look about, he saw ntonia, and she was exactly the kind of girl -he had always been hunting for. They were married at once, though he had -to borrow money from his cousin to buy the wedding-ring. - -"It was a pretty hard job, breaking up this place and making the first -crops grow," he said, pushing back his hat and scratching his grizzled -hair. "Sometimes I git awful sore on this place and want to quit, but my -wife she always say we better stick it out. The babies come along pretty -fast, so it look like it be hard to move, anyhow. I guess she was right, -all right. We got this place clear now. We pay only twenty dollars an acre -then, and I been offered a hundred. We bought another quarter ten years -ago, and we got it most paid for. We got plenty boys; we can work a lot of -land. Yes, she is a good wife for a poor man. She ain't always so strict -with me, neither. Sometimes maybe I drink a little too much beer in town, -and when I come home she don't say nothing. She don't ask me no questions. -We always get along fine, her and me, like at first. The children don't -make trouble between us, like sometimes happens." He lit another pipe and -pulled on it contentedly. - -I found Cuzak a most companionable fellow. He asked me a great many -questions about my trip through Bohemia, about Vienna and the Ringstrasse -and the theaters. - -"Gee! I like to go back there once, when the boys is big enough to farm -the place. Sometimes when I read the papers from the old country, I pretty -near run away," he confessed with a little laugh. "I never did think how I -would be a settled man like this." - -He was still, as ntonia said, a city man. He liked theaters and lighted -streets and music and a game of dominoes after the day's work was over. -His sociability was stronger than his acquisitive instinct. He liked to -live day by day and night by night, sharing in the excitement of the -crowd.--Yet his wife had managed to hold him here on a farm, in one of the -loneliest countries in the world. - -I could see the little chap, sitting here every evening by the windmill, -nursing his pipe and listening to the silence; the wheeze of the pump, the -grunting of the pigs, an occasional squawking when the hens were disturbed -by a rat. It did rather seem to me that Cuzak had been made the instrument -of ntonia's special mission. This was a fine life, certainly, but it was -n't the kind of life he had wanted to live. I wondered whether the life -that was right for one was ever right for two! - -I asked Cuzak if he did n't find it hard to do without the gay company he -had always been used to. He knocked out his pipe against an upright, -sighed, and dropped it into his pocket. - -"At first I near go crazy with lonesomeness," he said frankly, "but my -woman is got such a warm heart. She always make it as good for me as she -could. Now it ain't so bad; I can begin to have some fun with my boys, -already!" - -As we walked toward the house, Cuzak cocked his hat jauntily over one ear -and looked up at the moon. "Gee!" he said in a hushed voice, as if he had -just wakened up, "it don't seem like I am away from there twenty-six -year!" - - - - -III - - -AFTER dinner the next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to -take the train for Black Hawk. ntonia and her children gathered round my -buggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with -friendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When I -reached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still there -by the windmill. ntonia was waving her apron. - -At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, resting his arm on the -wheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and ran off into the pasture. - -"That's like him," his brother said with a shrug. "He's a crazy kid. Maybe -he's sorry to have you go, and maybe he's jealous. He's jealous of anybody -mother makes a fuss over, even the priest." - -I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant voice and his fine -head and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood there without a hat, the -wind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and shoulders. - -"Don't forget that you and Rudolph are going hunting with me up on the -Niobrara next summer," I said. "Your father's agreed to let you off after -harvest." - -He smiled. "I won't likely forget. I've never had such a nice thing -offered to me before. I don't know what makes you so nice to us boys," he -added, blushing. - -"Oh, yes you do!" I said, gathering up my reins. - -He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with unabashed pleasure -and affection as I drove away. - - - -My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my old friends were dead -or had moved away. Strange children, who meant nothing to me, were playing -in the Harlings' big yard when I passed; the mountain ash had been cut -down, and only a sprouting stump was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that -used to guard the gate. I hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with -Anton Jelinek, under a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his -saloon. While I was having my mid-day dinner at the hotel, I met one of -the old lawyers who was still in practice, and he took me up to his office -and talked over the Cutter case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how -to put in the time until the night express was due. - -I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land -was so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of -early times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I -felt at home again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of -autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see -the dun-shaded river bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about -stretched drying cornfields, of the pale-gold color I remembered so well. -Russian thistles were blowing across the uplands and piling against the -wire fences like barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of -golden-rod were already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold -threads in it. I had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over -little towns, and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to -take with the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water. -There were enough Cuzaks to play with for a long while yet. Even after the -boys grew up, there would always be Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along -a few miles of lighted streets with Cuzak. - -As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble -upon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north -country; to my grandfather's farm, then on to the Shimerdas' and to the -Norwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the -highways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was -all that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing -across the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and -doubling like a rabbit before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had -almost disappeared--were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would -not have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was -easy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed -them so deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like -gashes torn by a grizzly's claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons used -to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on -the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn -rosy in the slanting sunlight. - -This was the road over which ntonia and I came on that night when we got -off the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering -children, being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to -hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by -that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near -that I could reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of -coming home to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man's -experience is. For ntonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny; -had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which predetermined for -us all that we can ever be. Now I understood that the same road was to -bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the -precious, the incommunicable past. - - THE END - - - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - - 1 The Bohemian name _ntonia_ is strongly accented on the first - syllable, like the English name _Anthony_, and the _i_ is, of - course, given the sound of long _e_. The name is pronounced - An{~MODIFIER LETTER PRIME~}-ton-ee-ah. - - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY NTONIA*** - - - -CREDITS - - -November 14, 2006 - - LibraryCity Trusted Edition - Jon Noring - Lori Watrous-de Versterre - Jos Menndez - -November 14, 2006 - - Conversion to PGTEI v0.4 - Joshua Hutchinson - - - -A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG - - -This file should be named 19810-8.txt or 19810-8.zip. - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - - - http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/8/1/19810/ - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one -- the old editions will be -renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, - give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project - Gutenberg License <a href="#pglicense" class="tei tei-ref">included with this - eBook</a> or online at <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license" class="tei tei-xref">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a></p></div><pre class="pre tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 3.00em; margin-top: 3.00em">Title: My Ántonia - -Author: Willa Sibert Cather - -Release Date: November 14, 2006 [Ebook #19810] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ÁNTONIA*** -</pre></div> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-titlePage"> - <span class="tei tei-docTitle"><span class="tei tei-titlePart"><span style="font-size: 144%">My Ántonia</span></span><br /><br /></span> - <div class="tei tei-byline">By <span class="tei tei-docAuthor">Willa Sibert Cather</span><br /><br /></div> - - <div class="tei tei-epigraph" style="text-align: right; margin-bottom: 1.80em; margin-left: 9.00em"><p class="tei tei-p" style="text-align: right; margin-bottom: 0.90em"><span style="font-size: 90%">Optima dies … prima fugit</span><br /><span style="font-size: 90%"> - Virgil</span></p></div> - - <div class="tei tei-byline">with illustrations by<br /> - W. T. Benda<br /><br /></div> - -<div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image01.png" width="320" height="418" alt="Illustration: The Riverside Press" /></div> - -<span class="tei tei-docImprint">Boston and New York<br /> -Houghton Mifflin Companys<br /> -The Riverside Press Cambridge<br /><br /></span> -<span class="tei tei-docDate">1918</span> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<p class="tei tei-p" style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em">To<br /> -Carrie and Irene Miner</p> - -<p class="tei tei-p" style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span style="font-style: italic">In memory of affections old and true</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Contents</span></h1> -<ul class="tei tei-index tei-index-toc"><li><a href="#toc1">Introduction</a></li><li><a href="#toc3">Book I— The Shimerdas</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc6">II</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc8">III</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc10">IV</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc12">V</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc14">VI</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc17">VII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc19">VIII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc21">IX</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc23">X</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc26">XI</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc28">XII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc31">XIII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc33">XIV</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc35">XV</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc37">XVI</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc39">XVII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc42">XVIII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc44">XIX</a></li><li><a href="#toc47">Book II—The Hired Girls</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc49">I</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc51">II</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc53">III</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc55">IV</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc58">V</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc60">VI</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc62">VII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc64">VIII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc66">IX</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc68">X</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc70">XI</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc72">XII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc74">XIII</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc76">XIV</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc78">XV</a></li><li><a href="#toc80">Book III—Lena Lingard</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc82">I</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc84">II</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc86">III</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc88">IV</a></li><li><a href="#toc90">Book IV—The Pioneer Woman’s Story</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc92">I</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc94">II</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc96">III</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc99">IV</a></li><li><a href="#toc101">Book V—Cuzak’s Boys</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc103">I</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc105">II</a></li><li style="margin-left: 2em"><a href="#toc107">III</a></li></ul> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Illustrations</span></h1> -<ul class="tei tei-index tei-index-fig"><li><a href="#fig5">Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform</a></li><li><a href="#fig16">Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over his shoulder</a></li><li><a href="#fig25">Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest</a></li><li><a href="#fig30">Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree</a></li><li><a href="#fig41">Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field</a></li><li><a href="#fig46">Illustration: Jim and Ántonia in the garden</a></li><li><a href="#fig57">Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings</a></li><li><a href="#fig98">Illustration: Ántonia driving her cattle home</a></li></ul> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<a name="toc1" id="toc1"></a> -<a name="pdf2" id="pdf2"></a> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="pageix">[pg ix]</span><a name="Pgix" id="Pgix" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Introduction</span></h1> - -<p id="p0001" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Last</span></span> summer I -happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of intense -heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion -James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the -West. He and I are old friends—we grew up together in the same -Nebraska town—and we had much to say to each other. While the -train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country -towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, -we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch -and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning -wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is -like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried -in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning -summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, -when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of -strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, -when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We -agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town<span class="tei tei-pb" id="pagex">[pg x]</span><a name="Pgx" id="Pgx" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we -said.</p> - -<p id="p0002" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and -are old friends, I do not see much of him there. He is legal counsel -for one of the great Western railways, and is sometimes away from his -New York office for weeks together. That is one reason why we do not -often meet. Another is that I do not like his wife.</p> - -<p id="p0003" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, -struggling to make his way in New York, his career was suddenly -advanced by a brilliant marriage. Genevieve Whitney was the only -daughter of a distinguished man. Her marriage with young Burden was -the subject of sharp comment at the time. It was said she had been -brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, and that she married -this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She was a restless, -headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her friends. Later, -when I knew her, she was always doing something unexpected. She gave -one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, produced one of -her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for picketing -during a garment-makers’ strike, <span class="tei tei-abbr">etc.</span> I am never -able to believe that she has much feeling for the causes to which she -lends her name and her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="pagexi">[pg xi]</span><a name="Pgxi" id="Pgxi" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -executive, but to me she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally -incapable of enthusiasm. Her husband’s quiet tastes irritate -her, I think, and she finds it worth while to play the patroness to a -group of young poets and painters of advanced ideas and mediocre -ability. She has her own fortune and lives her own life. For some -reason, she wishes to remain <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> James Burden.</p> - -<p id="p0004" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe -enough to chill his naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This -disposition, though it often made him seem very funny when he was a -boy, has been one of the strongest elements in his success. He loves -with a personal passion the great country through which his railway -runs and branches. His faith in it and his knowledge of it have played -an important part in its development. He is always able to raise -capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or Montana, and has helped -young men out there to do remarkable things in mines and timber and -oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim Burden’s -attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the wilds -hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money which -means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose himself -in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets new -people and new enterprises<span class="tei tei-pb" id="pagexii">[pg xii]</span><a name="Pgxii" id="Pgxii" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood friends remember him. He -never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color and sandy hair and -quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and his -sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is -Western and American.</p> - -<p id="p0005" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, -our talk kept returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we -had known long ago and whom both of us admired. More than any other -person we remembered, this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the -conditions, the whole adventure of our childhood. To speak her name -was to call up pictures of people and places, to set a quiet drama -going in one’s brain. I had lost sight of her altogether, but -Jim had found her again after long years, had renewed a friendship -that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy life had set apart -time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full of her that -day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all my old -affection for her.</p> - -<p id="p0006" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I can’t see,” he said impetuously, -“why you have never written anything about -Ántonia.”</p> - -<p id="p0007" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one—knew her much better than I. I was -ready, however, to make an agreement with him; I would set down on -paper all<span class="tei tei-pb" id="pagexiii">[pg xiii]</span><a name="Pgxiii" id="Pgxiii" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -that I remembered of Ántonia if he would do the same. We might, -in this way, get a picture of her.</p> - -<p id="p0008" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, -which with him often announces a new determination, and I could see -that my suggestion took hold of him. “Maybe I will, maybe I -will!” he declared. He stared out of the window for a few -moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden -clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. “Of -course,” he said, “I should have to do it in a direct way, -and say a great deal about myself. It’s through myself that I -knew and felt her, and I’ve had no practice in any other form of -presentation.”</p> - -<p id="p0009" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I told him that how he knew her and felt her was -exactly what I most wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had -opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go, -had not.</p> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p0010" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment -one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered -under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him -and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands.</p> - -<p id="p0011" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I finished it last night—the thing -about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what about yours?”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="pagexiv">[pg xiv]</span><a name="Pgxiv" id="Pgxiv" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0012" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few -straggling notes.</p> - -<p id="p0013" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Notes? I did n’t make any.” He -drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. “I did n’t -arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself -and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose -it has n’t any form. It has n’t any title, either.” -He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the -pinkish face of the portfolio the word, “Ántonia.” -He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it -“My Ántonia.” That seemed to satisfy him.</p> - -<p id="p0014" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Read it as soon as you can,” he said, -rising, “but don’t let it influence your own -story.”</p> - -<p id="p0015" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">My own story was never written, but the following -narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to -me.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<div class="tei tei-body" style="margin-bottom: 6.00em; margin-top: 6.00em"> -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page003">[pg 003]</span><a name="Pg003" id="Pg003" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc3" id="toc3"></a> -<a name="pdf4" id="pdf4"></a> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Book I— The Shimerdas</span></h1> -<p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"></p> - -<div id="chap1-01" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">I</span></h2> - -<p id="p0016" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">I first</span></span> heard of -Ántonia<a id="noteref_1" name="noteref_1" href="#note_1"><span class="tei tei-noteref"><span style="font-size: 60%; vertical-align: super">1</span></span></a> -on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland -plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my -father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were -sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled -in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the -“hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue -Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s -experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never -been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to -try our fortunes in a new world.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page004">[pg 004]</span><a name="Pg004" id="Pg004" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0017" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more -sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought -everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar -buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse -James,” which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I -have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a -friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which -we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our -confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had -been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the -names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and -badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his -cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more -inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he -told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from -“across the water” whose destination was the same as -ours.</p> - -<p id="p0018" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“They can’t any of them speak English, -except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk, -Nebraska.’ She’s not<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page005">[pg 005]</span><a name="Pg005" id="Pg005" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as -bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her, -Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!”</p> - -<p id="p0019" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head -and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me -approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from -foreigners.</p> - -<p id="p0020" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or -anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably -by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The -only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all -day long, Nebraska.</p> - -<p id="p0021" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, -for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took -me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, -where men were running about with lanterns. I could n’t see any -town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. -The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow -from the fire-box, a group of people stood<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page006">[pg 006]</span><a name="Pg006" id="Pg006" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I -knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us -about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she -carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a -baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and -a girl stood holding -oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts. -Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, -shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively -the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue.</p> - -<p id="p0022" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called -out: “Hello, are you <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden’s folks? If -you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs. -I’m <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden’s hired man, and I’m to -drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you scared to come so far -west?”</p> - -<a name="fig5" id="fig5"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image02.png" width="640" height="637" alt="Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform" /></div> - -<p id="p0023" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I looked up with interest at the new face in the -lantern light. He might have stepped out of the pages of “Jesse -James.” He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a -bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache were twisted up stiffly, -like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page007">[pg 007]</span><a name="Pg007" id="Pg007" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the -corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was -gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely this was the -face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his -high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather -slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a -long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us -to a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the -foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake -got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the -bottom of the wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The -immigrants rumbled off into the empty darkness, and we followed -them.</p> - -<p id="p0024" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite -my tongue, and I soon began to ache all over. When the straw settled -down I had a hard bed. Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo -hide, got up on my knees and peered over the side of the wagon. There -seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills -or fields. If there was<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page008">[pg 008]</span><a name="Pg008" id="Pg008" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was -nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which -countries are made. No, there was nothing but land—slightly -undulating, I knew, because often our wheels ground against the brake -as we went down into a hollow and lurched up again on the other side. -I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over -the edge of it, and were outside man’s jurisdiction. I had never -before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain -ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there -was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and mother were -watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me at the -sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to the -mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon -jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don’t think I was -homesick. If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between -that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my -prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-02" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page009">[pg 009]</span><a name="Pg009" id="Pg009" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc6" id="toc6"></a> -<a name="pdf7" id="pdf7"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">II</span></h2> - -<p id="p0025" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">I do</span></span> not remember -our arrival at my grandfather’s farm sometime before daybreak, -after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. When I -awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely larger -than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was -flapping softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin -and black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my -grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my -eyes she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of -my bed.</p> - -<p id="p0026" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Had a good sleep, Jimmy?” she asked -briskly. Then in a very different tone she said, as if to herself, -“My, how you do look like your father!” I remembered that -my father had been her little boy; she must often have come to wake -him like this when he overslept. “Here are your clean -clothes,” she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand -as she talked. “But first you come down to the kitchen with me, -and have a nice warm bath<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page010">[pg 010]</span><a name="Pg010" id="Pg010" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -behind the stove. Bring your things; there’s nobody -about.”</p> - -<p id="p0027" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Down to the kitchen” struck me as -curious; it was always “out in the kitchen” at home. I -picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her through the -living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This basement -was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a -kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed—the plaster laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in -dugouts. The floor was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling -there were little half-windows with white curtains, and pots of -geraniums and wandering Jew in the deep sills. As I entered the -kitchen I sniffed a pleasant smell of gingerbread baking. The stove -was very large, with bright nickel trimmings, and behind it there was -a long wooden bench against the wall, and a tin washtub, into which -grandmother poured hot and cold water. When she brought the soap and -towels, I told her that I was used to taking my bath without help.</p> - -<p id="p0028" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure? -Well, now, I call you a right smart little boy.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page011">[pg 011]</span><a name="Pg011" id="Pg011" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0029" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone -into my bath-water through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat -came up and rubbed himself against the tub, watching me curiously. -While I scrubbed, my grandmother busied herself in the dining-room -until I called anxiously, “Grandmother, I’m afraid the -cakes are burning!” Then she came laughing, waving her apron -before her as if she were shooing chickens.</p> - -<p id="p0030" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and -she was apt to carry her head thrust forward in an attitude of -attention, as if she were looking at something, or listening to -something, far away. As I grew older, I came to believe that it was -only because she was so often thinking of things that were far away. -She was quick-footed and energetic in all her movements. Her voice was -high and rather shrill, and she often spoke with an anxious -inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous that everything should go -with due order and decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, and perhaps a -little strident, but there was a lively intelligence in it. She was -then fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance.</p> - -<p id="p0031" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After I was dressed I explored the long cellar<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page012">[pg 012]</span><a name="Pg012" id="Pg012" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -next the kitchen. It was dug out under the wing of the house, was -plastered and cemented, with a stairway and an outside door by which -the men came and went. Under one of the windows there was a place for -them to wash when they came in from work.</p> - -<p id="p0032" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While my grandmother was busy about supper I settled -myself on the wooden bench behind the stove and got acquainted with -the cat—he caught not only rats and mice, but gophers, I was -told. The patch of yellow sunlight on the floor traveled back toward -the stairway, and grandmother and I talked about my journey, and about -the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she said they were to be our -nearest neighbors. We did not talk about the farm in Virginia, which -had been her home for so many years. But after the men came in from -the fields, and we were all seated at the supper-table, then she asked -Jake about the old place and about our friends and neighbors -there.</p> - -<p id="p0033" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">My grandfather said little. When he first came in he -kissed me and spoke kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt -at once his deliberateness and personal dignity, and was a little in -awe of him. The thing one<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page013">[pg 013]</span><a name="Pg013" id="Pg013" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, snow-white -beard. I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of an -Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive.</p> - -<p id="p0034" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather’s eyes were not at all like those -of an old man; they were bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle. -His teeth were white and regular—so sound that he had never -been to a dentist in his life. He had a delicate skin, easily -roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man his hair and beard -were red; his eyebrows were still coppery.</p> - -<p id="p0035" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we sat at the table Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing -covert glances at each other. Grandmother had told me while she was -getting supper that he was an Austrian who came to this country a -young boy and had led an adventurous life in the Far West among -mining-camps and cow outfits. His iron constitution was somewhat -broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had drifted back to live in a -milder country for a while. He had relatives in Bismarck, a German -settlement to the north of us, but for a year now he had been working -for grandfather.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page014">[pg 014]</span><a name="Pg014" id="Pg014" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0036" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the -kitchen to whisper to me about a pony down in the barn that had been -bought for me at a sale; he had been riding him to find out whether he -had any bad tricks, but he was a “perfect gentleman,” and -his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I wanted to know: how he -had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was a stage-driver, and -how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for me before -sundown next day. He got out his “chaps” and silver spurs -to show them to Jake and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops -stitched in bold design—roses, and true-lover’s knots, -and undraped female figures. These, he solemnly explained, were -angels.</p> - -<p id="p0037" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Before we went to bed Jake and Otto were called up to -the living-room for prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed -spectacles and read several Psalms. His voice was so sympathetic and -he read so interestingly that I wished he had chosen one of my -favorite chapters in the Book of Kings. I was awed by his intonation -of the word “Selah.” “<em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">He shall -choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom He loved. -Selah.</span></em>” I had no idea what the word meant; perhaps he had not.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page015">[pg 015]</span><a name="Pg015" id="Pg015" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -But, as he uttered it, it became oracular, the most sacred of -words.</p> - -<p id="p0038" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Early the next morning I ran out of doors to look -about me. I had been told that ours was the only wooden house west of -Black Hawk—until you came to the Norwegian settlement, where -there were several. Our neighbors lived in sod houses and dugouts—comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame house, with a -story and half-story above the basement, stood at the east end of what -I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the kitchen -door. From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the barns -and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, -and washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, -at the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty -willow bushes growing about it. The road from the post-office came -directly by our door, crossed the farmyard, and curved round this -little pond, beyond which it began to climb the gentle swell of -unbroken prairie to the west. There, along the western sky-line, it -skirted a great cornfield, much larger than any field I had ever seen. -This cornfield, and the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page016">[pg 016]</span><a name="Pg016" id="Pg016" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -sorghum patch behind the barn, were the only broken land in sight. -Everywhere, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but -rough, shaggy, red grass, most of it as tall as I.</p> - -<p id="p0039" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks, -grew a thick-set strip of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves -already turning yellow. This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile -long, but I had to look very hard to see it at all. The little trees -were insignificant against the grass. It seemed as if the grass were -about to run over them, and over the plum-patch behind the sod -chicken-house.</p> - -<p id="p0040" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the -country, as the water is the sea. The red of the grass made all the -great prairie the color of wine-stains, or of certain seaweeds when -they are first washed up. And there was so much motion in it; the -whole country seemed, somehow, to be running.</p> - -<p id="p0041" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when -she came out, her sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and -asked me if I did not want to go to the garden with her to dig -potatoes for dinner. The garden, curiously enough, was a quarter of a -mile from<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page017">[pg 017]</span><a name="Pg017" id="Pg017" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the house, and the way to it led up a shallow draw past the cattle -corral. Grandmother called my attention to a stout hickory cane, -tipped with copper, which hung by a leather thong from her belt. This, -she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I must never go to the garden -without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had killed a good many -rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who lived on the -Black Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all -summer.</p> - -<p id="p0042" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I can remember exactly how the country looked to me -as I walked beside my grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that -early September morning. Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was -still with me, for more than anything else I felt motion in the -landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth -itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort of loose hide, and -underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, galloping -…</p> - -<p id="p0043" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Alone, I should never have found the garden—except, -perhaps, for the big yellow pumpkins that lay about -unprotected by their withering vines—and I felt very little -interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk straight on<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page018">[pg 018]</span><a name="Pg018" id="Pg018" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not -be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world ended -here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a -little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float -off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making -slow shadows on the grass. While grandmother took the pitchfork we -found standing in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked -them up out of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag, I kept -looking up at the hawks that were doing what I might so easily do.</p> - -<p id="p0044" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like -to stay up there in the garden awhile.</p> - -<p id="p0045" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet. -“Are n’t you afraid of snakes?”</p> - -<p id="p0046" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“A little,” I admitted, “but -I’d like to stay anyhow.”</p> - -<p id="p0047" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well, if you see one, don’t have -anything to do with him. The big yellow and brown ones won’t -hurt you; they’re bull-snakes and help to keep the gophers down. -Don’t be scared if you see anything look out of that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page019">[pg 019]</span><a name="Pg019" id="Pg019" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -hole in the bank over there. That’s a badger hole. He’s -about as big as a big ’possum, and his face is striped, black -and white. He takes a chicken once in a while, but I won’t let -the men harm him. In a new country a body feels friendly to the -animals. I like to have him come out and watch me when I’m at -work.”</p> - -<p id="p0048" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her -shoulder and went down the path, leaning forward a little. The road -followed the windings of the draw; when she came to the first bend she -waved at me and disappeared. I was left alone with this new feeling of -lightness and content.</p> - -<p id="p0049" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes -could scarcely approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm -yellow pumpkin. There were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the -furrows, full of fruit. I turned back the papery triangular sheaths -that protected the berries and ate a few. All about me giant -grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever seen, were doing -acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers scurried up and -down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered draw-bottom the wind -did not blow very hard, but I could hear it -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page020">[pg 020]</span><a name="Pg020" id="Pg020" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -singing its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall -grasses wave. The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it -through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow -squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black -spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect -anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt -it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was -entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a -part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and -knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into -something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as -naturally as sleep.</p> -</div> - - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-03" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page021">[pg 021]</span><a name="Pg021" id="Pg021" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc8" id="toc8"></a> -<a name="pdf9" id="pdf9"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">III</span></h2> - -<p id="p0050" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">On</span></span> Sunday morning -Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance of our new -Bohemian neighbors. We were taking them some provisions, as they had -come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or -chicken-house, and very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of -potatoes and a piece of cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother -packed some loaves of Saturday’s bread, a jar of butter, and -several pumpkin pies in the straw of the wagon-box. We clambered up to -the front seat and jolted off past the little pond and along the road -that climbed to the big cornfield.</p> - -<p id="p0051" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that -cornfield; but there was only red grass like ours, and nothing else, -though from the high wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The -road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing -them where they were wide and shallow. And all along it, wherever it -looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; some of them were as big as little -trees, with<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page022">[pg 022]</span><a name="Pg022" id="Pg022" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -great rough leaves and many branches which bore dozens of blossoms. -They made a gold ribbon across the prairie. Occasionally one of the -horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full of blossoms, and -walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in time to his bites as he -ate down toward them.</p> - -<p id="p0052" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove -along, had bought the homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, -and had paid him more than it was worth. Their agreement with him was -made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his, who -was also a relative of <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda. The Shimerdas were -the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county. Krajiek -was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything he chose. -They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make -their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown, -and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail -and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a -skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought -his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page023">[pg 023]</span><a name="Pg023" id="Pg023" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home.</p> - -<p id="p0053" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“If they’re nice people, I hate to think -of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,” -said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no -proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty -dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.”</p> - -<p id="p0054" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes’m,” said Otto; “and -he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the -price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d -’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a -natural distrust of Austrians.”</p> - -<p id="p0055" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is -that, Otto?”</p> - -<p id="p0056" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well, -ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to -explain.”</p> - -<p id="p0057" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were -approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the -Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming. -Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the -windings of the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page024">[pg 024]</span><a name="Pg024" id="Pg024" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that -grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned, -and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the -gold and silver trees in fairy tales.</p> - -<p id="p0058" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I -could still see nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with -shelving banks and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled -away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed, -thatched with the same wine-colored grass that grew everywhere. Near -it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had no wheel. We drove up -to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window -sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a woman and a -girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl -trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same -embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had -alighted from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was -certainly not young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin -and shrewd little eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand -energetically.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page025">[pg 025]</span><a name="Pg025" id="Pg025" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0059" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated. -Immediately she pointed to the bank out of which she had emerged and -said, “House no good, house no good!”</p> - -<p id="p0060" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll -get fixed up comfortable after while, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda; make -good house.”</p> - -<p id="p0061" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to -foreigners, as if they were deaf. She made <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda -understand the friendly intention of our visit, and the Bohemian woman -handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and examined the -pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, much -thank!”—and again she wrung grandmother’s hand.</p> - -<p id="p0062" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The oldest son, Ambrož,—they called it -Ambrosch,—came out of the cave and stood beside his mother. He -was nineteen years old, short and broad-backed, with a close-cropped, -flat head, and a wide, flat face. His hazel eyes were little and -shrewd, like his mother’s, but more sly and suspicious; they -fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on corncakes -and sorghum molasses for three days.</p> - -<p id="p0063" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The little girl was pretty, but Án-tonia—<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page026">[pg 026]</span><a name="Pg026" id="Pg026" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -they accented the name thus, strongly, when they spoke to her—was -still prettier. I remembered what the conductor had said about her -eyes. They were big and warm and full of light, like the sun shining -on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was brown, too, and in her cheeks -she had a glow of rich, dark color. Her brown hair was curly and -wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called Yulka (Julka), was -fair, and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood awkwardly -confronting the two girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see what -was going on. With him was another Shimerda son. Even from a distance -one could see that there was something strange about this boy. As he -approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands -to show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a -duck’s foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow -delightedly, “Hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!” like a rooster. His -mother scowled and said sternly, “Marek!” then spoke -rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian.</p> - -<p id="p0064" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She wants me to tell you he won’t hurt -nobody, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden. He was born like that. The others -are smart. Ambrosch, he make<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page027">[pg 027]</span><a name="Pg027" id="Pg027" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -good farmer.” He struck Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled -knowingly.</p> - -<p id="p0065" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At that moment the father came out of the hole in the -bank. He wore no hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed -straight back from his forehead. It was so long that it bushed out -behind his ears, and made him look like the old portraits I remembered -in Virginia. He was tall and slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. -He looked at us understandingly, then took grandmother’s hand -and bent over it. I noticed how white and well-shaped his own hands -were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. His eyes were -melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face was -ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes—like something from -which all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old -man was in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. -Under his coat he wore a knitted gray vest, and, instead of a collar, -a silk scarf of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held -together by a red coral pin. While Krajiek was translating for -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda, Ántonia came up to me and held out -her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were running up<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page028">[pg 028]</span><a name="Pg028" id="Pg028" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the steep drawside together, Yulka trotting after us.</p> - -<p id="p0066" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When we reached the level and could see the gold -tree-tops, I pointed toward them, and Ántonia laughed and -squeezed my hand as if to tell me how glad she was I had come. We -raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop until the ground itself -stopped—fell away before us so abruptly that the next step -would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the edge -of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below -us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the -girls’ skirts were blown out before them. Ántonia seemed -to like it; she held her little sister by the hand and chattered away -in that language which seemed to me spoken so much more rapidly than -mine. She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she could -not say.</p> - -<p id="p0067" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Name? What name?” she asked, touching me -on the shoulder. I told her my name, and she repeated it after me and -made Yulka say it. She pointed into the gold cottonwood tree behind -whose top we stood and said again, “What name?”</p> - -<p id="p0068" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We sat down and made a nest in the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page029">[pg 029]</span><a name="Pg029" id="Pg029" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -long red grass. Yulka curled up like a baby rabbit and played with a -grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky and questioned me -with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not satisfied and -pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, making it -sound like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my -eyes, then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that -she distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on -her knees and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook -her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding violently.</p> - -<p id="p0069" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue -sky.”</p> - -<p id="p0070" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky, -blue eyes,” as if it amused her. While we snuggled down there -out of the wind she learned a score of words. She was quick, and very -eager. We were so deep in the grass that we could see nothing but the -blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us. It was wonderfully -pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over and over, -she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her -middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite -sternly. I did n’t<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page030">[pg 030]</span><a name="Pg030" id="Pg030" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant -about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before. -No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they -behaved.</p> - -<p id="p0071" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a -mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia, -Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare. -“<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">Tatinek</span>, -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">Tatinek</span>!” she shouted, -and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. -Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I -came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my -face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was -used to being taken for granted by my elders.</p> - -<p id="p0072" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We went with <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda back to the -dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the -wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a -page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed -this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly, -and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget, -“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-04" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page031">[pg 031]</span><a name="Pg031" id="Pg031" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc10" id="toc10"></a> -<a name="pdf11" id="pdf11"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">IV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0073" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">On</span></span> the afternoon -of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under -Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the -post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of -time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow -anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the -sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended -to such things after working hours.</p> - -<p id="p0074" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All the years that have passed have not dimmed my -memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before -me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way -over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again. -Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that -the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that -at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out -into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page032">[pg 032]</span><a name="Pg032" id="Pg032" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party, -crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went. -The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all -the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I -believe that botanists do not confirm -Jake’s -story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. -Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered -roads always seem to me the roads to freedom.</p> - -<p id="p0075" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I used to love to drift along the pale yellow -cornfields, looking for the damp spots one sometimes found at their -edges, where the smartweed soon turned a rich copper color and the -narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about the swollen joints -of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German neighbors and -to admire their catalpa grove, or to see the big elm tree that grew up -out of a deep crack in the earth and had a hawk’s nest in its -branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make -such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, -and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity -of<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page033">[pg 033]</span><a name="Pg033" id="Pg033" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious.</p> - -<p id="p0076" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to -watch the -brown, -earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests -underground with the dogs. Ántonia Shimerda liked to go with -me, and we used to wonder a great deal about these birds of -subterranean habit. We had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes -were always lurking about. They came to pick up an easy living among -the dogs and owls, which were quite defenseless against them; took -possession of their comfortable houses and ate the eggs and puppies. -We felt sorry for the owls. It was always mournful to see them come -flying home at sunset and disappear under the earth. But, after all, -we felt, winged things who would live like that must be rather -degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any pond or -creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the desert -where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that -some of the holes must go down to water—nearly two hundred -feet, hereabouts. Ántonia said she did n’t believe it; -that the dogs probably<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page034">[pg 034]</span><a name="Pg034" id="Pg034" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits.</p> - -<p id="p0077" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia had opinions about everything, and she -was soon able to make them known. Almost every day she came running -across the prairie to have her reading lesson with me. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was important -that one member of the family should learn English. When the lesson -was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the garden. -I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the -hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The -white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with -curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set -in, and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the -Shimerdas were famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for -miles along the edge of the cornfields, hunting for -ground-cherries.</p> - -<p id="p0078" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia loved to help grandmother in the -kitchen and to learn about cooking and housekeeping. She would stand -beside her, watching her every movement. We were willing to believe -that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda was a good housewife in her own -country, but she managed<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page035">[pg 035]</span><a name="Pg035" id="Pg035" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -poorly under new conditions: the conditions were bad enough, -certainly!</p> - -<p id="p0079" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I remember how horrified we were at the sour, -ashy-gray bread she gave her family to eat. She mixed her dough, we -discovered, in an old tin peck-measure that Krajiek had used about the -barn. When she took the paste out to bake it, she left smears of dough -sticking to the sides of the measure, put the measure on the shelf -behind the stove, and let this residue ferment. The next time she made -bread, she scraped this sour stuff down into the fresh dough to serve -as yeast.</p> - -<p id="p0080" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">During those first months the Shimerdas never went to -town. Krajiek encouraged them in the belief that in Black Hawk they -would somehow be mysteriously separated from their money. They hated -Krajiek, but they clung to him because he was the only human being -with whom they could talk or from whom they could get information. He -slept with the old man and the two boys in the dugout barn, along with -the oxen. They kept him in their hole and fed him for the same reason -that the prairie dogs and the brown owls housed the rattlesnakes—because they did not know how to get rid of him.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-05" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page036">[pg 036]</span><a name="Pg036" id="Pg036" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc12" id="toc12"></a> -<a name="pdf13" id="pdf13"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">V</span></h2> - -<p id="p0081" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">We</span></span> knew that -things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two girls were -light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to forget -their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, -scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail.</p> - -<p id="p0082" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I remember Ántonia’s excitement when she -came into our kitchen one afternoon and announced: “My papa find -friends up north, with Russian mans. Last night he take me for see, -and I can understand very much talk. Nice mans, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody laugh. The first -time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very nice!”</p> - -<p id="p0083" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived -up by the big dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them -when I was riding in that direction, but one of them was a -wild-looking fellow and I was a little afraid of him. Russia seemed to -me more remote than any other country—farther away than China, -almost as far as the North Pole. Of<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page037">[pg 037]</span><a name="Pg037" id="Pg037" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -all the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two -men were the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were -unpronounceable, so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about -making signs to people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no -friends. Krajiek could understand them a little, but he had cheated -them in a trade, so they avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to -be an anarchist; since he had no means of imparting his opinions, -probably his wild gesticulations and his generally excited and -rebellious manner gave rise to this supposition. He must once have -been a very strong man, but now his great frame, with big, knotty -joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn tight over his high -cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always had a cough.</p> - -<p id="p0084" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of -fellow; short, bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed -pleased when he met people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to -every one, men as well as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he -looked like an old man; his hair and beard were of such a pale flaxen -color that they seemed white in<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page038">[pg 038]</span><a name="Pg038" id="Pg038" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face, -with its snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its -leaves. He was usually called “Curly Peter,” or -“Rooshian Peter.”</p> - -<p id="p0085" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer -they worked out together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they -told how Peter always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other -bachelor homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes -Peter came to church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw -him, sitting on a low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands, -his bare feet tucked apologetically under the seat.</p> - -<p id="p0086" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda discovered the -Russians, he went to see them almost every evening, and sometimes took -Ántonia with him. She said they came from a part of Russia -where the language was not very different from Bohemian, and if I -wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for me. One -afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there together on -my pony.</p> - -<p id="p0087" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy -slope, with a windlass well beside the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page039">[pg 039]</span><a name="Pg039" id="Pg039" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, and a -garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We -found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was -working so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved -up and down as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with -his shaggy head and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to -greet us, drops of perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down -on to his curly beard. Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave -his washing. He took us down to see his chickens, and his cow that was -grazing on the hillside. He told Ántonia that in his country -only rich people had cows, but here any man could have one who would -take care of her. The milk was good for Pavel, who was often sick, and -he could make butter by beating sour cream with a wooden spoon. Peter -was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks and talked to her in -Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it in a new -place.</p> - -<p id="p0088" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a -load of watermelons up the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at -home. He<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page040">[pg 040]</span><a name="Pg040" id="Pg040" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was off somewhere helping to dig a well. The house I thought very -comfortable for two men who were “batching.” Besides the -kitchen, there was a living-room, with a wide double bed built against -the wall, properly made up with blue gingham sheets and pillows. There -was a little storeroom, too, with a window, where they kept guns and -saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That day the floor was -covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and beans and fat -yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in the house, -and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies and -sunshine alike.</p> - -<p id="p0089" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered -table and stood over them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the -blade got fairly into them, they split of their own ripeness, with a -delicious sound. He gave us knives, but no plates, and the top of the -table was soon swimming with juice and seeds. I had never seen any one -eat so many melons as Peter ate. He assured us that they were good for -one—better than medicine; in his country people lived on them -at this time of year. He was very hospitable and jolly.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page041">[pg 041]</span><a name="Pg041" id="Pg041" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Once, while he was looking at Ántonia, he sighed and told us -that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would -have had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him. -He said he had left his country because of a “great -trouble.”</p> - -<p id="p0090" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When we got up to go, Peter looked about in -perplexity for something that would entertain us. He ran into the -storeroom and brought out a gaudily painted harmonica, sat down on a -bench, and spreading his fat legs apart began to play like a whole -band. The tunes were either very lively or very doleful, and he sang -words to some of them.</p> - -<p id="p0091" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack -for <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda and gave us a lard-pail full of milk to -cook them in. I had never heard of cooking cucumbers, but -Ántonia assured me they were very good. We had to walk the pony -all the way home to keep from spilling the milk.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-06" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page042">[pg 042]</span><a name="Pg042" id="Pg042" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc14" id="toc14"></a> -<a name="pdf15" id="pdf15"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">VI</span></h2> - -<p id="p0092" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">One</span></span> afternoon we -were having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank where the -badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a shiver -of coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little horse-pond -that morning, and as we went through the garden we found the tall -asparagus, with its red berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy -green.</p> - -<p id="p0093" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton -dress and was comfortable only when we were tucked down on the baked -earth, in the full blaze of the sun. She could talk to me about almost -anything by this time. That afternoon she was telling me how highly -esteemed our friend the badger was in her part of the world, and how -men kept a special kind of dog, with very short legs, to hunt him. -Those dogs, she said, went down into the hole after the badger and -killed him there in a terrific struggle underground; you could hear -the barks and yelps outside. Then the dog dragged himself back, -covered with bites and scratches, to be rewarded and petted by his -master. She<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page043">[pg 043]</span><a name="Pg043" id="Pg043" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -knew a dog who had a star on his collar for every badger he had -killed.</p> - -<p id="p0094" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They -kept starting up all about us, and dashing off down the draw as if -they were playing a game of some kind. But the little buzzing things -that lived in the grass were all dead—all but one. While we -were lying there against the warm bank, a little insect of the palest, -frailest green hopped painfully out of the buffalo grass and tried to -leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, fell back, and sat with -his head sunk between his long legs, his antennæ quivering, as -if he were waiting for something to come and finish him. Tony made a -warm nest for him in her hands; talked to him gayly and indulgently in -Bohemian. Presently he began to sing for us—a thin, rusty -little chirp. She held him close to her ear and laughed, but a moment -afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told me that in her -village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about selling -herbs and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and -gave her a warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children -in a cracked voice, like this. Old Hata, she<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page044">[pg 044]</span><a name="Pg044" id="Pg044" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was called, and the children loved to see her coming and saved their -cakes and sweets for her.</p> - -<p id="p0095" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When the bank on the other side of the draw began to -throw a narrow shelf of shadow, we knew we ought to be starting -homeward; the chill came on quickly when the sun got low, and -Ántonia’s dress was thin. What were we to do with the -frail little creature we had lured back to life by false pretenses? I -offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put the -green insect in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over -her curls. I said I would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek, -and then turn and run home. We drifted along lazily, very happy, -through the magical light of the late afternoon.</p> - -<p id="p0096" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never -got used to them. As far as we could see, the miles of copper-red -grass were drenched in sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at -any other time of the day. The blond cornfields were red gold, the -haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows. The whole prairie was -like the bush that burned with fire and was not consumed. That hour -always had the exultation of victory, of<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page045">[pg 045]</span><a name="Pg045" id="Pg045" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -triumphant ending, like a hero’s death—heroes who died -young and gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of -day.</p> - -<p id="p0097" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">How many an afternoon Ántonia and I have -trailed along the prairie under that magnificence! And always two long -black shadows flitted before us or followed after, dark spots on the -ruddy grass.</p> - -<p id="p0098" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the -sun sank nearer and nearer the prairie floor, when we saw a figure -moving on the edge of the upland, a gun over his shoulder. He was -walking slowly, dragging his feet along as if he had no purpose. We -broke into a run to overtake him.</p> - -<p id="p0099" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“My papa sick all the time,” Tony panted -as we flew. “He not look good, Jim.”</p> - -<p id="p0100" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we neared <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda she shouted, -and he lifted his head and peered about. Tony ran up to him, caught -his hand and pressed it against her cheek. She was the only one of his -family who could rouse the old man from the torpor in which he seemed -to live. He took the bag from his belt and showed us three rabbits he -had shot, looked at Ántonia with a wintry flicker of a smile -and began to tell her something. She turned to me.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page046">[pg 046]</span><a name="Pg046" id="Pg046" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0101" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“My -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">tatinek</span> make me little hat with -the skins, little hat for win-ter!” she exclaimed joyfully. -“Meat for eat, skin for hat,”—she told off these -benefits on her fingers.</p> - -<p id="p0102" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught -his wrist and lifted it carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I -heard the name of old Hata. He untied the handkerchief, separated her -hair with his fingers, and stood looking down at the green insect. -When it began to chirp faintly, he listened as if it were a beautiful -sound.</p> - -<p id="p0103" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece -from the old country, short and heavy, with a stag’s head on the -cock. When he saw me examining it, he turned to me with his far-away -look that always made me feel as if I were down at the bottom of a -well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and Ántonia -translated:—</p> - -<p id="p0104" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“My -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">tatinek</span> say when you are big -boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from Bohemie. It was belong to a -great man, very rich, like what you not got here; many fields, many -forests, many big house. My papa play for his wedding, and he give my -papa fine gun, and my papa give you.”</p> - -<a name="fig16" id="fig16"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image03.png" width="640" height="804" alt="Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over his shoulder" /></div> - -<p id="p0105" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I was glad that this project was one of<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page047">[pg 047]</span><a name="Pg047" id="Pg047" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -futurity. There never were such people as the Shimerdas for wanting to -give away everything they had. Even the mother was always offering me -things, though I knew she expected substantial presents in return. We -stood there in friendly silence, while the feeble minstrel sheltered -in Ántonia’s hair went on with its scratchy chirp. The -old man’s smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of pity -for things, that I never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there -came a sudden coolness and the strong smell of earth and drying grass. -Ántonia and her father went off hand in hand, and I buttoned up -my jacket and raced my shadow home.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-07" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page048">[pg 048]</span><a name="Pg048" id="Pg048" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc17" id="toc17"></a> -<a name="pdf18" id="pdf18"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">VII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0106" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Much</span></span> as I liked -Ántonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took with -me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of -the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her -protecting manner. Before the autumn was over she began to treat me -more like an equal and to defer to me in other things than reading -lessons. This change came about from an adventure we had together.</p> - -<p id="p0107" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas’ I -found Ántonia starting off on foot for Russian Peter’s -house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I offered to take her on the -pony, and she got up behind me. There had been another black frost the -night before, and the air was clear and heady as wine. Within a week -all the blooming roads had been despoiled—hundreds of miles of -yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, burry -stalks.</p> - -<p id="p0108" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were -glad to go in and get warm<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page049">[pg 049]</span><a name="Pg049" id="Pg049" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons, -heaped in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade, -Ántonia suggested that we stop at the prairie-dog town and dig -into one of the holes. We could find out whether they ran straight -down, or were horizontal, like mole-holes; whether they had -underground connections; whether the owls had nests down there, lined -with feathers. We might get some puppies, or owl eggs, or -snake-skins.</p> - -<p id="p0109" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres. -The grass had been nibbled short and even, so this stretch was not -shaggy and red like the surrounding country, but gray and velvety. The -holes were several yards apart, and were disposed with a good deal of -regularity, almost as if the town had been laid out in streets and -avenues. One always felt that an orderly and very sociable kind of -life was going on there. I picketed Dude down in a draw, and we went -wandering about, looking for a hole that would be easy to dig. The -dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on their hind legs -over the doors of their houses. As we approached, they barked, shook -their tails at us, and scurried<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page050">[pg 050]</span><a name="Pg050" id="Pg050" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -underground. Before the mouths of the holes were little patches of -sand and gravel, scratched up, we supposed, from a long way below the -surface. Here and there, in the town, we came on larger gravel -patches, several yards away from any hole. If the dogs had scratched -the sand up in excavating, how had they carried it so far? It was on -one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure.</p> - -<p id="p0110" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The -burrow sloped into the ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see -where the two corridors united, and the floor was dusty from use, like -a little highway over which much travel went. I was walking backward, -in a crouching position, when I heard Ántonia scream. She was -standing opposite me, pointing behind me and shouting something in -Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of those dry gravel beds, -was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was sunning himself, after -the cold night, and he must have been asleep when Ántonia -screamed. When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a -letter “<span class="tei tei-abbr">W.</span>” He twitched and began to coil -slowly. He was not merely a big snake, I thought—he was a -circus monstrosity. His<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page051">[pg 051]</span><a name="Pg051" id="Pg051" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -abominable muscularity, his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow made me -sick. He was as thick as my leg, and looked as if millstones could -n’t crush the disgusting vitality out of him. He lifted his -hideous little head, and rattled. I did n’t run because I did -n’t think of it—if my back had been against a stone wall -I could n’t have felt more cornered. I saw his coils tighten—now he would spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up -and drove at his head with my spade, struck him fairly across the -neck, and in a minute he was all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck -now from hate. Ántonia, barefooted as she was, ran up behind -me. Even after I had pounded his ugly head flat, his body kept on -coiling and winding, doubling and falling back on itself. I walked -away and turned my back. I felt seasick. Ántonia came after me, -crying, “O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you not run -when I say?”</p> - -<p id="p0111" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have -told me there was a snake behind me!” I said petulantly.</p> - -<p id="p0112" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so -scared.” She took my handkerchief from my pocket and tried to -wipe my face with it, but<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page052">[pg 052]</span><a name="Pg052" id="Pg052" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -I snatched it away from her. I suppose I looked as sick as I felt.</p> - -<p id="p0113" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I never know you was so brave, Jim,” she -went on comfortingly. “You is just like big mans; you wait for -him lift his head and then you go for him. Ain’t you feel scared -a bit? Now we take that snake home and show everybody. Nobody -ain’t seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you -kill.”</p> - -<p id="p0114" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She went on in this strain until I began to think -that I had longed for this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy. -Cautiously we went back to the snake; he was still groping with his -tail, turning up his ugly belly in the light. A faint, fetid smell -came from him, and a thread of green liquid oozed from his crushed -head.</p> - -<p id="p0115" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Look, Tony, that’s his poison,” I -said.</p> - -<p id="p0116" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she -lifted his head with the spade while I tied a noose around it. We -pulled him out straight and measured him by my riding-quirt; he was -about five and a half feet long. He had twelve rattles, but they were -broken off before they began to taper, so I insisted that he must once -have had twenty-four. I explained to Ántonia how this meant -that he<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page053">[pg 053]</span><a name="Pg053" id="Pg053" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was twenty-four years old, that he must have been there when white men -first came, left on from buffalo and Indian times. As I turned him -over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind of respect for his -age and size. He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. Certainly his -kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all warm-blooded life. -When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off to the end of -his tether and shivered all over—would n’t let us come -near him.</p> - -<p id="p0117" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We decided that Ántonia should ride Dude home, -and I would walk. As she rode along slowly, her bare legs swinging -against the pony’s sides, she kept shouting back to me about how -astonished everybody would be. I followed with the spade over my -shoulder, dragging my snake. Her exultation was contagious. The great -land had never looked to me so big and free. If the red grass were -full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. Nevertheless, I stole -furtive glances behind me now and then to see that no avenging mate, -older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the rear.</p> - -<p id="p0118" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The sun had set when we reached our garden and went -down the draw toward the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page054">[pg 054]</span><a name="Pg054" id="Pg054" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge -of the cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. Ántonia -called him to come quick and look. He did not say anything for a -minute, but scratched his head and turned the snake over with his -boot.</p> - -<p id="p0119" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Where did you run onto that beauty, -Jim?”</p> - -<p id="p0120" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Up at the dog-town,” I answered -laconically.</p> - -<p id="p0121" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Kill him yourself? How come you to have a -weepon?”</p> - -<p id="p0122" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“We’d been up to Russian Peter’s, -to borrow a spade for Ambrosch.”</p> - -<p id="p0123" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted -down to count the rattles. “It was just luck you had a -tool,” he said cautiously. “Gosh! I would n’t want -to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a fence-post -along. Your grandmother’s snake-cane would n’t more than -tickle him. He could stand right up and talk to you, he could. Did he -fight hard?”</p> - -<p id="p0124" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia broke in: “He fight something -awful! He is all over Jimmy’s boots. I scream for him to run, -but he just hit and hit that snake like he was crazy.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page055">[pg 055]</span><a name="Pg055" id="Pg055" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0125" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Otto winked at me. After Ántonia rode on he -said: “Got him in the head first crack, did n’t you? That -was just as well.”</p> - -<p id="p0126" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down -to the kitchen I found Ántonia standing in the middle of the -floor, telling the story with a great deal of color.</p> - -<p id="p0127" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me -that my first encounter was fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler -was old, and had led too easy a life; there was not much fight in him. -He had probably lived there for years, with a fat prairie dog for -breakfast whenever he felt like it, a sheltered home, even an -owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that the world does -n’t owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting -trim, would be more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a -mock adventure; the game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably -was for many a dragon-slayer. I had been adequately armed by Russian -Peter; the snake was old and lazy; and I had Ántonia beside me, -to appreciate and admire.</p> - -<p id="p0128" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; -some of the neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the -biggest rattler<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page056">[pg 056]</span><a name="Pg056" id="Pg056" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -ever killed in those parts. This was enough for Ántonia. She -liked me better from that time on, and she never took a supercilious -air with me again. I had killed a big snake—I was now a big -fellow.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-08" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page057">[pg 057]</span><a name="Pg057" id="Pg057" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc19" id="toc19"></a> -<a name="pdf20" id="pdf20"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">VIII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0129" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">While</span></span> the autumn -color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, things went badly -with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles to -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due -on the first of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing -it, and to give a mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk -cow. His creditor was Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk -money-lender, a man of evil name throughout the county, of whom I -shall have more to say later. Peter could give no very clear account -of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew that he had first -borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then fifty—that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew -faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with -mortgages.</p> - -<p id="p0130" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained -himself lifting timbers for a new barn, and fell over among the -shavings with such a gush of blood from the lungs that his<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page058">[pg 058]</span><a name="Pg058" id="Pg058" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. They hauled him home -and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill indeed. -Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the log -house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The -Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked -to put them out of mind.</p> - -<p id="p0131" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One afternoon Ántonia and her father came over -to our house to get buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, -until the sun was low. Just as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove -up. Pavel was very bad, he said, and wanted to talk to -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch them. -When Ántonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated -grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my -supper, I would sleep in the Shimerdas’ barn and run home in the -morning. My plan must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was -often large-minded about humoring the desires of other people. She -asked Peter to wait a moment, and when she came back from the kitchen -she brought a bag of sandwiches and doughnuts for us.</p> - -<p id="p0132" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda and Peter were on the front<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page059">[pg 059]</span><a name="Pg059" id="Pg059" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -seat; Ántonia and I sat in the straw behind and ate our lunch -as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a cold wind sprang up and -moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the weather had come sooner, -I should not have got away. We burrowed down in the straw and curled -up close together, watching the angry red die out of the west and the -stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept sighing and -groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would never -get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew -magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of -the world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those -shining groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to -be. Perhaps Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had -brought from his land, too, some such belief.</p> - -<p id="p0133" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The little house on the hillside was so much the -color of the night that we could not see it as we came up the draw. -The ruddy windows guided us—the light from the kitchen stove, -for there was no lamp burning.</p> - -<p id="p0134" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to -be asleep. Tony and I sat down<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page060">[pg 060]</span><a name="Pg060" id="Pg060" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in front of -us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the thatch -overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept -moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, -then swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it -bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They -made me think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were -trying desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on. -Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the -coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all -together—to tell us that winter was coming. This sound brought -an answer from the bed,—a long complaining cry,—as if -Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some old misery. Peter -listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor by the kitchen -stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap—then the -high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his -elbow.</p> - -<p id="p0135" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He is scared of the wolves,” -Ántonia whispered to me. “In his country there are very<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page061">[pg 061]</span><a name="Pg061" id="Pg061" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -many, and they eat men and women.” We slid closer together along -the bench.</p> - -<p id="p0136" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His -shirt was hanging open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow -bristle, rose and fell horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to -his feet, caught up the tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and -whiskey. The sharp smell of spirits went through the room.</p> - -<p id="p0137" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter -give him the bottle and slipped it under his pillow, grinning -disagreeably, as if he had outwitted some one. His eyes followed Peter -about the room with a contemptuous, unfriendly expression. It seemed -to me that he despised him for being so simple and docile.</p> - -<p id="p0138" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Presently Pavel began to talk to <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. He was telling a long story, and -as he went on, Ántonia took my hand under the table and held it -tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to hear him. He grew -more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his bed, as if -there were things there and he wanted <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda to see -them.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page062">[pg 062]</span><a name="Pg062" id="Pg062" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0139" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It’s wolves, Jimmy,” -Ántonia whispered. “It’s awful, what he -says!”</p> - -<p id="p0140" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to -be cursing people who had wronged him. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda -caught him by the shoulders, but could hardly hold him in bed. At last -he was shut off by a coughing fit which fairly choked him. He pulled a -cloth from under his pillow and held it to his mouth. Quickly it was -covered with bright red spots—I thought I had never seen any -blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to the wall, all -the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for breath, -like a child with croup. Ántonia’s father uncovered one -of his long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we -could see what a hollow case his body was. His spine and -shoulder-blades stood out like the bones under the hide of a dead -steer left in the fields. That sharp backbone must have hurt him when -he lay on it.</p> - -<p id="p0141" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, -the worst was over. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda signed to us that Pavel -was asleep. Without a word Peter got up and lit his lantern. He was -going out to get his team to drive us<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page063">[pg 063]</span><a name="Pg063" id="Pg063" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -home. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the -long bowed back under the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe.</p> - -<p id="p0142" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, -under the jolting and rattling Ántonia told me as much of the -story as she could. What she did not tell me then, she told later; we -talked of nothing else for days afterward.</p> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p0143" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home -in Russia, they were asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to -marry the belle of another village. It was in the dead of winter and -the groom’s party went over to the wedding in sledges. Peter and -Pavel drove in the groom’s sledge, and six sledges followed with -all his relatives and friends.</p> - -<p id="p0144" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a -dinner given by the parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all -afternoon; then it became a supper and continued far into the night. -There was much dancing and drinking. At midnight the parents of the -bride said good-bye to her and blessed her. The groom took her up in -his arms and carried her out to his sledge and tucked her under the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page064">[pg 064]</span><a name="Pg064" id="Pg064" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -blankets. He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and -Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. The party set out with -singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom’s sledge going -first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for merry-making, -and the groom was absorbed in his bride.</p> - -<p id="p0145" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew -it, yet when they heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much -alarmed. They had too much good food and drink inside them. The first -howls were taken up and echoed and with quickening repetitions. The -wolves were coming together. There was no moon, but the starlight was -clear on the snow. A black drove came up over the hill behind the -wedding party. The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked no -bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them.</p> - -<p id="p0146" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver -lost control,—he was probably very drunk,—the horses -left the road, the sledge was caught in a clump of trees, and -overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, and the fleetest -of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed made -everybody sober. The drivers stood up and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page065">[pg 065]</span><a name="Pg065" id="Pg065" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -lashed their horses. The groom had the best team and his sledge was -lightest—all the others carried from six to a dozen -people.</p> - -<p id="p0147" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Another driver lost control. The screams of the -horses were more terrible to hear than the cries of the men and women. -Nothing seemed to check the wolves. It was hard to tell what was -happening in the rear; the people who were falling behind shrieked as -piteously as those who were already lost. The little bride hid her -face on the groom’s shoulder and sobbed. Pavel sat still and -watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the -groom’s three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary -to be calm and to guide them carefully.</p> - -<p id="p0148" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose -cautiously and looked back. “There are only three sledges -left,” he whispered.</p> - -<p id="p0149" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“And the wolves?” Pavel asked.</p> - -<p id="p0150" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Enough! Enough for all of us.”</p> - -<p id="p0151" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two -sledges followed him down the other side. In that moment on the -hilltop, they saw behind them a whirling black group on the snow. -Presently the groom screamed. He saw his father’s sledge -overturned, with his mother<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page066">[pg 066]</span><a name="Pg066" id="Pg066" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and sisters. He sprang up as if he meant to jump, but the girl -shrieked and held him back. It was even then too late. The black -ground-shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and -one horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him, -wolves at his heels. But the groom’s movement had given Pavel an -idea.</p> - -<p id="p0152" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">They were within a few miles of their village now. -The only sledge left out of six was not very far behind them, and -Pavel’s middle horse was failing. Beside a frozen pond something -happened to the other sledge; Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves -got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy. They tried to -jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned -the sledge.</p> - -<p id="p0153" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel -realized that he was alone upon the familiar road. “They still -come?” he asked Peter.</p> - -<p id="p0154" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes.”</p> - -<p id="p0155" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“How many?”</p> - -<p id="p0156" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Twenty, thirty—enough.”</p> - -<p id="p0157" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the -other two. Pavel gave Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the -back of the sledge. He called to the groom that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page067">[pg 067]</span><a name="Pg067" id="Pg067" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -they must lighten—and pointed to the bride. The young man -cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. In the -struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the -sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered -exactly how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in -the front seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed -was a new sound that broke into the clear air, louder than they had -ever heard it before—the bell of the monastery of their own -village, ringing for early prayers.</p> - -<p id="p0158" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and -they had been alone ever since. They were run out of their village. -Pavel’s own mother would not look at him. They went away to -strange towns, but when people learned where they came from, they were -always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the bride to the -wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed them. It took them five -years to save money enough to come to America. They worked in Chicago, -Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always unfortunate. When -Pavel’s health grew so bad, they decided to try farming.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page068">[pg 068]</span><a name="Pg068" id="Pg068" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0159" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda, and was buried in the Norwegian graveyard. -Peter sold off everything, and left the country—went to be -cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of Russians were -employed.</p> - -<p id="p0160" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At his sale we bought Peter’s wheelbarrow and -some of his harness. During the auction he went about with his head -down, and never lifted his eyes. He seemed not to care about anything. -The Black Hawk money-lender who held mortgages on Peter’s -live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes at about fifty -cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow before she -was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but this I -know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans had -been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and -bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the -melons that he had put away for winter. When <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda -and Krajiek drove up in their wagon to take Peter to the train, they -found him with a dripping beard, surrounded by heaps of melon -rinds.</p> - -<p id="p0161" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The loss of his two friends had a depressing<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page069">[pg 069]</span><a name="Pg069" id="Pg069" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -effect upon old <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda. When he was out hunting, he -used to go into the empty log house and sit there, brooding. This -cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows penned him in his cave. -For Ántonia and me, the story of the wedding party was never at -an end. We did not tell Pavel’s secret to any one, but guarded -it jealously—as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that -night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a -painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I -often found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through -a country that looked something like Nebraska and something like -Virginia.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-09" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page070">[pg 070]</span><a name="Pg070" id="Pg070" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc21" id="toc21"></a> -<a name="pdf22" id="pdf22"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">IX</span></h2> - -<p id="p0162" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">The</span></span> first snowfall -came early in December. I remember how the world looked from our -sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: the -low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out -into ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff -willow bushes. Big white flakes were whirling over everything and -disappearing in the red grass.</p> - -<p id="p0163" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the -cornfield, there was, faintly marked in the grass, a great circle -where the Indians used to ride. Jake and Otto were sure that when they -galloped round that ring the Indians tortured prisoners, bound to a -stake in the center; but grandfather thought they merely ran races or -trained horses there. Whenever one looked at this slope against the -setting sun, the circle showed like a pattern in the grass; and this -morning, when the first light spray of snow lay over it, it came out -with wonderful distinctness, like strokes of Chinese white on canvas. -The old figure stirred me as it had<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page071">[pg 071]</span><a name="Pg071" id="Pg071" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -never done before and seemed a good omen for the winter.</p> - -<p id="p0164" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As soon as the snow had packed hard I began to drive -about the country in a clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by -fastening a wooden goods-box on bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a -cabinet-maker in the old country and was very handy with tools. He -would have done a better job if I had n’t hurried him. My first -trip was to the post-office, and the next day I went over to take -Yulka and Ántonia for a sleigh-ride.</p> - -<p id="p0165" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo -robes into the box, and took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets. -When I got to the Shimerdas’ I did not go up to the house, but -sat in my sleigh at the bottom of the draw and called. Ántonia -and Yulka came running out, wearing little rabbit-skin hats their -father had made for them. They had heard about my sledge from Ambrosch -and knew why I had come. They tumbled in beside me and we set off -toward the north, along a road that happened to be broken.</p> - -<p id="p0166" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the -glittering white stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As -Ántonia said, the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page072">[pg 072]</span><a name="Pg072" id="Pg072" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -whole world was changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for -familiar landmarks. The deep arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound -was now only a cleft between snow-drifts—very blue when one -looked down into it. The tree-tops that had been gold all the autumn -were dwarfed and twisted, as if they would never have any life in them -again. The few little cedars, which were so dull and dingy before, now -stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind had the burning taste of -fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if some one had opened a -hartshorn bottle. The cold stung, and at the same time delighted one. -My horse’s breath rose like steam, and whenever we stopped he -smoked all over. The cornfields got back a little of their color under -the dazzling light, and stood the palest possible gold in the sun and -snow. All about us the snow was crusted in shallow terraces, with -tracings like ripple-marks at the edges, curly waves that were the -actual impression of the stinging lash in the wind.</p> - -<p id="p0167" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls; -they kept shivering beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other -for warmth. But they were so glad to get away from their<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page073">[pg 073]</span><a name="Pg073" id="Pg073" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -ugly cave and their mother’s scolding that they begged me to go -on and on, as far as Russian Peter’s house. The great fresh -open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like wild -things. They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go -home again. Could n’t we settle down and live in Russian -Peter’s house, Yulka asked, and could n’t I go to town and -buy things for us to keep house with?</p> - -<p id="p0168" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All the way to Russian Peter’s we were -extravagantly happy, but when we turned back,—it must have -been about four o’clock,—the east wind grew stronger and -began to howl; the sun lost its heartening power and the sky became -gray and somber. I took off my long woolen comforter and wound it -around Yulka’s throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her -head under the buffalo robe. Ántonia and I sat erect, but I -held the reins clumsily, and my eyes were blinded by the wind a good -deal of the time. It was growing dark when we got to their house, but -I refused to go in with them and get warm. I knew my hands would ache -terribly if I went near a fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my -comforter, and I had to drive home directly<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page074">[pg 074]</span><a name="Pg074" id="Pg074" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -against the wind. The next day I came down with an attack of quinsy, -which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks.</p> - -<p id="p0169" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in -those days—like a tight little boat in a winter sea. The men -were out in the fields all day, husking corn, and when they came in at -noon, with long caps pulled down over their ears and their feet in -red-lined overshoes, I used to think they were like Arctic -explorers.</p> - -<p id="p0170" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs -darning, or making husking-gloves, I read “The Swiss Family -Robinson” aloud to her, and I felt that the Swiss family had no -advantages over us in the way of an adventurous life. I was convinced -that man’s strongest antagonist is the cold. I admired the -cheerful zest with which grandmother went about keeping us warm and -comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when she was -preparing for the return of the hungry men, that this country was not -like Virginia, and that here a cook had, as she said, “very -little to do with.” On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as we -could eat, and on other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page075">[pg 075]</span><a name="Pg075" id="Pg075" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -She baked either pies or cake for us every day, unless, for a change, -she made my favorite pudding, striped with currants and boiled in a -bag.</p> - -<p id="p0171" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and -supper were the most interesting things we had to think about. Our -lives centered around warmth and food and the return of the men at -nightfall. I used to wonder, when they came in tired from the fields, -their feet numb and their hands cracked and sore, how they could do -all the chores so conscientiously: feed and water and bed the horses, -milk the cows, and look after the pigs. When supper was over, it took -them a long while to get the cold out of their bones. While -grandmother and I washed the dishes and grandfather read his paper -upstairs, Jake and Otto sat on the long bench behind the stove, -“easing” their inside boots, or rubbing mutton tallow into -their cracked hands.</p> - -<p id="p0172" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy, -and Otto Fuchs used to sing, “For I Am a Cowboy and Know -I’ve Done Wrong,” or, “Bury Me Not on the Lone -Prairee.” He had a good baritone voice and always led the -singing when we went to church services at the sod schoolhouse.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page076">[pg 076]</span><a name="Pg076" id="Pg076" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0173" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I can still see those two men sitting on the bench; -Otto’s close-clipped head and Jake’s shaggy hair slicked -flat in front by a wet comb. I can see the sag of their tired -shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good fellows they were, -how much they knew, and how many things they had kept faith with!</p> - -<p id="p0174" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a -bar-tender, a miner; had wandered all over that great Western country -and done hard work everywhere, though, as grandmother said, he had -nothing to show for it. Jake was duller than Otto. He could scarcely -read, wrote even his name with difficulty, and he had a violent temper -which sometimes made him behave like a crazy man—tore him all -to pieces and actually made him ill. But he was so soft-hearted that -any one could impose upon him. If he, as he said, “forgot -himself” and swore before grandmother, he went about depressed -and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial about the cold -in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime and to -meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare -themselves. Yet they were the sort<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page077">[pg 077]</span><a name="Pg077" id="Pg077" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -of men who never get on, somehow, or do anything but work hard for a -dollar or two a day.</p> - -<p id="p0175" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the -old stove that fed us and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could -hear the coyotes howling down by the corrals, and their hungry, wintry -cry used to remind the boys of wonderful animal stories; about gray -wolves and bears in the Rockies, wildcats and panthers in the Virginia -mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be persuaded to talk about the -outlaws and desperate characters he had known. I remember one funny -story about himself that made grandmother, who was working her bread -on the bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with her bare arm, -her hands being floury. It was like this:—</p> - -<p id="p0176" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was -asked by one of his relatives to look after a woman who was crossing -on the same boat, to join her husband in Chicago. The woman started -off with two children, but it was clear that her family might grow -larger on the journey. Fuchs said he “got on fine with the -kids,” and liked the mother, though she played a sorry trick on -him. In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but three!<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page078">[pg 078]</span><a name="Pg078" id="Pg078" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -This event made Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he was -traveling with her. The steerage stewardess was indignant with him, -the doctor regarded him with suspicion. The first-cabin passengers, -who made up a purse for the woman, took an embarrassing interest in -Otto, and often inquired of him about his charge. When the triplets -were taken ashore at New York, he had, as he said, “to carry -some of them.” The trip to Chicago was even worse than the ocean -voyage. On the train it was very difficult to get milk for the babies -and to keep their bottles clean. The mother did her best, but no -woman, out of her natural resources, could feed three babies. The -husband, in Chicago, was working in a furniture factory for modest -wages, and when he met his family at the station he was rather crushed -by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in some fashion -to blame. “I was sure glad,” Otto concluded, “that -he did n’t take his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he -had a sullen eye for me, all right! Now, did you ever hear of a young -feller’s having such hard luck, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Burden?”</p> - -<p id="p0177" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother told him she was sure the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page079">[pg 079]</span><a name="Pg079" id="Pg079" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Lord had remembered these things to his credit, and had helped him out -of many a scrape when he did n’t realize that he was being -protected by Providence.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-10" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page080">[pg 080]</span><a name="Pg080" id="Pg080" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc23" id="toc23"></a><a name="pdf24" id="pdf24"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">X</span></h2> - -<p id="p0178" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">For</span></span> several weeks -after my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the Shimerdas. My sore -throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold which made the -housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to have a day -of rest. One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda out hunting.</p> - -<p id="p0179" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He’s made himself a rabbit-skin cap, -Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that he buttons on outside his coat. -They ain’t got but one overcoat among ’em over there, and -they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of cold, and stick -in that hole in the bank like badgers.”</p> - -<p id="p0180" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“All but the crazy boy,” Jake put in. -“He never wears the coat. Krajiek says he’s turrible -strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be getting scarce -in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield yesterday where -I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he’d shot. He -asked me if they was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on, -to scare him, but he just looked like<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page081">[pg 081]</span><a name="Pg081" id="Pg081" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -he was smarter’n me and put ’em back in his sack and -walked off.”</p> - -<p id="p0181" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to -grandfather. “Josiah, you don’t suppose Krajiek would let -them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do you?”</p> - -<p id="p0182" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You had better go over and see our neighbors -to-morrow, Emmaline,” he replied gravely.</p> - -<p id="p0183" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs -were clean beasts and ought to be good for food, but their family -connections were against them. I asked what he meant, and he grinned -and said they belonged to the rat family.</p> - -<p id="p0184" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I went downstairs in the morning, I found -grandmother and Jake packing a hamper basket in the kitchen.</p> - -<p id="p0185" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, Jake,” grandmother was saying, -“if you can find that old rooster that got his comb froze, just -give his neck a twist, and we’ll take him along. There’s -no good reason why <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda could n’t have got -hens from her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I -reckon she was confused and did n’t know where to begin. -I’ve come strange to a new country myself, but I never forgot -hens<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page082">[pg 082]</span><a name="Pg082" id="Pg082" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -are a good thing to have, no matter what you don’t -have.”</p> - -<p id="p0186" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Just as you say, mam,” said Jake, -“but I hate to think of Krajiek getting a leg of that old -rooster.” He tramped out through the long cellar and dropped the -heavy door behind him.</p> - -<p id="p0187" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled -ourselves up and climbed into the cold front wagon-seat. As we -approached the Shimerdas’ we heard the frosty whine of the pump -and saw Ántonia, her head tied up and her cotton dress blown -about her, throwing all her weight on the pump-handle as it went up -and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over her shoulder, and -catching up her pail of water, started at a run for the hole in the -bank.</p> - -<p id="p0188" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he -would bring the provisions after he had blanketed his horses. We went -slowly up the icy path toward the door sunk in the -drawside. -Blue puffs of smoke came from the stovepipe that stuck out through the -grass and snow, but the wind whisked them roughly away.</p> - -<p id="p0189" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda opened the door before we<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page083">[pg 083]</span><a name="Pg083" id="Pg083" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -knocked and seized grandmother’s hand. She did not say -“How do!” as usual, but at once began to cry, talking very -fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were tied up in -rags, and looking about accusingly at every one.</p> - -<p id="p0190" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove, -crouching over as if he were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the -floor at his feet, her kitten in her lap. She peeped out at me and -smiled, but, glancing up at her mother, hid again. Ántonia was -washing pans and dishes in a dark corner. The crazy boy lay under the -only window, stretched on a gunnysack stuffed with straw. As soon as -we entered he threw a -grainsack -over the crack at the bottom of the door. The air in the cave was -stifling, and it was very dark, too. A lighted lantern, hung over the -stove, threw out a feeble yellow glimmer.</p> - -<p id="p0191" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda snatched off the covers of -two barrels behind the door, and made us look into them. In one there -were some potatoes that had been frozen and were rotting, in the other -was a little pile of flour. Grandmother murmured something in -embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman laughed scornfully, a<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page084">[pg 084]</span><a name="Pg084" id="Pg084" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -kind of whinny-laugh, and catching up an empty coffee-pot from the -shelf, shook it at us with a look positively vindictive.</p> - -<p id="p0192" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia -way, not admitting their stark need or her own remissness, until Jake -arrived with the hamper, as if in direct answer to <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda’s reproaches. Then the poor woman broke down. She -dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid her face on her knees, -and sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed to her, but called -Ántonia to come and help empty the basket. Tony left her corner -reluctantly. I had never seen her crushed like this before.</p> - -<p id="p0193" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You not mind my poor -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">mamenka</span>, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden. She is so sad,” she whispered, as she -wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things grandmother -handed her.</p> - -<p id="p0194" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft, -gurgling noises and stroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time -with a sack of potatoes. Grandmother looked about in perplexity.</p> - -<p id="p0195" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Have n’t you got any sort of cave or -cellar outside, Ántonia? This is no place to keep vegetables. -How did your potatoes get frozen?”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page085">[pg 085]</span><a name="Pg085" id="Pg085" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0196" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“We get from <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Bushy, at the -post-office,—what he throw out. We got no potatoes, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden,” Tony admitted mournfully.</p> - -<p id="p0197" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and -stuffed up the door-crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda came out from behind the stove. He stood -brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as if he were trying to -clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and neat as usual, with -his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took grandmother’s arm -and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room. In the rear -wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger than an -oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth. When I got up on one of -the stools and peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw. -The old man held the lantern. “Yulka,” he said in a low, -despairing voice, “Yulka; my Ántonia!”</p> - -<p id="p0198" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother drew back. “You mean they sleep in -there,—your girls?” He bowed his head.</p> - -<p id="p0199" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tony slipped under his arm. “It is very cold on -the floor, and this is warm like the badger hole. I like for sleep -there,” she insisted eagerly. “My -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">mamenka</span> -have nice bed,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page086">[pg 086]</span><a name="Pg086" id="Pg086" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie. See, Jim?” She -pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against the wall -for himself before the Shimerdas came.</p> - -<p id="p0200" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother sighed. “Sure enough, where -<em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">would</span></em> you sleep, dear! I don’t doubt -you’re warm there. You’ll have a better house after while, -Ántonia, and then you’ll forget these hard -times.”</p> - -<p id="p0201" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda made grandmother sit down -on the only chair and pointed his wife to a stool beside her. Standing -before them with his hand on Ántonia’s shoulder, he -talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated. He wanted us to -know that they were not beggars in the old country; he made good -wages, and his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with more -than a thousand dollars in savings, after their passage money was -paid. He had in some way lost on exchange in New York, and the railway -fare to Nebraska was more than they had expected. By the time they -paid Krajiek for the land, and bought his horses and oxen and some old -farm machinery, they had very little money left. He wished grandmother -to know, however, that he still had some money. If they<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page087">[pg 087]</span><a name="Pg087" id="Pg087" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -could get through until spring came, they would buy a cow and chickens -and plant a garden, and would then do very well. Ambrosch and -Ántonia were both old enough to work in the fields, and they -were willing to work. But the snow and the bitter weather had -disheartened them all.</p> - -<p id="p0202" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia explained that her father meant to -build a new house for them in the spring; he and Ambrosch had already -split the logs for it, but the logs were all buried in the snow, along -the creek where they had been felled.</p> - -<p id="p0203" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I -sat down on the floor with Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek -slid cautiously toward us and began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I -knew he wanted to make his queer noises for me—to bark like a -dog or whinny like a horse,—but he did not dare in the -presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be agreeable, poor -fellow, as if he had it on his mind that he must make up for his -deficiencies.</p> - -<p id="p0204" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda grew more calm and -reasonable before our visit was over, and, while Ántonia -translated, put in a word now and then<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page088">[pg 088]</span><a name="Pg088" id="Pg088" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -on her own account. The woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases -whenever she heard English spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her -wooden chest and brought out a bag made of bed-ticking, about as long -as a flour sack and half as wide, stuffed full of something. At sight -of it, the crazy boy began to smack his lips. When <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the contents with her hand, it -gave out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent, even among the other -odors of that cave. She measured a teacup full, tied it up in a bit of -sacking, and presented it ceremoniously to grandmother.</p> - -<p id="p0205" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“For cook,” she announced. “Little -now; be very much when cook,” spreading out her hands as if to -indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon. “Very good. You -no have in this country. All things for eat better in my -country.”</p> - -<p id="p0206" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Maybe so, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda,” -grandmother said drily. “I can’t say but I prefer our -bread to yours, myself.”</p> - -<a name="fig25" id="fig25"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image04.png" width="640" height="584" alt="Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest" /></div> - -<p id="p0207" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia undertook to explain. “This very -good, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden,”—she clasped her hands -as if she could not express how good,—“it make very much -when you cook, like what<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page089">[pg 089]</span><a name="Pg089" id="Pg089" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in the gravy,—oh, so good!”</p> - -<p id="p0208" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All the way home grandmother and Jake talked about -how easily good Christian people could forget they were their -brothers’ keepers.</p> - -<p id="p0209" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and -sisters are hard to keep. Where’s a body to begin, with these -people? They’re wanting in everything, and most of all in -horse-sense. Nobody can give ’em that, I guess. Jimmy, here, is -about as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon that -boy Ambrosch has any real push in him?”</p> - -<p id="p0210" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He’s a worker, all right, mam, and -he’s got some ketch-on about him; but he’s a mean one. -Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and then, -ag’in, they can be too mean.”</p> - -<p id="p0211" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That night, while grandmother was getting supper, we -opened the package <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda had given her. It was -full of little brown chips that looked like the shavings of some root. -They were as light as feathers, and the most noticeable thing about -them was their penetrating, earthy odor. We could not determine -whether they were animal or vegetable.</p> - -<p id="p0212" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“They might be dried meat from some<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page090">[pg 090]</span><a name="Pg090" id="Pg090" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -queer beast, Jim. They ain’t dried fish, and they never grew on -stalk or vine. I’m afraid of ’em. Anyhow, I should -n’t want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with -old clothes and goose pillows.”</p> - -<p id="p0213" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a -corner of one of the chips I held in my hand, and chewed it -tentatively. I never forgot the strange taste; though it was many -years before I knew that those little brown shavings, which the -Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so jealously, were dried -mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some deep Bohemian -forest …</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-11" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page091">[pg 091]</span><a name="Pg091" id="Pg091" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc26" id="toc26"></a> -<a name="pdf27" id="pdf27"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XI</span></h2> - -<p id="p0214" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">During</span></span> the week -before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of our household, -for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. But on the -21st of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down so -thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the -windmill—its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a -shadow. The snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night -that followed. The cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and -resistless. The men could not go farther than the barns and corral. -They sat about the house most of the day as if it were Sunday; -greasing their boots, mending their suspenders, plaiting -whiplashes.</p> - -<p id="p0215" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On the morning of the 22d, grandfather announced at -breakfast that it would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for -Christmas purchases. Jake was sure he could get through on horseback, -and bring home our things in saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the -roads would be obliterated, and a newcomer<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page092">[pg 092]</span><a name="Pg092" id="Pg092" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would never -allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain.</p> - -<p id="p0216" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We decided to have a country Christmas, without any -help from town. I had wanted to get some picture-books for Yulka and -Ántonia; even Yulka was able to read a little now. Grandmother -took me into the ice-cold storeroom, where she had some bolts of -gingham and sheeting. She cut squares of cotton cloth and we sewed -them together into a book. We bound it between pasteboards, which I -covered with brilliant calico, representing scenes from a circus. For -two days I sat at the dining-room table, pasting this book full of -pictures for Yulka. We had files of those good old family magazines -which used to publish colored lithographs of popular paintings, and I -was allowed to use some of these. I took “Napoleon Announcing -the Divorce to Josephine” for my frontispiece. On the white -pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I had -brought from my “old country.” Fuchs got out the old -candle-moulds and made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy -cake-cutters and baked gingerbread men and roosters,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page093">[pg 093]</span><a name="Pg093" id="Pg093" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -which we decorated with burnt sugar and red cinnamon drops.</p> - -<p id="p0217" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things -we were sending to the Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on -grandfather’s gray gelding. When he mounted his horse at the -door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung to his belt, and he gave -grandmother a meaning look which told me he was planning a surprise -for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from the -sitting-room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west -hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a -coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through. I put on -my cap and ran out to meet Jake. When I got to the pond I could see -that he was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel. He used -to help my father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had -not forgotten how much I liked them.</p> - -<p id="p0218" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling -little tree in a corner of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas -Eve. After supper we all gathered there, and even grandfather, reading -his paper by the table, looked up with friendly interest now and then.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page094">[pg 094]</span><a name="Pg094" id="Pg094" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -The cedar was about five feet high and very shapely. We hung it with -the gingerbread animals, strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which -Fuchs had fitted into pasteboard sockets. Its real splendors, however, -came from the most unlikely place in the world—from -Otto’s cowboy trunk. I had never seen anything in that trunk but -old boots and spurs and pistols, and a fascinating mixture of yellow -leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker’s wax. From under the -lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly colored paper -figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand alone. They had -been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in Austria. There -was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were the three -kings, gorgeously appareled, and the ox and the ass and the shepherds; -there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, singing; -there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the three -kings. Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and -stories nestled like birds in its branches. Grandmother said it -reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool -under it for a snow-field, and Jake’s pocket-mirror for a frozen -lake.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page095">[pg 095]</span><a name="Pg095" id="Pg095" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0219" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working -about the table in the lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so -rudely moulded that his face seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with -his half-ear and the savage scar that made his upper lip curl so -ferociously under his twisted mustache. As I remember them, what -unprotected faces they were; their very roughness and violence made -them defenseless. These boys had no practiced manner behind which they -could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had only their hard -fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of those -drifting, case-hardened laborers who never marry or have children of -their own. Yet he was so fond of children!</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-12" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page096">[pg 096]</span><a name="Pg096" id="Pg096" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc28" id="toc28"></a> -<a name="pdf29" id="pdf29"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0220" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">On</span></span> Christmas -morning, when I got down to the kitchen, the men were just coming in -from their morning chores—the horses and pigs always had their -breakfast before we did. Jake and Otto shouted -“Merry Christmas”! to me, and winked at each other when they saw the waffle-irons on the -stove. Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday -coat. Morning prayers were longer than usual. He read the chapters -from <span class="tei tei-abbr">St.</span> Matthew about the birth of Christ, and as we -listened it all seemed like something that had happened lately, and -near at hand. In his prayer he thanked the Lord for the first -Christmas, and for all that it had meant to the world ever since. He -gave thanks for our food and comfort, and prayed for the poor and -destitute in great cities, where the struggle for life was harder than -it was here with us. Grandfather’s prayers were often very -interesting. He had the gift of simple and moving expression. Because -he talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page097">[pg 097]</span><a name="Pg097" id="Pg097" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -worn dull from constant use. His prayers reflected what he was -thinking about at the time, and it was chiefly through them that we -got to know his feelings and his views about things.</p> - -<p id="p0221" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake -told us how pleased the Shimerdas had been with their presents; even -Ambrosch was friendly and went to the creek with him to cut the -Christmas tree. It was a soft gray day outside, with heavy clouds -working across the sky, and occasional squalls of snow. There were -always odd jobs to be done about the barn on holidays, and the men -were busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played dominoes, while Otto -wrote a long letter home to his mother. He always wrote to her on -Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he was, and no matter how long -it had been since his last letter. All afternoon he sat in the -dining-room. He would write for a while, then sit idle, his clenched -fist lying on the table, his eyes following the pattern of the -oilcloth. He spoke and wrote his own language so seldom that it came -to him awkwardly. His effort to remember entirely absorbed him.</p> - -<p id="p0222" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At about four o’clock a visitor appeared:<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page098">[pg 098]</span><a name="Pg098" id="Pg098" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda, wearing his rabbit-skin cap and collar, and -new mittens his wife had knitted. He had come to thank us for the -presents, and for all grandmother’s kindness to his family. Jake -and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat about the stove, -enjoying the deepening gray of the winter afternoon and the atmosphere -of comfort and security in my grandfather’s house. This feeling -seemed completely to take possession of <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda. I -suppose, in the crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to -believe that peace and order had vanished from the earth, or existed -only in the old world he had left so far behind. He sat still and -passive, his head resting against the back of the wooden -rocking-chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms. His face had a look of -weariness and pleasure, like that of sick people when they feel relief -from pain. Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass of Virginia -apple-brandy after his long walk in the cold, and when a faint flush -came up in his cheeks, his features might have been cut out of a -shell, they were so transparent. He said almost nothing, and smiled -rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense of his utter -content.</p> - -<a name="fig30" id="fig30"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image05.png" width="640" height="505" alt="Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree" /></div> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page099">[pg 099]</span><a name="Pg099" id="Pg099" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0223" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the -Christmas tree before the lamp was brought. When the candle ends sent -up their conical yellow flames, all the colored figures from Austria -stood out clear and full of meaning against the green boughs. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda rose, crossed himself, and quietly knelt -down before the tree, his head sunk forward. His long body formed a -letter “<span class="tei tei-abbr">S.</span>” I saw grandmother look -apprehensively at grandfather. He was rather narrow in religious -matters, and sometimes spoke out and hurt people’s feelings. -There had been nothing strange about the tree before, but now, with -some one kneeling before it,—images, candles, … -Grandfather merely put his finger-tips to his brow and bowed his -venerable head, thus Protestantizing the atmosphere.</p> - -<p id="p0224" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He -needed little urging. As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me -that he liked to look at us, and that our faces were open books to -him. When his deep-seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were -looking far ahead into the future for me, down the road I would have -to travel.</p> - -<p id="p0225" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At nine o’clock <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda -lighted one<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page100">[pg 100]</span><a name="Pg100" id="Pg100" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -of our lanterns and put on his overcoat and fur collar. He stood in -the little entry hall, the lantern and his fur cap under his arm, -shaking hands with us. When he took grandmother’s hand, he bent -over it as he always did, and said slowly, “Good wo-man!” -He made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap and went off in -the dark. As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfather looked at -me searchingly. “The prayers of all good people are good,” -he said quietly.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-13" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page101">[pg 101]</span><a name="Pg101" id="Pg101" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc31" id="toc31"></a> -<a name="pdf32" id="pdf32"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XIII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0226" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">The</span></span> week following -Christmas brought in a thaw, and by New Year’s Day all the world -about us was a broth of gray slush, and the guttered slope between the -windmill and the barn was running black water. The soft black earth -stood out in patches along the roadsides. I resumed all my chores, -carried in the cobs and wood and water, and spent the afternoons at -the barn, watching Jake shell corn with a hand-sheller.</p> - -<p id="p0227" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One morning, during this interval of fine weather, -Ántonia and her mother rode over on one of their shaggy old -horses to pay us a visit. It was the first time <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda had been to our house, and she ran about examining our -carpets and curtains and furniture, all the while commenting upon them -to her daughter in an envious, complaining tone. In the kitchen she -caught up an iron pot that stood on the back of the stove and said: -“You got many, Shimerdas no got.” I thought it weak-minded -of grandmother to give the pot to her.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page102">[pg 102]</span><a name="Pg102" id="Pg102" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0228" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After dinner, when she was helping to wash the -dishes, she said, tossing her head: “You got many things for -cook. If I got all things like you, I make much better.”</p> - -<p id="p0229" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She was a conceited, boastful old thing, and even -misfortune could not humble her. I was so annoyed that I felt coldly -even toward Ántonia and listened unsympathetically when she -told me her father was not well.</p> - -<p id="p0230" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“My papa sad for the old country. He not look -good. He never make music any more. At home he play violin all the -time; for weddings and for dance. Here never. When I beg him for play, -he shake his head no. Some days he take his violin out of his box and -make with his fingers on the strings, like this, but never he make the -music. He don’t like this kawn-tree.”</p> - -<p id="p0231" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“People who don’t like this country ought -to stay at home,” I said severely. “We don’t make -them come here.”</p> - -<p id="p0232" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He not want to come, nev-er!” she burst -out. “My -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">mamenka</span> -make him come. All the time she say: ‘America big country; much -money, much land for my boys, much husband for my girls.’ My -papa, he cry for leave his old friends what make music with him. He<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page103">[pg 103]</span><a name="Pg103" id="Pg103" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -love very much the man what play the long horn like this”—she indicated a slide trombone. “They go to school -together and are friends from boys. But my mama, she want Ambrosch for -be rich, with many cattle.”</p> - -<p id="p0233" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Your mama,” I said angrily, “wants -other people’s things.”</p> - -<p id="p0234" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Your grandfather is rich,” she retorted -fiercely. “Why he not help my papa? Ambrosch be rich, too, after -while, and he pay back. He is very smart boy. For Ambrosch my mama -come here.”</p> - -<p id="p0235" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ambrosch was considered the important person in the -family. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda and Ántonia always deferred -to him, though he was often surly with them and contemptuous toward -his father. Ambrosch and his mother had everything their own way. -Though Ántonia loved her father more than she did any one else, -she stood in awe of her elder brother.</p> - -<p id="p0236" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After I watched Ántonia and her mother go over -the hill on their miserable horse, carrying our iron pot with them, I -turned to grandmother, who had taken up her darning, and said I hoped -that snooping old woman would n’t come to see us any more.</p> - -<p id="p0237" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page104">[pg 104]</span><a name="Pg104" id="Pg104" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -needle across a hole in Otto’s sock. “She’s not old, -Jim, though I expect she seems old to you. No, I would n’t mourn -if she never came again. But, you see, a body never knows what traits -poverty might bring out in ’em. It makes a woman grasping to see -her children want for things. Now read me a chapter in ‘The -Prince of the House of David.’ Let’s forget the -Bohemians.”</p> - <p id="p0238" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We had three weeks of this mild, open weather. The -cattle in the corral ate corn almost as fast as the men could shell it -for them, and we hoped they would be ready for an early market. One -morning the two big bulls, Gladstone and Brigham Young, thought spring -had come, and they began to tease and butt at each other across the -barbed wire that separated them. Soon they got angry. They bellowed -and pawed up the soft earth with their hoofs, rolling their eyes and -tossing their heads. Each withdrew to a far corner of his own corral, -and then they made for each other at a gallop. Thud, thud, we could -hear the impact of their great heads, and their bellowing shook the -pans on the kitchen shelves. Had they not been dehorned, they would -have torn each other to pieces. Pretty<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page105">[pg 105]</span><a name="Pg105" id="Pg105" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -soon the fat steers took it up and began butting and horning each -other. Clearly, the affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and -watched admiringly while Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork -and prodded the bulls again and again, finally driving them apart.</p> - -<p id="p0239" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh -birthday, the 20th of January. When I went down to breakfast that -morning, Jake and Otto came in white as snow-men, beating their hands -and stamping their feet. They began to laugh boisterously when they -saw me, calling:—</p> - -<p id="p0240" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You’ve got a birthday present this time, -Jim, and no mistake. They was a full-grown blizzard ordered for -you.”</p> - -<p id="p0241" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this -time, it simply spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds -being emptied. That afternoon the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the -men brought in their tools and made two great wooden shovels with long -handles. Neither grandmother nor I could go out in the storm, so Jake -fed the chickens and brought in a pitiful contribution of eggs.</p> - -<p id="p0242" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach -the barn—and the snow was still<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page106">[pg 106]</span><a name="Pg106" id="Pg106" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my -grandfather had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not -try to reach the cattle—they were fat enough to go without -their corn for a day or two; but to-morrow we must feed them and thaw -out their water-tap so that they could drink. We could not so much as -see the corrals, but we knew the steers were over there, huddled -together under the north bank. Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by -this time, were probably warming each other’s backs. -“This’ll take the bile out of ’em!” Fuchs -remarked gleefully.</p> - -<p id="p0243" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At noon that day the hens had not been heard from. -After dinner Jake and Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them, -stretched their stiff arms and plunged again into the drifts. They -made a tunnel under the snow to the henhouse, with walls so solid that -grandmother and I could walk back and forth in it. We found the -chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had come to stay. One old -rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid lump of ice in their -water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, the hens set up -a great cackling and flew about clumsily,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page107">[pg 107]</span><a name="Pg107" id="Pg107" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -scattering down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always -resentful of captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried -to poke their ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five -o’clock the chores were done—just when it was time to -begin them all over again! That was a strange, unnatural sort of -day.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-14" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page108">[pg 108]</span><a name="Pg108" id="Pg108" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc33" id="toc33"></a> -<a name="pdf34" id="pdf34"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XIV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0244" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">On</span></span> the morning of -the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, I seemed to -know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in the -kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must -be almost beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with -delight. What could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. -Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; -perhaps a neighbor was lost in the storm.</p> - -<p id="p0245" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before -the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their -boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots -were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the -stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to -the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and -went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept -whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord, -Thou knowest!”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page109">[pg 109]</span><a name="Pg109" id="Pg109" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0246" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: -“Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a -great deal to do. Old <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda is dead, and his -family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of -the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a -hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is -Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.”</p> - -<p id="p0247" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of -coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s -warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.</p> - -<p id="p0248" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, sir,” Fuchs said in answer to a -question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off. -Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the -women folks -was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and -he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of -’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out -of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He -got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen -him.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page110">[pg 110]</span><a name="Pg110" id="Pg110" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0249" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother -groaned. “I’d like to think he never done it. He was -always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget -himself and bring this on us!”</p> - -<p id="p0250" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t think he was out of his head for -a minute, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden,” Fuchs declared. “He -done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy -he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all -over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the -water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after -he was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and -said he was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to -the barn and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to -the ox stalls, where he always slept. When we found him, everything -was decent except,”—Fuchs wrinkled his brow and -hesitated,—“except what he could n’t nowise -foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the bed. -He’d took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it -smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the -neck and rolled up his sleeves.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page111">[pg 111]</span><a name="Pg111" id="Pg111" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0251" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t see how he could do it!” -grandmother kept saying.</p> - -<p id="p0252" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Otto misunderstood her. “Why, mam, it was -simple enough; he pulled the trigger with his big toe. He layed over -on his side and put the end of the barrel in his mouth, then he drew -up one foot and felt for the trigger. He found it all right!”</p> - -<p id="p0253" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Maybe he did,” said Jake grimly. -“There’s something mighty queer about it.”</p> - -<p id="p0254" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now what do you mean, Jake?” grandmother -asked sharply.</p> - -<p id="p0255" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well, mam, I found Krajiek’s axe under -the manger, and I picks it up and carries it over to the corpse, and I -take my oath it just fit the gash in the front of the old man’s -face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin’ round, pale and -quiet, and when he seen me examinin’ the axe, he begun -whimperin’, ‘My God, man, don’t do that!’ -‘I reckon I’m a-goin’ to look into this,’ says -I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about wringin’ his -hands. ‘They’ll hang me!’ says he. ‘My God, -they’ll hang me sure!’”</p> - -<p id="p0256" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs spoke up impatiently. “Krajiek’s -gone silly, Jake, and so have you. The old man would n’t have -made all them<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page112">[pg 112]</span><a name="Pg112" id="Pg112" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -preparations for Krajiek to murder him, would he? It don’t hang -together. The gun was right beside him when Ambrosch found -him.”</p> - -<p id="p0257" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Krajiek could ’a’ put it there, -could n’t he?” Jake demanded.</p> - -<p id="p0258" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother broke in excitedly: “See here, Jake -Marpole, don’t you go trying to add murder to suicide. -We’re deep enough in trouble. Otto reads you too many of them -detective stories.”</p> - -<p id="p0259" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It will be easy to decide all that, -Emmaline,” said grandfather quietly. “If he shot himself -in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the inside -outward.”</p> - -<p id="p0260" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Just so it is, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden,” -Otto affirmed. “I seen bunches of hair and stuff sticking to the -poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up there by gunshot, no -question.”</p> - -<p id="p0261" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the -Shimerdas -with him.</p> - -<p id="p0262" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“There is nothing you can do,” he said -doubtfully. “The body can’t be touched until we get the -coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a matter of several -days, this weather.”</p> - -<p id="p0263" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, -and say a word of comfort to them poor<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page113">[pg 113]</span><a name="Pg113" id="Pg113" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a right -hand to him. He might have thought of her. He’s left her alone -in a hard world.” She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was -now eating his breakfast at the kitchen table.</p> - -<p id="p0264" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all -night, was going to make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the -priest and the coroner. On the gray gelding, our best horse, he would -try to pick his way across the country with no roads to guide him.</p> - -<p id="p0265" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Don’t you worry about me, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden,” he said cheerfully, as he put on a -second pair of socks. “I’ve got a good nose for -directions, and I never did need much sleep. It’s the gray -I’m worried about. I’ll save him what I can, but -it’ll strain him, as sure as I’m telling you!”</p> - -<p id="p0266" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“This is no time to be over-considerate of -animals, Otto; do the best you can for yourself. Stop at the Widow -Steavens’s for dinner. She’s a good woman, and -she’ll do well by you.”</p> - -<p id="p0267" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I -saw a side of him I had not seen before. He was deeply, even -slavishly, devout.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page114">[pg 114]</span><a name="Pg114" id="Pg114" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -He did not say a word all morning, but sat with his rosary in his -hands, praying, now silently, now aloud. He never looked away from his -beads, nor lifted his hands except to cross himself. Several times the -poor boy fell asleep where he sat, wakened with a start, and began to -pray again.</p> - -<p id="p0268" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas’ until a -road was broken, and that would be a day’s job. Grandfather came -from the barn on one of our big black horses, and Jake lifted -grandmother up behind him. She wore her black hood and was bundled up -in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy white beard inside his -overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set off, I thought. Jake -and Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black and my pony, -carrying bundles of clothes that we had got together for -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda. I watched them go past the pond and over -the hill by the drifted cornfield. Then, for the first time, I -realized that I was alone in the house.</p> - -<p id="p0269" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I felt a considerable extension of power and -authority, and was anxious to acquit myself creditably. I carried in -cobs and wood from the long cellar, and filled both the stoves. I -remembered that in the hurry and excitement<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page115">[pg 115]</span><a name="Pg115" id="Pg115" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -of the morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had -not been gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their -corn, emptied the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with -water. After the cat had had his milk, I could think of nothing else -to do, and I sat down to get warm. The quiet was delightful, and the -ticking clock was the most pleasant of companions. I got -“Robinson Crusoe” and tried to read, but his life on the -island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I looked with -satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed upon me -that if <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s soul were lingering about in -this world at all, it would be here, in our house, which had been more -to his liking than any other in the neighborhood. I remembered his -contented face when he was with us on Christmas Day. If he could have -lived with us, this terrible thing would never have happened.</p> - -<p id="p0270" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I knew it was homesickness that had killed -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda, and I wondered whether his released spirit -would not eventually find its way back to his own country. I thought -of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, to Baltimore,—and then the great<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page116">[pg 116]</span><a name="Pg116" id="Pg116" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -wintry ocean. No, he would not at once set out upon that long journey. -Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of cold and crowding and the -struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting now in this quiet -house.</p> - -<p id="p0271" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not -wish to disturb him. I went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked -away so snugly underground, always seemed to me the heart and center -of the house. There, on the bench behind the stove, I thought and -thought about <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda. Outside I could hear the wind -singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It was as if I had let the old -man in out of the tormenting winter, and were sitting there with him. -I went over all that Ántonia had ever told me about his life -before he came to this country; how he used to play the fiddle at -weddings and dances. I thought about the friends he had mourned to -leave, the trombone-player, the great forest full of game,—belonging, as Ántonia said, to the “nobles,”—from which she and her mother used to steal wood on moonlight -nights. There was a white hart that lived in that forest, and if any -one killed it, he would be hanged, she said. Such vivid pictures came -to me that they might<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page117">[pg 117]</span><a name="Pg117" id="Pg117" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -have been <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s memories, not yet faded -out from the air in which they had haunted him.</p> - -<p id="p0272" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It had begun to grow dark when my household returned, -and grandmother was so tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I -got supper, and while we were washing the dishes he told me in loud -whispers about the state of things over at the Shimerdas’. -Nobody could touch the body until the coroner came. If any one did, -something terrible would happen, apparently. The dead man was frozen -through, “just as stiff as a dressed turkey you hang out to -freeze,” Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the -barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of -blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there -was no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging -over <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s head. Ántonia and -Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down to pray beside him. The -crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel the cold. I believed -he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to be thought -insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor Marek!</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page118">[pg 118]</span><a name="Pg118" id="Pg118" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0273" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than -he would have supposed him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned -about getting a priest, and about his father’s soul, which he -believed was in a place of torment and would remain there until his -family and the priest had prayed a great deal for him. “As I -understand it,” Jake concluded, “it will be a matter of -years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he’s in -torment.”</p> - -<p id="p0274" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t believe it,” I said -stoutly. “I almost know it is n’t true.” I did not, -of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all -afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I -went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me -crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and -shuddered. But <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda had not been rich and -selfish; he had only been so unhappy that he could not live any -longer.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-15" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page119">[pg 119]</span><a name="Pg119" id="Pg119" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc35" id="toc35"></a> -<a name="pdf36" id="pdf36"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0275" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Otto Fuchs</span></span> got -back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that the -coroner would reach the Shimerdas’ sometime that afternoon, but -the missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred -miles away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few -hours’ sleep at the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the -gray gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse -afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had taken all the -endurance out of him.</p> - -<p id="p0276" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young -Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on -his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That -was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young -fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of -life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim -business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his -felt boots and long<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page120">[pg 120]</span><a name="Pg120" id="Pg120" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of -grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, -rolling voice which seemed older than he.</p> - -<p id="p0277" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I want to thank you very much, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers -from my kawn-tree.”</p> - -<p id="p0278" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one -eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and -spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, -but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began -he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along -with the little children. He told me he had a nice -“lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school.</p> - -<p id="p0279" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he -usually did to strangers.</p> - -<p id="p0280" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Will they be much disappointed because we -cannot get a priest?” he asked.</p> - -<p id="p0281" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very -bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked -straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.”</p> - -<p id="p0282" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We -believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page121">[pg 121]</span><a name="Pg121" id="Pg121" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator -as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only -intercessor.”</p> - -<p id="p0283" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The young man shook his head. “I know how you -think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. -I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.”</p> - -<p id="p0284" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We asked him what he meant.</p> - -<p id="p0285" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He glanced around the table. “You want I shall -tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the -priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the -Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, -when the Austrians -fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the -cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day -long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and -I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody -that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But -we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and -that body of Christ, and it preserve us.” He paused, looking at -grandfather. “That I know, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden, for it -happened to myself. All the soldiers know,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page122">[pg 122]</span><a name="Pg122" id="Pg122" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all -the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, -when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and -kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad -for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad -way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.”</p> - -<p id="p0286" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to -admire his frank, manly faith.</p> - -<p id="p0287" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I am always glad to meet a young man who -thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, -“and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s -care when you were among the soldiers.”</p> - -<p id="p0288" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should -hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road -through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was -necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, -was set to work on a coffin.</p> - -<p id="p0289" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we -admired it, he told us that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and -the young man who “batched” with him, Jan Bouska,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page123">[pg 123]</span><a name="Pg123" id="Pg123" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the windmill -I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his -way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely -hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the -horses would emerge black and shining.</p> - -<p id="p0290" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought -from the barn and carried down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards -from a pile of planks grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall -to make a new floor for the oats bin. When at last the lumber and -tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and the cold -drafts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the -Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to -work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did not touch his -tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of paper, and -measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus engaged, -he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his half-ear. -Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At last he -folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page124">[pg 124]</span><a name="Pg124" id="Pg124" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0291" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“The hardest part of my job’s -done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of it that -comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The -last time I made one of these, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden,” he -continued, as he sorted and tried his chisels, “was for a fellow -in the Black Tiger mine, up above Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of -that mine goes right into the face of the cliff, and they used to put -us in a bucket and run us over on a trolley and shoot us into the -shaft. The bucket traveled across a box cañon three hundred -feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes had fell out of -that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll -believe it, they went to work the next day. You can’t kill a -Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it -turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, -and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for -him. It’s a handy thing to know, when you knock about like -I’ve done.”</p> - -<p id="p0292" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“We’d be hard put to it now, if you did -n’t know, Otto,” grandmother said.</p> - -<p id="p0293" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with -modest pride. “So few folks does know how to make<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page125">[pg 125]</span><a name="Pg125" id="Pg125" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if -there’ll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m -not at all particular that way.”</p> - -<p id="p0294" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one -could hear the panting wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of -the plane. They were such cheerful noises, seeming to promise new -things for living people: it was a pity that those freshly planed pine -boards were to be put underground so soon. The lumber was hard to work -because it was full of frost, and the boards gave off a sweet smell of -pine woods, as the heap of yellow shavings grew higher and higher. I -wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to cabinet-work, he settled down to -it with such ease and content. He handled the tools as if he liked the -feel of them; and when he planed, his hands went back and forth over -the boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he were blessing them. He -broke out now and then into German hymns, as if this occupation -brought back old times to him.</p> - -<p id="p0295" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At four o’clock <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Bushy, the -postmaster, with another neighbor who lived east of us, stopped in to -get warm. They were on their<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page126">[pg 126]</span><a name="Pg126" id="Pg126" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -way to the Shimerdas’. The news of what had happened over there -had somehow got abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother -gave the visitors sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers -were gone, the brother of the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black -Hawk road, drew up at our door, and after him came the father of the -German family, our nearest neighbors on the south. They dismounted and -joined us in the dining-room. They were all eager for any details -about the suicide, and they were greatly concerned as to where -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic -cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could -get so far. Besides, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Bushy and grandmother were sure -that a man who had killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic -graveyard. There was a burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, -west of Squaw Creek; perhaps the Norwegians would take -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda in.</p> - -<p id="p0296" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After our visitors rode away in single file over the -hill, we returned to the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing -for a chocolate cake, and Otto again filled the house with the -exciting, expectant song of the plane.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page127">[pg 127]</span><a name="Pg127" id="Pg127" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more than -usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only -papers, to-day,” or, “I’ve got a sackful of mail for -ye,” until this afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear -woman; to herself or to the Lord, if there was no one else to listen; -but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often -so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a -wall of silence. Now every one seemed eager to talk. That afternoon -Fuchs told me story after story; about the Black Tiger mine, and about -violent deaths and casual buryings, and the queer fancies of dying -men. You never really knew a man, he said, until you saw him die. Most -men were game, and went without a grudge.</p> - -<p id="p0297" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that -grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night. -The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting -and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its -hospitality to <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda.</p> - -<p id="p0298" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners -are so clannish, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Bushy, we’ll have<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page128">[pg 128]</span><a name="Pg128" id="Pg128" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded. -I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If -anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians -holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to -be laid amongst ’em.”</p> - -<p id="p0299" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton -Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild, -flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. -He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not -been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against -Krajiek. “The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound, -was enough to convict any man.”</p> - -<p id="p0300" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Although it was perfectly clear that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something -ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He -was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some -stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s -misery and loneliness.</p> - -<p id="p0301" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate -cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page129">[pg 129]</span><a name="Pg129" id="Pg129" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -condition, disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly -about where they should bury <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda; I gathered -that the neighbors were all disturbed and shocked about something. It -developed that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old -man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under -the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had explained to -Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence and the -roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross exactly on -that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no -matter.”</p> - -<p id="p0302" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country -there was some superstition to the effect that a suicide must be -buried at the cross-roads.</p> - -<p id="p0303" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jelinek said he did n’t know; he seemed to -remember hearing there had once been such a custom in Bohemia. -“<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda is made up her mind,” he -added. “I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to -all the neighbors; but she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury -him, if I dig the grave myself,’ she say. I have to promise her -I help Ambrosch make the grave to-morrow.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page130">[pg 130]</span><a name="Pg130" id="Pg130" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0304" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. -“I don’t know whose wish should decide the matter, if not -hers. But if she thinks she will live to see the people of this -country ride over that old man’s head, she is -mistaken.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-16" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page131">[pg 131]</span><a name="Pg131" id="Pg131" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc37" id="toc37"></a> -<a name="pdf38" id="pdf38"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XVI</span></h2> - -<p id="p0305" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span class="tei tei-abbr"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Mr.</span></span><span style="font-variant: small-caps"> -Shimerda</span></span> lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they -buried him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the -grave, chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we -breakfasted before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin. -Jake and Jelinek went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from -the pool of blood in which it was frozen fast to the ground.</p> - -<p id="p0306" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas’ -house, we found the women-folk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the -barn. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda sat crouching by the stove, -Ántonia was washing dishes. When she saw me she ran out of her -dark corner and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Jimmy,” she -sobbed, “what you tink for my lovely papa!” It seemed to -me that I could feel her heart breaking as she clung to me.</p> - -<p id="p0307" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda, sitting on the stump by -the stove, kept looking over her shoulder toward the door while the -neighbors were arriving. They came on horseback, all except the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page132">[pg 132]</span><a name="Pg132" id="Pg132" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon over the only broken -wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm eight miles down -the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the cave-house, and -it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to fall, and -every one was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the burial -over with.</p> - -<p id="p0308" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda that it was time to start. After bundling -her mother up in clothes the neighbors had brought, Ántonia put -on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her father had -made for her. Four men carried <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s box -up the hill; Krajiek slunk along behind them. The coffin was too wide -for the door, so it was put down on the slope outside. I slipped out -from the cave and looked at <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda. He was lying on -his side, with his knees drawn up. His body was draped in a black -shawl, and his head was bandaged in white muslin, like a -mummy’s; one of his long, shapely hands lay out on the black -cloth; that was all one could see of him.</p> - -<p id="p0309" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda came out and placed an open<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page133">[pg 133]</span><a name="Pg133" id="Pg133" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -prayer-book against the body, making the sign of the cross on the -bandaged head with her fingers. Ambrosch knelt down and made the same -gesture, and after him Ántonia and Marek. Yulka hung back. Her -mother pushed her forward, and kept saying something to her over and -over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put out her hand a little -way, but she drew it back and began to cry wildly. She was afraid to -touch the bandage. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda caught her by the -shoulders and pushed her toward the coffin, but grandmother -interfered.</p> - -<p id="p0310" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda,” she -said firmly, “I won’t stand by and see that child -frightened into spasms. She is too little to understand what you want -of her. Let her alone.”</p> - -<p id="p0311" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At a look from grandfather, Fuchs and Jelinek placed -the lid on the box, and began to nail it down over <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Shimerda. I was afraid to look at Ántonia. She put her arms -round Yulka and held the little girl close to her.</p> - -<p id="p0312" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The coffin was put into the wagon. We drove slowly -away, against the fine, icy snow which cut our faces like a -sand-blast. When we reached the grave, it looked a very little spot in -that snow-covered waste. The men<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page134">[pg 134]</span><a name="Pg134" id="Pg134" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -took the coffin to the edge of the hole and lowered it with ropes. We -stood about watching them, and the powdery snow lay without melting on -the caps and shoulders of the men and the shawls of the women. Jelinek -spoke in a persuasive tone to <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda, and then -turned to grandfather.</p> - -<p id="p0313" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She says, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden, she is very -glad if you can make some prayer for him here in English, for the -neighbors to understand.”</p> - -<p id="p0314" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother looked anxiously at grandfather. He took -off his hat, and the other men did likewise. I thought his prayer -remarkable. I still remember it. He began, “Oh, great and just -God, no man among us knows what the sleeper knows, nor is it for us to -judge what lies between him and Thee.” He prayed that if any man -there had been remiss toward the stranger come to a far country, God -would forgive him and soften his heart. He recalled the promises to -the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the way before -this widow and her children, and to “incline the hearts of men -to deal justly with her.” In closing, he said we were leaving -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda at “Thy judgment seat, which is also -Thy mercy seat.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page135">[pg 135]</span><a name="Pg135" id="Pg135" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0315" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All the time he was praying, grandmother watched him -through the black fingers of her glove, and when he said -“Amen,” I thought she looked satisfied with him. She -turned to Otto and whispered, “Can’t you start a hymn, -Fuchs? It would seem less heathenish.”</p> - -<p id="p0316" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general -approval of her suggestion, then began, “Jesus, Lover of my -Soul,” and all the men and women took it up after him. Whenever -I have heard the hymn since, it has made me remember that white waste -and the little group of people; and the bluish air, full of fine, -eddying snow, like long veils flying:—</p> - -<div class="tei tei-lg" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-top: 1.00em"> -<div id="p0317" class="tei tei-l" style="text-align: left; margin-left: 2.00em">“While the nearer waters roll,</div> -<div id="p0318" class="tei tei-l" style="text-align: left; margin-left: 2.00em">While the tempest still is high.”</div> -</div> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p0319" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were -over, and the red grass had been ploughed under and under until it had -almost disappeared from the prairie; when all the fields were under -fence, and the roads no longer ran about like wild things, but -followed the surveyed section-lines, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s -grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and an -unpainted wooden cross.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page136">[pg 136]</span><a name="Pg136" id="Pg136" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -As grandfather had predicted, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda never saw the -roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a little to -the east just there, and the road from the west swung out a little to -the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was never -mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moon or -the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft gray -rivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion, -and in all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the -dim superstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave -there; and still more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the -sentence—the error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of -the soft earth roads along which the home-coming wagons rattled after -sunset. Never a tired driver passed the wooden cross, I am sure, -without wishing well to the sleeper.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-17" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page137">[pg 137]</span><a name="Pg137" id="Pg137" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc39" id="toc39"></a> -<a name="pdf40" id="pdf40"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XVII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0320" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">When</span></span> spring came, -after that hard winter, one could not get enough of the nimble air. -Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was -over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch -in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only—spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the -vital essence of it everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in -the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind—rising suddenly, -sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed -you and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down -blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was -spring.</p> - -<p id="p0321" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Everywhere now there was the smell of burning grass. -Our neighbors burned off their pasture before the new grass made a -start, so that the fresh growth would not be mixed with the dead stand -of last year. Those light, swift fires, running about the country, -seemed a part of the same kindling that was in the air.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page138">[pg 138]</span><a name="Pg138" id="Pg138" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0322" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Shimerdas were in their new log house by then. -The neighbors had helped them to build it in March. It stood directly -in front of their old cave, which they used as a cellar. The family -were now fairly equipped to begin their struggle with the soil. They -had four comfortable rooms to live in, a new windmill,—bought -on credit,—a chicken-house and poultry. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda had paid grandfather ten dollars for a milk cow, and was to -give him fifteen more as soon as they harvested their first crop.</p> - -<p id="p0323" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I rode up to the Shimerdas’ one bright -windy afternoon in April, Yulka ran out to meet me. It was to her, -now, that I gave reading lessons; Ántonia was busy with other -things. I tied my pony and went into the kitchen where -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda was baking bread, chewing poppy seeds as -she worked. By this time she could speak enough English to ask me a -great many questions about what our men were doing in the fields. She -seemed to think that my elders withheld helpful information, and that -from me she might get valuable secrets. On this occasion she asked me -very craftily when grandfather expected to begin planting corn. I told -her,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page139">[pg 139]</span><a name="Pg139" id="Pg139" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -adding that he thought we should have a dry spring and that the corn -would not be held back by too much rain, as it had been last year.</p> - -<p id="p0324" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She gave me a shrewd glance. “He not -Jesus,” she blustered; “he not know about the wet and the -dry.”</p> - -<p id="p0325" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I did not answer her; what was the use? As I sat -waiting for the hour when Ambrosch and Ántonia would return -from the fields, I watched <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda at her work. She -took from the oven a coffee-cake which she wanted to keep warm for -supper, and wrapped it in a quilt stuffed with feathers. I have seen -her put even a roast goose in this quilt to keep it hot. When the -neighbors were there building the new house they saw her do this, and -the story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their food in their -feather beds.</p> - -<p id="p0326" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When the sun was dropping low, Ántonia came up -the big south draw with her team. How much older she had grown in -eight months! She had come to us a child, and now she was a tall, -strong young girl, although her fifteenth birthday had just slipped -by. I ran out and met her as she brought her horses up to the windmill -to water them. She<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page140">[pg 140]</span><a name="Pg140" id="Pg140" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -wore the boots her father had so thoughtfully taken off before he shot -himself, and his old fur cap. Her outgrown cotton dress switched about -her calves, over the boot-tops. She kept her sleeves rolled up all -day, and her arms and throat were burned as brown as a sailor’s. -Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like the bole of a -tree out of the turf. One sees that draft-horse neck among the peasant -women in all old countries.</p> - -<p id="p0327" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She greeted me gayly, and began at once to tell me -how much ploughing she had done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on -the north quarter, breaking sod with the oxen.</p> - -<p id="p0328" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day. -I don’t want that Jake get more done in one day than me. I want -we have very much corn this fall.”</p> - -<p id="p0329" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each -other, and then drank again, Ántonia sat down on the windmill -step and rested her head on her hand. “You see the big prairie -fire from your place last night? I hope your grandpa ain’t lose -no stacks?”</p> - -<p id="p0330" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, we did n’t. I came to ask you -something, Tony. Grandmother wants to know if you can’t go to -the term of school that begins<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page141">[pg 141]</span><a name="Pg141" id="Pg141" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -next week over at the sod schoolhouse. She says there’s a good -teacher, and you’d learn a lot.”</p> - -<p id="p0331" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia stood up, lifting and dropping her -shoulders as if they were stiff. “I ain’t got time to -learn. I can work like mans now. My mother can’t say no more how -Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work as much as him. -School is all right for little boys. I help make this land one good -farm.”</p> - -<p id="p0332" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I -walked beside her, feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful -like her mother, I wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt -something tense in her silence, and glancing up I saw that she was -crying. She turned her face from me and looked off at the red streak -of dying light, over the dark prairie.</p> - -<p id="p0333" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for -her, while she unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the -house. Ambrosch had come in from the north quarter, and was watering -his oxen at the tank.</p> - -<p id="p0334" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia took my hand. “Sometime you will -tell me all those nice things you learn at the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page142">[pg 142]</span><a name="Pg142" id="Pg142" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of -feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He -know a great deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got -here. He play horn and violin, and he read so many books that the -priests in Bohemie come to talk to him. You won’t forget my -father, Jim?”</p> - -<p id="p0335" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No,” I said, “I will never forget -him.”</p> - -<p id="p0336" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda asked me to stay for -supper. After Ambrosch and Ántonia had washed the field dust -from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we -sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda -ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the -mush we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake -that had been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch -were talking in Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more -ploughing that day. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda egged them on, -chuckling while she gobbled her food.</p> - -<a name="fig41" id="fig41"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image06.png" width="640" height="345" alt="Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field" /></div> - -<p id="p0337" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: -“You take them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not -be so smart.”</p> - -<p id="p0338" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page143">[pg 143]</span><a name="Pg143" id="Pg143" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you -to-morrow, if you want.”</p> - -<p id="p0339" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda turned quickly to me. -“That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If -he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.”</p> - -<p id="p0340" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He does n’t talk about the fifteen -dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find -fault with people.”</p> - -<p id="p0341" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He say I break his saw when we build, and I -never,” grumbled Ambrosch.</p> - -<p id="p0342" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and -lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything -was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man, -and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over -her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said, “Heavy field -work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and -get rough ones.” She had lost them already.</p> - -<p id="p0343" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring -twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She -was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to -see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to -chat for a<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page144">[pg 144]</span><a name="Pg144" id="Pg144" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and -waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and -had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or -sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we -complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some -fellow get ahead in the world.”</p> - -<p id="p0344" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of -things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of -her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a -girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked -in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow, -shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck, -and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone -in which poor <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda, who could say so little, yet -managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My -Án-tonia!”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-18" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page145">[pg 145]</span><a name="Pg145" id="Pg145" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc42" id="toc42"></a> -<a name="pdf43" id="pdf43"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XVIII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0345" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">After</span></span> I began to -go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen -pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and -brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, -but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even -with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s -death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed -to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk. -Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see -that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy. -Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us -and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way.</p> - -<p id="p0346" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a -horse-collar which Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not -returned. It was a beautiful blue morning. The buffalo-peas were -blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside, and the larks, -perched on<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page146">[pg 146]</span><a name="Pg146" id="Pg146" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing straight at the -sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts a-quiver. The -wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a -pleasant sense of Sunday indolence.</p> - -<p id="p0347" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a -week-day. Marek was cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and -her mother were making garden, off across the pond in the draw-head. -Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, -not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and -scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and -Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up.</p> - -<p id="p0348" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, don’t you say you have n’t -got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t -a-going to look for it, I will.”</p> - -<p id="p0349" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the -hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. -Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was -sticking out of it.</p> - -<p id="p0350" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“This what you want?” he asked -surlily.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page147">[pg 147]</span><a name="Pg147" id="Pg147" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0351" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come -up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the -piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve -used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing -back to <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden.”</p> - -<p id="p0352" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All -right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb -the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him -back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he -lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately -Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the -sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and -Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it -sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped -over, stunned.</p> - -<p id="p0353" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia -and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around -the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting -their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this -time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page148">[pg 148]</span><a name="Pg148" id="Pg148" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. -“Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called.</p> - -<p id="p0354" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda threw her hands over her -head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning. -“Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my -Ambrosch down!”</p> - -<p id="p0355" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I never like you no more, Jake and Jim -Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any -more!”</p> - -<p id="p0356" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second. -“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of -you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along -without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them, -anyhow!”</p> - -<p id="p0357" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine -morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor -Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to -get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept -saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same. -You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a -feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we -went through on account of ’em last<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page149">[pg 149]</span><a name="Pg149" id="Pg149" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you -get too thick with any of ’em.”</p> - -<p id="p0358" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I’ll never be friends with them again, -Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like -Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.”</p> - -<p id="p0359" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his -eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the -peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. -Then if <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled. -Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig -he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had -started, we saw <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly -driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out -of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had -rather expected she would follow the matter up.</p> - -<p id="p0360" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather -had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake -sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd -head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page150">[pg 150]</span><a name="Pg150" id="Pg150" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks -afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the -post-office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would -clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:—</p> - -<p id="p0361" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the -slap!”</p> - -<p id="p0362" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Otto pretended not to be surprised at -Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted his brows and said, -“You can’t tell me anything new about a Czech; I’m -an Austrian.”</p> - -<p id="p0363" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our -feud with the Shimerdas. Ambrosch and Ántonia always greeted -him respectfully, and he asked them about their affairs and gave them -advice as usual. He thought the future looked hopeful for them. -Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he soon realized that his oxen were -too heavy for any work except breaking sod, and he succeeded in -selling them to a newly arrived German. With the money he bought -another team of horses, which grandfather selected for him. Marek was -strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never teach him to -cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page151">[pg 151]</span><a name="Pg151" id="Pg151" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -through poor Marek’s thick head was that all exertion was -meritorious. He always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and -drove the blades so deep into the earth that the horses were soon -exhausted.</p> - -<p id="p0364" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In June Ambrosch went to work at <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Bushy’s for a week, and took Marek with him at full wages. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; she and -Ántonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at -night. While the two women were running the place alone, one of the -new horses got colic and gave them a terrible fright.</p> - -<p id="p0365" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia had gone down to the barn one night to -see that all was well before she went to bed, and she noticed that one -of the roans was swollen about the middle and stood with its head -hanging. She mounted another horse, without waiting to saddle him, and -hammered on our door just as we were going to bed. Grandfather -answered her knock. He did not send one of his men, but rode back with -her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece of carpet he kept for -hot applications when our horses were sick. He found <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing -her hands. It took but a few<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page152">[pg 152]</span><a name="Pg152" id="Pg152" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -moments to release the gases pent up in the poor beast, and the two -women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan visibly diminish in -girth.</p> - -<p id="p0366" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“If I lose that horse, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Burden,” Ántonia exclaimed, “I never stay here till -Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before -morning.”</p> - -<p id="p0367" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Ambrosch came back from <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Bushy’s, we learned that he had given Marek’s wages to the -priest at Black Hawk, for masses for their father’s soul. -Grandmother thought Ántonia needed shoes more than -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda needed prayers, but grandfather said -tolerantly, “If he can spare six dollars, pinched as he is, it -shows he believes what he professes.”</p> - -<p id="p0368" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It was grandfather who brought about a -reconciliation with the Shimerdas. One morning he told us that the -small grain was coming on so well, he thought he would begin to cut -his wheat on the first of July. He would need more men, and if it were -agreeable to every one he would engage Ambrosch for the reaping and -thrashing, as the Shimerdas had no small grain of their own.</p> - -<p id="p0369" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I think, Emmaline,” he concluded, -“I will<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page153">[pg 153]</span><a name="Pg153" id="Pg153" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -ask Ántonia to come over and help you in the kitchen. She will -be glad to earn something, and it will be a good time to end -misunderstandings. I may as well ride over this morning and make -arrangements. Do you want to go with me, Jim?” His tone told me -that he had already decided for me.</p> - -<p id="p0370" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After breakfast we set off together. When -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda saw us coming, she ran from her door down -into the draw behind the stable, as if she did not want to meet us. -Grandfather smiled to himself while he tied his horse, and we followed -her.</p> - -<p id="p0371" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Behind the barn we came upon a funny sight. The cow -had evidently been grazing somewhere in the draw. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda had run to the animal, pulled up the lariat pin, and, when we -came upon her, she was trying to hide the cow in an old cave in the -bank. As the hole was narrow and dark, the cow held back, and the old -woman was slapping and pushing at her hind quarters, trying to spank -her into the draw-side.</p> - -<p id="p0372" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandfather ignored her singular occupation and -greeted her politely. “Good-morning, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda. -Can you tell me where I will find Ambrosch? Which field?”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page154">[pg 154]</span><a name="Pg154" id="Pg154" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0373" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He with the sod corn.” She pointed -toward the north, still standing in front of the cow as if she hoped -to conceal it.</p> - -<p id="p0374" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“His sod corn will be good for fodder this -winter,” said grandfather encouragingly. “And where is -Ántonia?”</p> - -<p id="p0375" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She go with.” <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda -kept wiggling her bare feet about nervously in the dust.</p> - -<p id="p0376" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Very well. I will ride up there. I want them -to come over and help me cut my oats and wheat next month. I will pay -them wages. Good-morning. By the way, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda,” he said as he turned up the path, “I think we -may as well call it square about the cow.”</p> - -<p id="p0377" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing -that she did not understand, grandfather turned back. “You need -not pay me anything more; no more money. The cow is yours.”</p> - -<p id="p0378" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Pay no more, keep cow?” she asked in a -bewildered tone, her narrow eyes snapping at us in the sunlight.</p> - -<p id="p0379" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow.” He -nodded.</p> - -<p id="p0380" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda dropped the rope, ran -after us, and crouching down beside grandfather,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page155">[pg 155]</span><a name="Pg155" id="Pg155" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been so much -embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that seemed -to bring the Old World very close.</p> - -<p id="p0381" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: “I -expect she thought we had come to take the cow away for certain, Jim. -I wonder if she would n’t have scratched a little if we’d -laid hold of that lariat rope!”</p> - -<p id="p0382" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Our neighbors seemed glad to make peace with us. The -next Sunday <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda came over and brought Jake a -pair of socks she had knitted. She presented them with an air of great -magnanimity, saying, “Now you not come any more for knock my -Ambrosch down?”</p> - -<p id="p0383" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake laughed sheepishly. “I don’t want to -have no trouble with Ambrosch. If he’ll let me alone, I’ll -let him alone.”</p> - -<p id="p0384" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“If he slap you, we ain’t got no pig for -pay the fine,” she said insinuatingly.</p> - -<p id="p0385" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake was not at all disconcerted. “Have the -last word, mam,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a -lady’s privilege.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap1-19" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page156">[pg 156]</span><a name="Pg156" id="Pg156" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc44" id="toc44"></a> -<a name="pdf45" id="pdf45"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XIX</span></h2> - -<p id="p0386" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">July</span></span> came on with -that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains of Kansas and -Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if we could -hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a faint -crackling in the dewy, heavy-odored cornfields where the feathered -stalks stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the -Missouri to the Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat -regulated by a thermometer, it could not have been better for the -yellow tassels that were ripening and fertilizing -each other day by day. The cornfields were far apart in those times, with miles -of wild grazing land between. It took a clear, meditative eye like my -grandfather’s to foresee that they would enlarge and multiply -until they would be, not the Shimerdas’ cornfields, or -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Bushy’s, but the world’s cornfields; that -their yield would be one of the great economic facts, like the wheat -crop of Russia, which underlie all the activities of men, in peace or -war.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page157">[pg 157]</span><a name="Pg157" id="Pg157" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0387" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional -rains at night, secured the corn. After the milky ears were once -formed, we had little to fear from dry weather. The men were working -so hard in the wheatfields that they did not notice the heat,—though I was kept busy carrying water for them,—and -grandmother and Ántonia had so much to do in the kitchen that -they could not have told whether one day was hotter than another. Each -morning, while the dew was still on the grass, Ántonia went -with me up to the garden to get early vegetables for dinner. -Grandmother made her wear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached the -garden she threw it on the grass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I -remember how, as we bent over the pea-vines, beads of perspiration -used to gather on her upper lip like a little mustache.</p> - -<p id="p0388" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, better I like to work out of doors than in -a house!” she used to sing joyfully. “I not care that your -grandmother say it makes me like a man. I like to be like a -man.” She would toss her head and ask me to feel the muscles -swell in her brown arm.</p> - -<p id="p0389" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay -and responsive that one did not<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page158">[pg 158]</span><a name="Pg158" id="Pg158" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans. -Grandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that Ántonia -worked for us.</p> - -<a name="fig46" id="fig46"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image07.png" width="640" height="834" alt="Illustration: Jim and Ántonia in the garden" /></div> - -<p id="p0390" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All the nights were close and hot during that harvest -season. The harvesters slept in the hayloft because it was cooler -there than in the house. I used to lie in my bed by the open window, -watching the heat lightning play softly along the horizon, or looking -up at the gaunt frame of the windmill against the blue night sky. One -night there was a beautiful electric storm, though not enough rain -fell to damage the cut grain. The men went down to the barn -immediately after supper, and when the dishes were washed -Ántonia and I climbed up on the slanting roof of the -chicken-house to watch the clouds. The thunder was loud and metallic, -like the rattle of sheet iron, and the lightning broke in great -zigzags across the heavens, making everything stand out and come close -to us for a moment. Half the sky was checkered with black -thunderheads, but all the west was luminous and clear: in the -lightning-flashes it looked like deep blue water, with the sheen of -moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the sky was like marble<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page159">[pg 159]</span><a name="Pg159" id="Pg159" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast city, doomed to -destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our upturned faces. -One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out into the -clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we -could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the -farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we -would get wet out there.</p> - -<p id="p0391" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“In a minute we come,” Ántonia -called back to her. “I like your grandmother, and all things -here,” she sighed. “I wish my papa live to see this -summer. I wish no winter ever come again.”</p> - -<p id="p0392" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It will be summer a long while yet,” I -reassured her. “Why are n’t you always nice like this, -Tony?”</p> - -<p id="p0393" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“How nice?”</p> - -<p id="p0394" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you -all the time try to be like Ambrosch?”</p> - -<p id="p0395" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking -up at the sky. “If I live here, like you, that is different. -Things will be easy for you. But they will be hard for us.”</p> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="book2" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page161">[pg 161]</span><a name="Pg161" id="Pg161" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc47" id="toc47"></a> -<a name="pdf48" id="pdf48"></a> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Book II—The Hired Girls</span></h1> -<p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"></p> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-01" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page163">[pg 163]</span><a name="Pg163" id="Pg163" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc49" id="toc49"></a> -<a name="pdf50" id="pdf50"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">I</span></h2> - -<p id="p0396" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">I had</span></span> been living -with my grandfather for nearly three years when he decided to move to -Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the heavy work of -a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be going to -school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to “that good -woman, the Widow Steavens,” and her bachelor brother, and we -bought Preacher White’s house, at the north end of Black Hawk. -This was the first town house one passed driving in from the farm, a -landmark which told country people their long ride was over.</p> - -<p id="p0397" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon -as grandfather had fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his -intention. Otto said he would not be likely to find another place that -suited him so well; that he was tired of farming and thought he would -go back to what he called the “wild<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page164">[pg 164]</span><a name="Pg164" id="Pg164" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -West.” Jake Marpole, lured by Otto’s stories of adventure, -decided to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so -handicapped by illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he -would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay -among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but there was no -reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a silver -mine was waiting for him in Colorado.</p> - -<p id="p0398" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us -into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and -cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave -us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been -faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot -be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older -brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me, -and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound -train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth -valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a -card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page165">[pg 165]</span><a name="Pg165" id="Pg165" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing -well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to -me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them.</p> - -<p id="p0399" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to -live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences -and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and -shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center -of the town there were two rows of new brick “store” -buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white -churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our -upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, -two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the -lost freedom of the farming country.</p> - -<p id="p0400" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of -April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new -Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and -missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was. -Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal -to learn. Before<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page166">[pg 166]</span><a name="Pg166" id="Pg166" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the spring term of school was over I could fight, play -“keeps,” tease the little girls, and use forbidden words -as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery -only by the fact that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling, our nearest neighbor, -kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was -not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly -children.</p> - -<p id="p0401" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we -lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. -We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and -their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay -with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they -went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better -I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a -farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run -downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected -company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that -Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I -wanted to show them our red plush<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page167">[pg 167]</span><a name="Pg167" id="Pg167" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had -put on our parlor ceiling.</p> - -<p id="p0402" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, -and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for -dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran -out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would -merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all -right, I guess.”</p> - -<p id="p0403" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens, who now lived on our -farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always -brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us, -Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to -farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked -her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand -than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors -until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother -saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, -the Harlings.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-02" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page168">[pg 168]</span><a name="Pg168" id="Pg168" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc51" id="toc51"></a> -<a name="pdf52" id="pdf52"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">II</span></h2> - -<p id="p0404" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Grandmother</span></span> often -said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God she lived next -the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, and their -place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and an -orchard and grazing lots,—even a windmill. The Harlings were -Norwegians, and <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling had lived in Christiania -until she was ten years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was -a grain merchant and cattle buyer, and was generally considered the -most enterprising business man in our county. He controlled a line of -grain elevators in the little towns along the railroad to the west of -us, and was away from home a great deal. In his absence his wife was -the head of the household.</p> - -<p id="p0405" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling was short and square and -sturdy-looking, like her house. Every inch of her was charged with an -energy that made itself felt the moment she entered a room. Her face -was rosy and solid, with bright, twinkling eyes and a stubborn little -chin. She<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page169">[pg 169]</span><a name="Pg169" id="Pg169" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and jolly from the depths of -her soul. How well I remember her laugh; it had in it the same sudden -recognition that flashed into her eyes, was a burst of humor, short -and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps shook her own floors, and she -routed lassitude and indifference wherever she came. She could not be -negative or perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her -violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all the every-day -occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, at the -Harlings’. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and -house-cleaning was like a revolution. When <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling -made garden that spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking -through the willow hedge that separated our place from hers.</p> - -<p id="p0406" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Three of the Harling children were near me in age. -Charley, the only son,—they had lost an older boy,—was -sixteen; Julia, who was known as the musical one, was fourteen when I -was; and Sally, the tomboy with short hair, was a year younger. She -was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily clever at all boys’ -sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow hair, bobbed -about her ears,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page170">[pg 170]</span><a name="Pg170" id="Pg170" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. She raced all over town on -one roller skate, often cheated at “keeps,” but was such a -quick shot one could n’t catch her at it.</p> - -<p id="p0407" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important -person in our world. She was her father’s chief clerk, and -virtually managed his Black Hawk office during his frequent absences. -Because of her unusual business ability, he was stern and exacting -with her. He paid her a good salary, but she had few holidays and -never got away from her responsibilities. Even on Sundays she went to -the office to open the mail and read the markets. With Charley, who -was not interested in business, but was already preparing for -Annapolis, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling was very indulgent; bought him -guns and tools and electric batteries, and never asked what he did -with them.</p> - -<p id="p0408" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall. -In winter she wore a sealskin coat and cap, and she and -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling used to walk home together in the evening, -talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two men. Sometimes she came -over to see grandfather after supper, and her visits flattered him. -More than once they put their wits together to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page171">[pg 171]</span><a name="Pg171" id="Pg171" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -rescue some unfortunate farmer from the clutches of Wick Cutter, the -Black Hawk money-lender. Grandfather said Frances Harling was as good -a judge of credits as any banker in the county. The two or three men -who had tried to take advantage of her in a deal acquired celebrity by -their defeat. She knew every farmer for miles about; how much land he -had under cultivation, how many cattle he was feeding, what his -liabilities were. Her interest in these people was more than a -business interest. She carried them all in her mind as if they were -characters in a book or a play.</p> - -<p id="p0409" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Frances drove out into the country on business, -she would go miles out of her way to call on some of the old people, -or to see the women who seldom got to town. She was quick at -understanding the grandmothers who spoke no English, and the most -reticent and distrustful of them would tell her their story without -realizing they were doing so. She went to country funerals and -weddings in all weathers. A farmer’s daughter who was to be -married could count on a wedding present from Frances Harling.</p> - -<p id="p0410" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In August the Harlings’ Danish cook had<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page172">[pg 172]</span><a name="Pg172" id="Pg172" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to leave them. Grandmother entreated them to try Ántonia. She -cornered Ambrosch the next time he came to town, and pointed out to -him that any connection with Christian Harling would strengthen his -credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas’ with Frances. -She said she wanted to see “what the girl came from” and -to have a clear understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when -they came driving home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to -me as they passed, and I could see they were in great good humor. -After supper, when grandfather set off to church, grandmother and I -took my short cut through the willow hedge and went over to hear about -the visit to the Shimerdas.</p> - -<p id="p0411" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We found <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling with Charley and -Sally on the front porch, resting after her hard drive. Julia was in -the hammock—she was fond of repose—and Frances was at -the piano, playing without a light and talking to her mother through -the open window.</p> - -<p id="p0412" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling laughed when she saw us -coming. “I expect you left your dishes on the table to-night, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden,” she called.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page173">[pg 173]</span><a name="Pg173" id="Pg173" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Frances shut the piano and came out to join us.</p> - -<p id="p0413" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">They had liked Ántonia from their first -glimpse of her; felt they knew exactly what kind of girl she was. As -for <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda, they found her very amusing. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. “I -expect I am more at home with that sort of bird than you are, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden. They’re a pair, Ambrosch and that old -woman!”</p> - -<p id="p0414" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about -Ántonia’s allowance for clothes and pocket-money. It was -his plan that every cent of his sister’s wages should be paid -over to him each month, and he would provide her with such clothing as -he thought necessary. When <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling told him firmly -that she would keep fifty dollars a year for Ántonia’s -own use, he declared they wanted to take his sister to town and dress -her up and make a fool of her. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling gave us a -lively account of Ambrosch’s behavior throughout the interview; -how he kept jumping up and putting on his cap as if he were through -with the whole business, and how his mother tweaked his coat-tail and -prompted him in Bohemian. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling finally agreed<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page174">[pg 174]</span><a name="Pg174" id="Pg174" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to pay three dollars a week for Ántonia’s services—good wages in those days—and to keep her in shoes. -There had been hot dispute about the shoes, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda -finally saying persuasively that she would send <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling three fat geese every year to “make even.” -Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town next Saturday.</p> - -<p id="p0415" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She’ll be awkward and rough at first, -like enough,” grandmother said anxiously, “but unless -she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she has it -in her to be a real helpful girl.”</p> - -<p id="p0416" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling laughed her quick, decided -laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden! I -can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen, -not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!” -she added warmly.</p> - -<p id="p0417" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden, you did n’t tell us that! She was -working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and ragged. But she -has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.”</p> - -<p id="p0418" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke -feelingly. “When she first came to this country, Frances, and -had that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page175">[pg 175]</span><a name="Pg175" id="Pg175" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -genteel old man to watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I -saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led, out in the fields with -those rough thrashers! Things would have been very different with poor -Ántonia if her father had lived.”</p> - -<p id="p0419" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Harlings begged us to tell them about -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s death and the big snowstorm. By the -time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had told them -pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas.</p> - -<p id="p0420" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“The girl will be happy here, and she’ll -forget those things,” said <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling -confidently, as we rose to take our leave.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-03" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page176">[pg 176]</span><a name="Pg176" id="Pg176" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc53" id="toc53"></a> -<a name="pdf54" id="pdf54"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">III</span></h2> - -<p id="p0421" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">On</span></span> Saturday -Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down -from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She -was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She -gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. “You ain’t -forget about me, Jim?”</p> - -<p id="p0422" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child! -Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to -us.”</p> - -<p id="p0423" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and -admired everything. “Maybe I be the kind of girl you like -better, now I come to town,” she suggested hopefully.</p> - -<p id="p0424" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">How good it was to have Ántonia near us again; -to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling found, was that she so often stopped her -work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the -orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be -the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina. -Tony learned English<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page177">[pg 177]</span><a name="Pg177" id="Pg177" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as -any of us.</p> - -<p id="p0425" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley -Harling. Because he was always first in his classes at school, and -could mend the water-pipes or the door-bell and take the clock to -pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince. Nothing that Charley -wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up lunches for -him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons on -his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his -setter dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia -had made herself cloth working-slippers out of <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding about after -Charley, fairly panting with eagerness to please him.</p> - -<p id="p0426" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina -was only six, and she was rather more complex than the other children. -She was fanciful, had all sorts of unspoken preferences, and was -easily offended. At the slightest disappointment or displeasure her -velvety brown eyes filled with tears, and she would lift her chin and -walk silently away. If we ran after her and tried to appease her, it<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page178">[pg 178]</span><a name="Pg178" id="Pg178" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -did no good. She walked on unmollified. I used to think that no eyes -in the world could grow so large or hold so many tears as -Nina’s. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling and Ántonia invariably -took her part. We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was -simply: “You have made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and -Sally must get her arithmetic.” I liked Nina, too; she was so -quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were lovely; but I often wanted to -shake her.</p> - -<p id="p0427" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We had jolly evenings at the -Harlings -when the father was away. If he was at home, the children had to go to -bed early, or they came over to my house to play. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded all his -wife’s attention. He used to take her away to their room in the -west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we -did not realize it then, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling was our audience -when we played, and we always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing -flattered one like her quick laugh.</p> - -<p id="p0428" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling had a desk in his bedroom, -and his own easy-chair by the window, in which no one else ever sat. -On the nights when he was at home, I could see his shadow on the blind,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page179">[pg 179]</span><a name="Pg179" id="Pg179" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and it seemed to me an arrogant shadow. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling paid -no heed to any one else if he was there. Before he went to bed she -always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies and beer. He kept -an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, and his wife -made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to want -it.</p> - -<p id="p0429" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits -outside their domestic ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby -carriage after office hours, moved the sprinkler about over the lawn, -and took the family driving on Sunday. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling, -therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in his ways. He -walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man who felt -that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so -haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something -daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the -“nobles” of whom Ántonia was always talking -probably looked very much like Christian Harling, wore caped overcoats -like his, and just such a glittering diamond upon the little -finger.</p> - -<p id="p0430" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Except when the father was at home, the Harling house -was never quiet. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page180">[pg 180]</span><a name="Pg180" id="Pg180" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and Nina and Ántonia made as much noise as a houseful of -children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the -only one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they -all played. When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner -was ready. When Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat -and coat and drummed the plantation melodies that negro minstrel -troupes brought to town. Even Nina played the Swedish Wedding -March.</p> - -<p id="p0431" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling had studied the piano under -a good teacher, and somehow she managed to practice every day. I soon -learned that if I were sent over on an errand and found -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait -quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her -short, square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands -moving quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music -with intelligent concentration.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-04" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page181">[pg 181]</span><a name="Pg181" id="Pg181" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc55" id="toc55"></a> -<a name="pdf56" id="pdf56"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">IV</span></h2> - -<div class="tei tei-lg" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-top: 1.00em"> -<div id="p0432" class="tei tei-l" style="text-align: left; margin-left: 2.00em">“I won’t have none of your weevily wheat, and I won’t have none of your barley,</div> -<div id="p0433" class="tei tei-l" style="text-align: left; margin-left: 2.00em">But I’ll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for Charley.”</div> -</div> - -<p id="p0434" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">We</span></span> were singing -rhymes to tease Ántonia while she was beating up one of -Charley’s favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp -autumn evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag -in the yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll -popcorn balls with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and -Tony dropped her spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl -was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a -graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with -a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook -in her hand.</p> - -<p id="p0435" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?” -she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly.</p> - -<p id="p0436" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page182">[pg 182]</span><a name="Pg182" id="Pg182" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed -up!”</p> - -<p id="p0437" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had -not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before -with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her -feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and -dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure.</p> - -<p id="p0438" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she -walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come -to town to work, too, Tony.”</p> - -<p id="p0439" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Have you, now? Well, ain’t that -funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem -to know just what to do with her visitor.</p> - -<p id="p0440" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The door was open into the dining-room, where -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading. -Frances asked Lena to come in and join them.</p> - -<p id="p0441" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you? -I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle -that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.”</p> - -<p id="p0442" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling dropped her worsted and -examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all -disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page183">[pg 183]</span><a name="Pg183" id="Pg183" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap. -We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven.</p> - -<p id="p0443" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“So you have come to town,” said -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena. “Where -are you working?”</p> - -<p id="p0444" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“For <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas, the dressmaker. -She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack. -I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work -on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a -dressmaker.”</p> - -<p id="p0445" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s -a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were -you,” said <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling rather severely. “How -is your mother?”</p> - -<p id="p0446" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, mother’s never very well; she has -too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could. -She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make -money and help her.”</p> - -<p id="p0447" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“See that you don’t forget to,” -said <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling skeptically, as she took up her -crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers.</p> - -<p id="p0448" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena -blandly. She<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page184">[pg 184]</span><a name="Pg184" id="Pg184" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them -discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky.</p> - -<p id="p0449" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. -“I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said -teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing -you pretty hard?”</p> - -<p id="p0450" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. -“He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss -about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married -me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like -to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on -her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.”</p> - -<p id="p0451" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about -it?”</p> - -<p id="p0452" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other -man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of -married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can -help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of -anybody.”</p> - -<p id="p0453" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That’s right,” said Frances. -“And <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas thinks you can learn -dressmaking?”</p> - -<p id="p0454" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew, -but I<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page185">[pg 185]</span><a name="Pg185" id="Pg185" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -never had much to do with. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas makes lovely -things for all the town ladies. Did you know <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. -My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her -cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door -work,” she added.</p> - -<p id="p0455" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling glanced at her. “I -expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only -keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and -neglect your work, the way some country girls do.”</p> - -<p id="p0456" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to -town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel. -She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully.</p> - -<p id="p0457" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Too many, like enough,” said -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling. “I don’t think a hotel is a -good place for a girl; though I guess <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener keeps -an eye on her waitresses.”</p> - -<p id="p0458" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little -sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms -with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. -“I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page186">[pg 186]</span><a name="Pg186" id="Pg186" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0459" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances told her to come again, whenever she was -lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did -n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk.</p> - -<p id="p0460" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She lingered at the kitchen door and begged -Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room -of my own at <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas’s, with a -carpet.”</p> - -<p id="p0461" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. -“I’ll come sometime, but <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling -don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively.</p> - -<p id="p0462" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You can do what you please when you go out, -can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper. -“Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what -anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back -over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling sat.</p> - -<p id="p0463" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why -she had n’t been a little more cordial to her.</p> - -<p id="p0464" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I did n’t know if your mother would like -her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled. -“She was kind of talked about, out there.”</p> - -<p id="p0465" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it -against her if she behaves well here. You<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page187">[pg 187]</span><a name="Pg187" id="Pg187" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim -has heard all that gossip?”</p> - -<p id="p0466" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew -too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I.</p> - -<p id="p0467" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had -come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the -farm.</p> - -<p id="p0468" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw -Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open -country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode -over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and -barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as -she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as -something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never -seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on -her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of -constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which -somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went -scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was -astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page188">[pg 188]</span><a name="Pg188" id="Pg188" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But -Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and -behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were accustomed to -having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and -treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I noticed the -unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and -their soft, confiding expression.</p> - -<p id="p0469" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and -he had a large family. Lena was always knitting stockings for little -brothers and sisters, and even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of -her, admitted that she was a good daughter to her mother. As Tony -said, she had been talked about. She was accused of making Ole Benson -lose the little sense he had—and that at an age when she -should still have been in pinafores.</p> - -<a name="fig57" id="fig57"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image08.png" width="640" height="1139" alt="Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings" /></div> - -<p id="p0470" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of -the settlement. He was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had -become a habit with him. After he had had every other kind of -misfortune, his wife, “Crazy Mary,” tried to set a -neighbor’s barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum at Lincoln. -She was kept<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page189">[pg 189]</span><a name="Pg189" id="Pg189" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -there for a few months, then escaped and walked all the way home, -nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding in barns and -haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian settlement, her -poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, and was -allowed to stay at home—though every one realized she was as -crazy as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow, -telling her domestic troubles to her neighbors.</p> - -<p id="p0471" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I -heard a young Dane, who was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto -that Chris Lingard’s oldest girl had put Ole Benson out of his -head, until he had no more sense than his crazy wife. When Ole was -cultivating his corn that summer, he used to get discouraged in the -field, tie up his team, and wander off to wherever Lena Lingard was -herding. There he would sit down on the draw-side and help her watch -her cattle. All the settlement was talking about it. The Norwegian -preacher’s wife went to Lena and told her she ought not to allow -this; she begged Lena to come to church on Sundays. Lena said she had -n’t a dress in the world any less ragged than the one on her -back. Then the minister’s wife went<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page190">[pg 190]</span><a name="Pg190" id="Pg190" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -through her old trunks and found some things she had worn before her -marriage.</p> - -<p id="p0472" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The next Sunday Lena appeared at church, a little -late, with her hair done up neatly on her head, like a young woman, -wearing shoes and stockings, and the new dress, which she had made -over for herself very becomingly. The congregation stared at her. -Until that morning no one—unless it were Ole—had -realized how pretty she was, or that she was growing up. The swelling -lines of her figure had been hidden under the shapeless rags she wore -in the fields. After the last hymn had been sung, and the congregation -was dismissed, Ole slipped out to the hitch-bar and lifted Lena on her -horse. That, in itself, was shocking; a married man was not expected -to do such things. But it was nothing to the scene that followed. -Crazy Mary darted out from the group of women at the church door, and -ran down the road after Lena, shouting horrible threats.</p> - -<p id="p0473" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Look out, you Lena Lingard, look out! -I’ll come over with a corn-knife one day and trim some of that -shape off you. Then you won’t sail round so fine, making eyes at -the men! …”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page191">[pg 191]</span><a name="Pg191" id="Pg191" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0474" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Norwegian women did n’t know where to look. -They were formal housewives, most of them, with a severe sense of -decorum. But Lena Lingard only laughed her lazy, good-natured laugh -and rode on, gazing back over her shoulder at Ole’s infuriated -wife.</p> - -<p id="p0475" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The time came, however, when Lena did n’t -laugh. More than once Crazy Mary chased her across the prairie and -round and round the Shimerdas’ cornfield. Lena never told her -father; perhaps she was ashamed; perhaps she was more afraid of his -anger than of the corn-knife. I was at the Shimerdas’ one -afternoon when Lena came bounding through the red grass as fast as her -white legs could carry her. She ran straight into the house and hid in -Ántonia’s feather-bed. Mary was not far behind; she came -right up to the door and made us feel how sharp her blade was, showing -us very graphically just what she meant to do to Lena. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda, leaning out of the window, enjoyed the -situation keenly, and was sorry when Ántonia sent Mary away, -mollified by an apronful of bottle-tomatoes. Lena came out from -Tony’s room behind the kitchen, very pink from the heat of the -feathers, but otherwise calm. She begged<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page192">[pg 192]</span><a name="Pg192" id="Pg192" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Ántonia and me to go with her, and help get her cattle -together; they were scattered and might be gorging themselves in -somebody’s cornfield.</p> - -<p id="p0476" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Maybe you lose a steer and learn not to make -somethings with your eyes at married men,” <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Shimerda told her hectoringly.</p> - -<p id="p0477" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena only smiled her sleepy smile. “I never -made anything to him with my eyes. I can’t help it if he hangs -around, and I can’t order him off. It ain’t my -prairie.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-05" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page193">[pg 193]</span><a name="Pg193" id="Pg193" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc58" id="toc58"></a> -<a name="pdf59" id="pdf59"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">V</span></h2> - -<p id="p0478" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">After</span></span> Lena came to -Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be matching -sewing silk or buying “findings” for <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Thomas. If I happened to walk home with her, she told me all about the -dresses she was helping to make, or about what she saw and heard when -she was with Tiny Soderball at the hotel on Saturday nights.</p> - -<p id="p0479" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Boys’ Home was the best hotel on our branch -of the Burlington, and all the commercial travelers in that territory -tried to get into Black Hawk for Sunday. They used to assemble in the -parlor after supper on Saturday nights. Marshall Field’s man, -Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang all the latest -sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the dishes, she -and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the parlor -and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the jokes -and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man when -I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on -trains all<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page194">[pg 194]</span><a name="Pg194" id="Pg194" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the hotel -there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big -trunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk -merchants went to look at these things and order goods, and -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas, though she was “retail trade,” -was permitted to see them and to “get ideas.” They were -all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny Soderball -handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and so -many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed -some of them on Lena.</p> - -<p id="p0480" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One afternoon in the week before Christmas I came -upon Lena and her funny, square-headed little brother Chris, standing -before the drug-store, gazing in at the wax dolls and blocks and -Noah’s arks arranged in the frosty show window. The boy had come -to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas shopping, for he had money -of his own this year. He was only twelve, but that winter he had got -the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and making the fire in it -every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, too!</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page195">[pg 195]</span><a name="Pg195" id="Pg195" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0481" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We went into Duckford’s dry-goods store, and -Chris unwrapped all his presents and showed them to me—something for each of the six younger than himself, even a rubber pig -for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny Soderball’s bottles -of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get some -handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n’t -much money left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for -view at Duckford’s. Chris wanted those with initial letters in -the corner, because he had never seen any before. He studied them -seriously, while Lena looked over his shoulder, telling him she -thought the red letters would hold their color best. He seemed so -perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n’t enough money, after -all. Presently he said gravely,—</p> - -<p id="p0482" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Sister, you know mother’s name is -Berthe. I don’t know if I ought to get B for Berthe, or M for -Mother.”</p> - -<p id="p0483" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena patted his bristly head. “I’d get -the B, Chrissy. It will please her for you to think about her name. -Nobody ever calls her by it now.”</p> - -<p id="p0484" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he -took three reds and three blues. When<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page196">[pg 196]</span><a name="Pg196" id="Pg196" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start, Lena wound -Chris’s comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket collar—he had no overcoat—and we watched him climb into the -wagon and start on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the -windy street, Lena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove. -“I get awful homesick for them, all the same,” she -murmured, as if she were answering some remembered reproach.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-06" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page197">[pg 197]</span><a name="Pg197" id="Pg197" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc60" id="toc60"></a> -<a name="pdf61" id="pdf61"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">VI</span></h2> - -<p id="p0485" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Winter</span></span> comes down -savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind that sweeps in -from the open country strips away all the leafy screens that hide one -yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw closer -together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the green -tree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier than -when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs.</p> - -<p id="p0486" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school -against the wind, I could n’t see anything but the road in front -of me; but in the late afternoon, when I was coming home, the town -looked bleak and desolate to me. The pale, cold light of the winter -sunset did not beautify—it was like the light of truth itself. -When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and the red sun went down -behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs and the blue -drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter song, as -if it said: “This is reality, whether you like it or not. All -those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page198">[pg 198]</span><a name="Pg198" id="Pg198" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the living mask of green that trembled over everything, they were -lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.” It -was as if we were being punished for loving the loveliness of -summer.</p> - -<p id="p0487" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">If I loitered on the playground after school, or went -to the post-office for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about -the cigar-stand, it would be growing dark by the time I came home. The -sun was gone; the frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; -the lights were shining pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the -suppers cooking as I passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of -them was hurrying toward a fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were -like magnets. When one passed an old man, one could see nothing of his -face but a red nose sticking out between a frosted beard and a long -plush cap. The young men capered along with their hands in their -pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icy sidewalk. The -children, in their bright hoods and comforters, never walked, but -always ran from the moment they left their door, beating their mittens -against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, I was -about halfway home. I can remember how<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page199">[pg 199]</span><a name="Pg199" id="Pg199" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -glad I was when there happened to be a light in the church, and the -painted glass window shone out at us as we came along the frozen -street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for color came over people, -like the Laplander’s craving for fats and sugar. Without knowing -why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the church when the -lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting, -shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude -reds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there.</p> - -<p id="p0488" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings’ -windows drew me like the painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house -there was color, too. After supper I used to catch up my cap, stick my -hands in my pockets, and dive through the willow hedge as if witches -were after me. Of course, if <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling was at home, if -his shadow stood out on the blind of the west room, I did not go in, -but turned and walked home by the long way, through the street, -wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two old -people.</p> - -<p id="p0489" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the -nights when we acted charades, or had a costume ball in the back -parlor, with<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page200">[pg 200]</span><a name="Pg200" id="Pg200" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Sally always dressed like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that -winter, and she said, from the first lesson, that Ántonia would -make the best dancer among us. On Saturday nights, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling used to play the old operas for us,—“Martha,” “Norma,” “Rigoletto,”—telling us the story while she played. Every Saturday night -was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, and the dining-room -were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs and sofas, and -gay pictures on the walls. One always felt at ease there. -Ántonia brought her sewing and sat with us—she was -already beginning to make pretty clothes for herself. After the long -winter evenings on the prairie, with Ambrosch’s sullen silences -and her mother’s complaints, the Harlings’ house seemed, -as she said, “like Heaven” to her. She was never too tired -to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in her -ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchen -and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three -meals that day.</p> - -<p id="p0490" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies -to bake or the taffy to cool, Nina used to coax Ántonia to tell -her stories—about the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page201">[pg 201]</span><a name="Pg201" id="Pg201" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -calf that broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from -drowning in the freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in -Bohemia. Nina interpreted the stories about the crêche -fancifully, and in spite of our derision she cherished a belief that -Christ was born in Bohemia a short time before the Shimerdas left that -country. We all liked Tony’s stories. Her voice had a peculiarly -engaging quality; it was deep, a little husky, and one always heard -the breath vibrating behind it. Everything she said seemed to come -right out of her heart.</p> - -<p id="p0491" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One evening when we were picking out kernels for -walnut taffy, Tony told us a new story.</p> - -<p id="p0492" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling, did you ever hear -about what happened up in the Norwegian settlement last summer, when I -was thrashing there? We were at Iversons’, and I was driving one -of the grain wagons.”</p> - -<p id="p0493" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling came out and sat down among -us. “Could you throw the wheat into the bin yourself, -Tony?” She knew what heavy work it was.</p> - -<p id="p0494" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, mam, I did. I could shovel just as fast -as that fat Andern boy that drove the other<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page202">[pg 202]</span><a name="Pg202" id="Pg202" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to the field -from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the horses -and got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on the deck, cutting -bands. I was sitting against a -straw stack, -trying to get some shade. My wagon was n’t going out first, and -somehow I felt the heat awful that day. The sun was so hot like it was -going to burn the world up. After a while I see a man coming across -the stubble, and when he got close I see it was a tramp. His toes -stuck out of his shoes, and he had n’t shaved for a long while, -and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had some sickness. He -comes right up and begins to talk like he knows me already. He says: -‘The ponds in this country is done got so low a man could -n’t drownd himself in one of ’em.’</p> - -<p id="p0495" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, -but if we did n’t have rain soon we’d have to pump water -for the cattle.</p> - -<p id="p0496" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘Oh, cattle,’ he says, -‘you’ll all take care of your cattle! Ain’t you got -no beer here?’ I told him he’d have to go to the Bohemians -for beer; the Norwegians did n’t have none when they thrashed. -‘My God!’ he says, ‘so<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page203">[pg 203]</span><a name="Pg203" id="Pg203" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -it’s Norwegians now, is it? I thought this was -Americy.’</p> - -<p id="p0497" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then he goes up to the machine and yells out -to Ole Iverson, ‘Hello, partner, let me up there. I can cut -bands, and I’m tired of trampin’. I won’t go no -farther.’</p> - -<p id="p0498" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I tried to make signs to Ole, ’cause I -thought that man was crazy and might get the machine stopped up. But -Ole, he was glad to get down out of the sun and chaff—it gets -down your neck and sticks to you something awful when it’s hot -like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the wagons for -shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right for a -few minutes, and then, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling, he waved his hand to -me and jumped head-first right into the thrashing machine after the -wheat.</p> - -<p id="p0499" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the -horses, but the belt had sucked him down, and by the time they got her -stopped he was all beat and cut to pieces. He was wedged in so tight -it was a hard job to get him out, and the machine ain’t never -worked right since.”</p> - -<p id="p0500" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Was he clear dead, Tony?” we cried.</p> - -<p id="p0501" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page204">[pg 204]</span><a name="Pg204" id="Pg204" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -now, Nina’s all upset. We won’t talk about it. Don’t -you cry, Nina. No old tramp won’t get you while Tony’s -here.”</p> - -<p id="p0502" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling spoke up sternly. -“Stop crying, Nina, or I’ll always send you upstairs when -Ántonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out -where he came from, Ántonia?”</p> - -<p id="p0503" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Never, mam. He had n’t been seen nowhere -except in a little town they call Conway. He tried to get beer there, -but there was n’t any saloon. Maybe he came in on a freight, but -the brakeman had n’t seen him. They could n’t find no -letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife in his pocket -and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of paper, and some -poetry.”</p> - -<p id="p0504" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Some poetry?” we exclaimed.</p> - -<p id="p0505" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I remember,” said Frances. “It was -‘The Old Oaken Bucket,’ cut out of a newspaper and nearly -worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and showed it to -me.”</p> - -<p id="p0506" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, was n’t that strange, Miss -Frances?” Tony asked thoughtfully. “What would anybody -want to kill themselves in summer for? In thrashing time, too! -It’s nice everywhere then.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page205">[pg 205]</span><a name="Pg205" id="Pg205" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0507" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“So it is, Ántonia,” said -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling heartily. “Maybe I’ll go home -and help you thrash next summer. Is n’t that taffy nearly ready -to eat? I’ve been smelling it a long while.”</p> - -<p id="p0508" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">There was a basic harmony between Ántonia and -her mistress. They had strong, independent natures, both of them. They -knew what they liked, and were not always trying to imitate other -people. They loved children and animals and music, and rough play and -digging in the earth. They liked to prepare rich, hearty food and to -see people eat it; to make up soft white beds and to see youngsters -asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people and were quick to help -unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there was a kind of hearty -joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but very invigorating. -I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly conscious of it. I -could not imagine Ántonia’s living for a week in any -other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings’.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-07" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page206">[pg 206]</span><a name="Pg206" id="Pg206" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc62" id="toc62"></a> -<a name="pdf63" id="pdf63"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">VII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0509" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Winter</span></span> lies too -long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and -sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and men’s -affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice. But -in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and -pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk.</p> - -<p id="p0510" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Through January and February I went to the river with -the Harlings on clear nights, and we skated up to the big island and -made bonfires on the frozen sand. But by March the ice was rough and -choppy, and the snow on the river bluffs was gray and -mournful-looking. I was tired of school, tired of winter clothes, of -the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and the piles of cinders that -had lain in the yards so long. There was only one break in the dreary -monotony of that month; when Blind d’Arnault, the negro pianist, -came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on Monday night, -and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our comfortable -hotel. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span><span class="tei tei-pb" id="page207">[pg 207]</span><a name="Pg207" id="Pg207" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Harling had known d’Arnault for years. She told Ántonia -she had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there would -certainly be music at the Boys’ Home.</p> - -<p id="p0511" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the -hotel and slipped quietly into the parlor. The chairs and sofas were -already occupied, and the air smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The -parlor had once been two rooms, and the floor was sway-backed where -the partition had been cut away. The wind from without made waves in -the long carpet. A coal stove glowed at either end of the room, and -the grand piano in the middle stood open.</p> - -<p id="p0512" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the -house that night, for <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener had gone to Omaha for -a week. Johnnie had been having drinks with the guests until he was -rather absent-minded. It was <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener who ran the -business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the desk -and welcomed incoming travelers. He was a popular fellow, but no -manager.</p> - -<p id="p0513" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener was admittedly the -best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove the best horse, and had a -smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh. She seemed indifferent -to her<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page208">[pg 208]</span><a name="Pg208" id="Pg208" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -possessions, was not half so solicitous about them as her friends -were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something Indian-like in the -rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and she talked -little. Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a favor -when they stayed at her house. Even the smartest traveling men were -flattered when <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener stopped to chat with them -for a moment. The patrons of the hotel were divided into two classes; -those who had seen <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s diamonds, and -those who had not.</p> - -<p id="p0514" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I stole into the parlor Anson Kirkpatrick, -Marshall Field’s man, was at the piano, playing airs from a -musical comedy then running in Chicago. He was a dapper little -Irishman, very vain, homely as a monkey, with friends everywhere, and -a sweetheart in every port, like a sailor. I did not know all the men -who were sitting about, but I recognized a furniture salesman from -Kansas City, a drug man, and Willy O’Reilly, who traveled for a -jewelry house and sold musical instruments. The talk was all about -good and bad hotels, actors and actresses and musical prodigies. I -learned that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear -Booth and Barrett, who<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page209">[pg 209]</span><a name="Pg209" id="Pg209" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -were to play there next week, and that Mary Anderson was having a -great success in “A Winter’s Tale,” in London.</p> - -<p id="p0515" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener -came in, directing Blind d’Arnault,—he would never -consent to be led. He was a heavy, bulky mulatto, on short legs, and -he came tapping the floor in front of him with his gold-headed cane. -His yellow face was lifted in the light, with a show of white teeth, -all grinning, and his shrunken, papery eyelids lay motionless over his -blind eyes.</p> - -<p id="p0516" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Good evening, -gentlemen. No ladies here? Good-evening, gentlemen. We going to have a -little music? Some of you gentlemen going to play for me this -evening?” It was the soft, amiable negro voice, like those I -remembered from early childhood, with the note of docile subservience -in it. He had the negro head, too; almost no head at all; nothing -behind the ears but folds of neck under close-clipped wool. He would -have been repulsive if his face had not been so kindly and happy. It -was the happiest face I had seen since I left Virginia.</p> - -<p id="p0517" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He felt his way directly to the piano. The moment he -sat down, I noticed the nervous infirmity of which <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling had told me.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page210">[pg 210]</span><a name="Pg210" id="Pg210" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -When he was sitting, or standing still, he swayed back and forth -incessantly, like a rocking toy. At the piano, he swayed in time to -the music, and when he was not playing, his body kept up this motion, -like an empty mill grinding on. He found the pedals and tried them, -ran his yellow hands up and down the keys a few times, tinkling off -scales, then turned to the company.</p> - -<p id="p0518" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She seems all right, gentlemen. Nothing -happened to her since the last time I was here. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Gardener, she always has this piano tuned up before I come. Now, -gentlemen, I expect you’ve all got grand voices. Seems like we -might have some good old plantation songs to-night.”</p> - -<p id="p0519" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The men gathered round him, as he began to play -“My Old Kentucky Home.” They sang one negro melody after -another, while the mulatto sat rocking himself, his head thrown back, -his yellow face lifted, its shriveled eyelids never fluttering.</p> - -<p id="p0520" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He was born in the Far South, on the d’Arnault -plantation, where the spirit if not the fact of slavery persisted. -When he was three weeks old he had an illness which left him totally -blind. As soon as he was old enough<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page211">[pg 211]</span><a name="Pg211" id="Pg211" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to sit up alone and toddle about, another affliction, the nervous -motion of his body, became apparent. His mother, a buxom young negro -wench who was laundress for the d’Arnaults, concluded that her -blind baby was “not right” in his head, and she was -ashamed of him. She loved him devotedly, but he was so ugly, with his -sunken eyes and his “fidgets,” that she hid him away from -people. All the dainties she brought down from the “Big -House” were for the blind child, and she beat and cuffed her -other children whenever she found them teasing him or trying to get -his chicken-bone away from him. He began to talk early, remembered -everything he heard, and his mammy said he “was n’t all -wrong.” She named him Samson, because he was blind, but on the -plantation he was known as “yellow Martha’s simple -child.” He was docile and obedient, but when he was six years -old he began to run away from home, always taking the same direction. -He felt his way through the lilacs, along the boxwood hedge, up to the -south wing of the “Big House,” where Miss Nellie -d’Arnault practiced the piano every morning. This angered his -mother more than anything else he could have done; she was so<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page212">[pg 212]</span><a name="Pg212" id="Pg212" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -ashamed of his ugliness that she could n’t bear to have white -folks see him. Whenever she caught him slipping away from the cabin, -she whipped him unmercifully, and told him what dreadful things old -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> d’Arnault would do to him if he ever found him -near the “Big House.” But the next time Samson had a -chance, he ran away again. If Miss d’Arnault stopped practicing -for a moment and went toward the window, she saw this hideous little -pickaninny, dressed in an old piece of sacking, standing in the open -space between the hollyhock rows, his body rocking automatically, his -blind face lifted to the sun and wearing an expression of idiotic -rapture. Often she was tempted to tell Martha that the child must be -kept at home, but somehow the memory of his foolish, happy face -deterred her. She remembered that his sense of hearing was nearly all -he had,—though it did not occur to her that he might have more -of it than other children.</p> - -<p id="p0521" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One day Samson was standing thus while Miss Nellie -was playing her lesson to her music-master. The windows were open. He -heard them get up from the piano, talk a little while, and then leave -the room. He heard the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page213">[pg 213]</span><a name="Pg213" id="Pg213" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -door close after them. He crept up to the front windows and stuck his -head in: there was no one there. He could always detect the presence -of any one in a room. He put one foot over the window sill and -straddled it. His mother had told him over and over how his master -would give him to the big mastiff if he ever found him -“meddling.” Samson had got too near the mastiff’s -kennel once, and had felt his terrible breath in his face. He thought -about that, but he pulled in his other foot.</p> - -<p id="p0522" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to -its mouth. He touched it softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He -shivered and stood still. Then he began to feel it all over, ran his -finger tips -along the slippery sides, embraced the carved legs, tried to get some -conception of its shape and size, of the space it occupied in primeval -night. It was cold and hard, and like nothing else in his black -universe. He went back to its mouth, began at one end of the keyboard -and felt his way down into the mellow thunder, as far as he could go. -He seemed to know that it must be done with the fingers, not with the -fists or the feet. He approached this highly artificial instrument<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page214">[pg 214]</span><a name="Pg214" id="Pg214" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -through a mere instinct, and coupled himself to it, as if he knew it -was to piece him out and make a whole creature of him. After he had -tried over all the sounds, he began to finger out passages from things -Miss Nellie had been practicing, passages that were already his, that -lay under the bones of his pinched, conical little skull, definite as -animal desires. The door opened; Miss Nellie and her music-master -stood behind it, but blind Samson, who was so sensitive to presences, -did not know they were there. He was feeling out the pattern that lay -all ready-made on the big and little keys. When he paused for a -moment, because the sound was wrong and he wanted another, Miss Nellie -spoke softly. He whirled about in a spasm of terror, leaped forward in -the dark, struck his head on the open window, and fell screaming and -bleeding to the floor. He had what his mother called a fit. The doctor -came and gave him opium.</p> - -<p id="p0523" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Samson was well again, his young mistress led -him back to the piano. Several teachers experimented with him. They -found he had absolute pitch, and a remarkable memory. As a very young -child he could repeat, after a fashion, any composition that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page215">[pg 215]</span><a name="Pg215" id="Pg215" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was played for him. No matter how many wrong notes he struck, he never -lost the intention of a passage, he brought the substance of it across -by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his teachers out. He could -never learn like other people, never acquired any finish. He was -always a negro prodigy who played barbarously and wonderfully. As -piano playing, it was perhaps abominable, but as music it was -something real, vitalized by a sense of rhythm that was stronger than -his other physical senses,—that not only filled his dark mind, -but worried his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch him, was to -see a negro enjoying himself as only a negro can. It was as if all the -agreeable sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were -heaped up on those black and white keys, and he were gloating over -them and trickling them through his yellow fingers.</p> - -<p id="p0524" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In the middle of a crashing waltz d’Arnault -suddenly began to play softly, and, turning to one of the men who -stood behind him, whispered, “Somebody dancing in there.” -He jerked his bullet head toward the dining-room. “I hear little -feet,—girls, I ’spect.”</p> - -<p id="p0525" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page216">[pg 216]</span><a name="Pg216" id="Pg216" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -peeped over the transom. Springing down, he wrenched open the doors -and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny and Lena, Ántonia and -Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the floor. They separated -and fled toward the kitchen, giggling.</p> - -<p id="p0526" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows. -“What’s the matter with you girls? Dancing out here by -yourselves, when there’s a roomful of lonesome men on the other -side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny.”</p> - -<p id="p0527" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. -Tiny looked alarmed. “<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener would n’t -like it,” she protested. “She’d be awful mad if you -was to come out here and dance with us.”</p> - -<p id="p0528" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s in Omaha, -girl. Now, you’re Lena, are you?—and you’re Tony -and you’re Mary. Have I got you all straight?”</p> - -<p id="p0529" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">O’Reilly and the others began to pile the -chairs on the tables. Johnnie Gardener ran in from the office.</p> - -<p id="p0530" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them. -“You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll be the devil to -pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down -the minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page217">[pg 217]</span><a name="Pg217" id="Pg217" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0531" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook -and wire Molly to bring another. Come along, nobody’ll tell -tales.”</p> - -<p id="p0532" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact, -boys,” he said confidentially. “If I take a drink in Black -Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!”</p> - -<p id="p0533" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. -“Oh, we’ll make it all right with Molly. Get your back up, -Johnnie.”</p> - -<p id="p0534" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Molly was <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s name, of -course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in large blue letters on -the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and “Molly” was -engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he -thought his wife a wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would -hardly be more than a clerk in some other man’s hotel.</p> - -<p id="p0535" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread -himself out over the piano, and began to draw the dance music out of -it, while the perspiration shone on his short wool and on his uplifted -face. He looked like some glistening African god of pleasure, full of -strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to change partners -or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that -goin’<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page218">[pg 218]</span><a name="Pg218" id="Pg218" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you -ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?”</p> - -<p id="p0536" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept -looking questioningly at Lena and Tiny over Willy -O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender, -with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses -very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner -than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, -slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had -beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, -and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and -fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she -was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of -their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is -called,—by no metaphor, alas!—“the light of -youth.”</p> - -<p id="p0537" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">D’Arnault played until his manager came and -shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which -struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman -who delighted in negro<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page219">[pg 219]</span><a name="Pg219" id="Pg219" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last -he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and -happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we -dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’ -gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled -out of us.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-08" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page220">[pg 220]</span><a name="Pg220" id="Pg220" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc64" id="toc64"></a> -<a name="pdf65" id="pdf65"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">VIII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0538" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">The</span></span> Harling -children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and -secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We -were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the -orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before -I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the -apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, -hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at -each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which -was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and -girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the -quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will -or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting.</p> - -<p id="p0539" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It must have been in June, for <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped -one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I -had seen<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page221">[pg 221]</span><a name="Pg221" id="Pg221" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot.</p> - -<p id="p0540" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians -strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a -dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and -carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in -children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a -word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in -Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the -farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell -off in one place, they moved on to another.</p> - -<p id="p0541" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish -laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. -It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay -flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the -ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing -class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses -and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying -along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Vanni -received them at the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page222">[pg 222]</span><a name="Pg222" id="Pg222" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, -her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the -top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When -she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She -taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, -taught the older ones.</p> - -<p id="p0542" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on -the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled -his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in -the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair -from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys -from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at -the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance. -That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on -the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the -air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in -the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page223">[pg 223]</span><a name="Pg223" id="Pg223" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was -pink with them.</p> - -<p id="p0543" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every -evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up -“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten -o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as -by the Round House whistle.</p> - -<p id="p0544" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At last there was something to do in those long, -empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on -their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the -board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie, -south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream -parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could -wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being -reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of -the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with -the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First -the deep purring of <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Vanni’s harp came in -silvery ripples through the blackness of the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page224">[pg 224]</span><a name="Pg224" id="Pg224" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was -almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our -feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a -tent before?</p> - -<p id="p0545" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating -had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with -the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday -nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was -orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery -boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into -town after their day’s work was over.</p> - -<p id="p0546" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was -open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight -and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls -and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer -than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre -Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and -general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired -girls.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-09" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page225">[pg 225]</span><a name="Pg225" id="Pg225" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc66" id="toc66"></a> -<a name="pdf67" id="pdf67"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">IX</span></h2> - -<p id="p0547" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">There</span></span> was a -curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the -attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town -to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father -struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children -of the family to go to school.</p> - -<p id="p0548" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard -times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger -brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have -had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now, -half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped -to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty, -from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like -Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a -tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of -these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few -years I lived there, and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page226">[pg 226]</span><a name="Pg226" id="Pg226" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them. -Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had -given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on -coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of -movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women.</p> - -<p id="p0549" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That was before the day of High-School athletics. -Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied. -There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was -thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families. -Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed -indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the -heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their -clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be -disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, -gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like -cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely -put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested.</p> - -<p id="p0550" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The daughters of Black Hawk merchants<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page227">[pg 227]</span><a name="Pg227" id="Pg227" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were -“refined,” and that the country girls, who “worked -out,” were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as -hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had -come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they -must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in -what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would -not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could -teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and -Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they -had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in -the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative -but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town, -remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when -they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like -the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they -had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and -sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page228">[pg 228]</span><a name="Pg228" id="Pg228" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to -fatten.</p> - -<p id="p0551" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One result of this family solidarity was that the -foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous. -After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of -neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls -who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms -and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the -children of the town women they used to serve.</p> - -<p id="p0552" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I thought the attitude of the town people toward -these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena -Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in -Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners -were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not -a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less -the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people -saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all -Bohemians, all “hired girls.”</p> - -<p id="p0553" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I always knew I should live long enough to see my -country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a -harassed Black<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page229">[pg 229]</span><a name="Pg229" id="Pg229" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery -and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart -Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses.</p> - -<p id="p0554" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black -Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs -that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be -used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or -out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let his eyes -follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow, -undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and -striped stockings.</p> - -<p id="p0555" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The country girls were considered a menace to the -social order. Their beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional -background. But anxious mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook -the mettle of their sons. The respect for respectability was stronger -than any desire in Black Hawk youth.</p> - -<p id="p0556" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Our young man of position was like the son of a royal -house; the boy who swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon -might frolic with the jolly country girls, but he himself<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page230">[pg 230]</span><a name="Pg230" id="Pg230" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -must sit all evening in a plush parlor where conversation dragged so -perceptibly that the father often came in and made blundering efforts -to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home from his dull call, he -would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the sidewalk whispering -to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their long plush coats -and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only made their -eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to see a -traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at -him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, -there were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their -ironing-boards, with their white throats and their pink cheeks.</p> - -<p id="p0557" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of -scandalous stories, which the old men were fond of relating as they -sat about the cigar-stand in the drug-store. Mary Dusak had been -housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from Boston, and after several -years in his service she was forced to retire from the world for a -short time. Later she came back to town to take the place of her -friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The three Marys<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page231">[pg 231]</span><a name="Pg231" id="Pg231" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about the -kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers -that they never had to look for a place.</p> - -<p id="p0558" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Vannis’ tent brought the town boys and the -country girls together on neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was -cashier in his father’s bank, always found his way to the tent -on Saturday night. He took all the dances Lena Lingard would give him, -and even grew bold enough to walk home with her. If his sisters or -their friends happened to be among the onlookers on “popular -nights,” Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood -trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several -times I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry -for him. He reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the -draw-side and watch Lena herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when -Lena went home for a week to visit her mother, I heard from -Ántonia that young Lovett drove all the way out there to see -her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I hoped that -Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls a -better position in the town.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page232">[pg 232]</span><a name="Pg232" id="Pg232" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0559" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make -mistakes in his work; had to stay at the bank until after dark to make -his books balance. He was daft about her, and every one knew it. To -escape from his predicament he ran away with a widow six years older -than himself, who owned a half-section. This remedy worked, -apparently. He never looked at Lena again, nor lifted his eyes as he -ceremoniously tipped his hat when he happened to meet her on the -sidewalk.</p> - -<p id="p0560" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">So that was what they were like, I thought, these -white-handed, high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at -young Lovett from a distance and only wished I had some way of showing -my contempt for him.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-10" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page233">[pg 233]</span><a name="Pg233" id="Pg233" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc68" id="toc68"></a> -<a name="pdf69" id="pdf69"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">X</span></h2> - -<p id="p0561" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">It</span></span> was at the -Vannis’ tent that Ántonia was discovered. Hitherto she -had been looked upon more as a ward of the Harlings than as one of the -“hired girls.” She had lived in their house and yard and -garden; her thoughts never seemed to stray outside that little -kingdom. But after the tent came to town she began to go about with -Tiny and Lena and their friends. The Vannis often said that -Ántonia was the best dancer of them all. I sometimes heard -murmurs in the crowd outside the pavilion that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling would soon have her hands full with that girl. The young men -began to joke with each other about “the Harlings’ -Tony” as they did about “the Marshalls’ Anna” -or “the Gardeners’ Tiny.”</p> - -<p id="p0562" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia talked and thought of nothing but the -tent. She hummed the dance tunes all day. When supper was late, she -hurried with her dishes, dropped and smashed them in her excitement. -At the first call of the music, she became irresponsible. If she had -n’t time to dress, she merely flung off her apron and shot<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page234">[pg 234]</span><a name="Pg234" id="Pg234" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -out of the kitchen door. Sometimes I went with her; the moment the -lighted tent came into view she would break into a run, like a boy. -There were always partners waiting for her; she began to dance before -she got her breath.</p> - -<p id="p0563" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia’s success at the tent had its -consequences. The iceman lingered too long now, when he came into the -covered porch to fill the refrigerator. The delivery boys hung about -the kitchen when they brought the groceries. Young farmers who were in -town for Saturday came tramping through the yard to the back door to -engage dances, or to invite Tony to parties and picnics. Lena and -Norwegian Anna dropped in to help her with her work, so that she could -get away early. The boys who brought her home after the dances -sometimes laughed at the back gate and wakened <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Harling from his first sleep. A crisis was inevitable.</p> - -<p id="p0564" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One Saturday night <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling had gone -down to the cellar for beer. As he came up the stairs in the dark, he -heard scuffling on the back porch, and then the sound of a vigorous -slap. He looked out through the side door in time to see a pair of -long legs vaulting over<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page235">[pg 235]</span><a name="Pg235" id="Pg235" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the picket fence. Ántonia was standing there, angry and -excited. Young Harry Paine, who was to marry his employer’s -daughter on Monday, had come to the tent with a crowd of friends and -danced all evening. Afterward, he begged Ántonia to let him -walk home with her. She said she supposed he was a nice young man, as -he was one of Miss Frances’s friends, and she did n’t -mind. On the back porch he tried to kiss her, and when she protested,—because he was going to be married on Monday,—he -caught her and kissed her until she got one hand free and slapped -him.</p> - -<p id="p0565" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling put his beer bottles down on -the table. “This is what I’ve been expecting, -Ántonia. You’ve been going with girls who have a -reputation for being free and easy, and now you’ve got the same -reputation. I won’t have this and that fellow tramping about my -back yard all the time. This is the end of it, to-night. It stops, -short. You can quit going to these dances, or you can hunt another -place. Think it over.”</p> - -<p id="p0566" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The next morning when <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling and -Frances tried to reason with Ántonia, they found her agitated -but determined. “Stop going to the tent?” she panted. -“I would n’t<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page236">[pg 236]</span><a name="Pg236" id="Pg236" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -think of it for a minute! My own father could n’t make me stop! -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling ain’t my boss outside my work. I -won’t give up my friends, either. The boys I go with are nice -fellows. I thought <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Paine was all right, too, because -he used to come here. I guess I gave him a red face for his wedding, -all right!” she blazed out indignantly.</p> - -<p id="p0567" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You’ll have to do one thing or the -other, Ántonia,” <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling told her -decidedly. “I can’t go back on what <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Harling has said. This is his house.”</p> - -<p id="p0568" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then I’ll just leave, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling. Lena’s been wanting me to get a place closer to her for -a long while. Mary Svoboda’s going away from the Cutters’ -to work at the hotel, and I can have her place.”</p> - -<p id="p0569" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling rose from her chair. -“Ántonia, if you go to the -Cutters -to work, you cannot come back to this house again. You know what that -man is. It will be the ruin of you.”</p> - -<p id="p0570" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tony snatched up the tea-kettle and began to pour -boiling water over the glasses, laughing excitedly. “Oh, I can -take care of myself! I’m a lot stronger than Cutter is. They pay -four dollars there, and there’s no children.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page237">[pg 237]</span><a name="Pg237" id="Pg237" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -The work’s nothing; I can have every evening, and be out a lot -in the afternoons.”</p> - -<p id="p0571" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I thought you liked children. Tony, -what’s come over you?”</p> - -<p id="p0572" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t know, something has.” -Ántonia tossed her head and set her jaw. “A girl like me -has got to take her good times when she can. Maybe there won’t -be any tent next year. I guess I want to have my fling, like the other -girls.”</p> - -<p id="p0573" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling gave a short, harsh laugh. -“If you go to work for the Cutters, you’re likely to have -a fling that you won’t get up from in a hurry.”</p> - -<p id="p0574" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances said, when she told grandmother and me about -this scene, that every pan and plate and cup on the shelves trembled -when her mother walked out of the kitchen. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling -declared bitterly that she wished she had never let herself get fond -of Ántonia.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-11" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page238">[pg 238]</span><a name="Pg238" id="Pg238" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc70" id="toc70"></a> -<a name="pdf71" id="pdf71"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XI</span></h2> - -<p id="p0575" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Wick Cutter</span></span> was -the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When a farmer -once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling or -the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back.</p> - -<p id="p0576" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cutter’s first name was Wycliffe, and he liked -to talk about his pious bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the -Protestant churches, “for sentiment’s sake,” as he -said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a town in Iowa where -there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a little Swedish, -which gave him a great advantage with the early Scandinavian -settlers.</p> - -<p id="p0577" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In every frontier settlement there are men who have -come there to escape restraint. Cutter was one of the “fast -set” of Black Hawk business men. He was an inveterate gambler, -though a poor loser. When we saw a light burning in his office late at -night, we knew that a game of poker was going on. Cutter boasted that -he never drank anything stronger than sherry, and he said he got his -start in life<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page239">[pg 239]</span><a name="Pg239" id="Pg239" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -by saving the money that other young men spent for cigars. He was full -of moral maxims for boys. When he came to our house on business, he -quoted “Poor Richard’s Almanack” to me, and told me -he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a cow. He was -particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he would -begin at once to talk about “the good old times” and -simple living. I detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow -whiskers, always soft and glistening. It was said he brushed them -every night, as a woman does her hair. His white teeth looked -factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as if from perpetual -sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud baths. He was -notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had lived in -his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had taken -to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted her. -He still visited her.</p> - -<p id="p0578" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his -wife, and yet, apparently, they never thought of separating. They -dwelt in a fussy, scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick -evergreens, with a fussy white fence and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page240">[pg 240]</span><a name="Pg240" id="Pg240" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about horses, and usually -had a colt which he was training for the track. On Sunday mornings one -could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around the race-course -in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a -black-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the -breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a -quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no -change and would “fix it up next time.” No one could cut -his lawn or wash his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim -about his place that a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw -a dead cat into his back yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his -alley. It was a peculiar combination of old-maidishness and -licentiousness that made Cutter seem so despicable.</p> - -<p id="p0579" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He had certainly met his match when he married -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter. She was a terrifying-looking person; almost -a giantess in height, raw-boned, with iron-gray hair, a face always -flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. When she meant to be -entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head incessantly and -snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page241">[pg 241]</span><a name="Pg241" id="Pg241" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -curved, like a horse’s; people said babies always cried if she -smiled at them. Her face had a kind of fascination for me; it was the -very color and shape of anger. There was a gleam of something akin to -insanity in her full, intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made -calls in rustling, steel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with -bristling aigrettes.</p> - -<p id="p0580" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter painted china so assiduously -that even her washbowls and pitchers, and her husband’s -shaving-mug, were covered with violets and lilies. Once when Cutter -was exhibiting some of his wife’s china to a caller, he dropped -a piece. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips as -if she were going to faint and said grandly: “<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Cutter, you have broken all the Commandments—spare the -finger-bowls!”</p> - -<p id="p0581" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">They quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the -house until they went to bed at night, and their hired girls reported -these scenes to the town at large. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter had -several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful husbands out of the -newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised handwriting. -Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in the -paper-rack, and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page242">[pg 242]</span><a name="Pg242" id="Pg242" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from which it had been -cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether he ought to put -on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about whether he -had taken cold or not.</p> - -<p id="p0582" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for -dispute. The chief of these was the question of inheritance: -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter told her husband it was plainly his fault -they had no children. He insisted that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter had -purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him -and to share his property with her “people,” whom he -detested. To this she would reply that unless he changed his mode of -life, she would certainly outlive him. After listening to her -insinuations about his physical soundness, Cutter would resume his -dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at the hour when his -wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out to the track -with his trotting-horse.</p> - -<p id="p0583" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Once when they had quarreled about household -expenses, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter put on her brocade and went among -their friends soliciting orders for painted china, saying that -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Cutter had compelled her “to live by her -brush.” Cutter<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page243">[pg 243]</span><a name="Pg243" id="Pg243" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was n’t shamed as she had expected; he was delighted!</p> - -<p id="p0584" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees -which half-buried the house. His wife declared she would leave him if -she were stripped of the “privacy” which she felt these -trees afforded her. That was his opportunity, surely; but he never cut -down the trees. The Cutters seemed to find their relations to each -other interesting and stimulating, and certainly the rest of us found -them so. Wick Cutter was different from any other rascal I have ever -known, but I have found <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutters all over the world; -sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly fed—easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-12" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page244">[pg 244]</span><a name="Pg244" id="Pg244" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc72" id="toc72"></a> -<a name="pdf73" id="pdf73"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0585" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">After</span></span> -Ántonia went to live with the Cutters, she seemed to care about -nothing but picnics and parties and having a good time. When she was -not going to a dance, she sewed until midnight. Her new clothes were -the subject of caustic comment. Under Lena’s direction she -copied <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s new party dress and -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Smith’s street costume so ingeniously in cheap -materials that those ladies were greatly annoyed, and -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter, who was jealous of them, was secretly -pleased.</p> - -<p id="p0586" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tony wore gloves now, and high-heeled shoes and -feathered bonnets, and she went downtown nearly every afternoon with -Tiny and Lena and the Marshalls’ Norwegian Anna. We High-School -boys used to linger on the playground at the afternoon recess to watch -them as they came tripping down the hill along the board sidewalk, two -and two. They were growing prettier every day, but as they passed us, -I used to think with pride that Ántonia, like Snow-White in the -fairy tale, was still “fairest of them all.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page245">[pg 245]</span><a name="Pg245" id="Pg245" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0587" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Being a Senior now, I got away from school early. -Sometimes I overtook the girls downtown and coaxed them into the -ice-cream parlor, where they would sit chattering and laughing, -telling me all the news from the country. I remember how angry Tiny -Soderball made me one afternoon. She declared she had heard -grandmother was going to make a Baptist preacher of me. “I guess -you’ll have to stop dancing and wear a white necktie then. -Won’t he look funny, girls?”</p> - -<p id="p0588" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena laughed. “You’ll have to hurry up, -Jim. If you’re going to be a preacher, I want you to marry me. -You must promise to marry us all, and then baptize the -babies.”</p> - -<p id="p0589" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Norwegian Anna, always dignified, looked at her -reprovingly.</p> - -<p id="p0590" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Baptists don’t believe in christening -babies, do they, Jim?”</p> - -<p id="p0591" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I told her I did n’t know what they believed, -and did n’t care, and that I certainly was n’t going to be -a preacher.</p> - -<p id="p0592" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That’s too bad,” Tiny simpered. -She was in a teasing mood. “You’d make such a good one. -You’re so studious. Maybe you’d like to be a professor. -You used to teach Tony, did n’t you?”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page246">[pg 246]</span><a name="Pg246" id="Pg246" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0593" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia broke in. “I’ve set my -heart on Jim being a doctor. You’d be good with sick people, -Jim. Your grandmother’s trained you up so nice. My papa always -said you were an awful smart boy.”</p> - -<p id="p0594" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I said I was going to be whatever I pleased. -“Won’t you be surprised, Miss Tiny, if I turn out to be a -regular devil of a fellow?”</p> - -<p id="p0595" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">They laughed until a glance from Norwegian Anna -checked them; the High-School Principal had just come into the front -part of the shop to buy bread for supper. Anna knew the whisper was -going about that I was a sly one. People said there must be something -queer about a boy who showed no interest in girls of his own age, but -who could be lively enough when he was with Tony and Lena or the three -Marys.</p> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p0596" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The enthusiasm for the dance, which the Vannis had -kindled, did not at once die out. After the tent left town, the Euchre -Club became the Owl Club, and gave dances in the Masonic Hall once a -week. I was invited to join, but declined. I was moody and restless -that winter, and tired of the people I saw every day. Charley Harling -was already at<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page247">[pg 247]</span><a name="Pg247" id="Pg247" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Annapolis, while I was still sitting in Black Hawk, answering to my -name at roll-call every morning, rising from my desk at the sound of a -bell and marching out like the grammar-school children. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling was a little cool toward me, because I -continued to champion Ántonia. What was there for me to do -after supper? Usually I had learned next day’s lessons by the -time I left the school building, and I could n’t sit still and -read forever.</p> - -<p id="p0597" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In the evening I used to prowl about, hunting for -diversion. There lay the familiar streets, frozen with snow or liquid -with mud. They led to the houses of good people who were putting the -babies to bed, or simply sitting still before the parlor stove, -digesting their supper. Black Hawk had two saloons. One of them was -admitted, even by the church people, to be as respectable as a saloon -could be. Handsome Anton Jelinek, who had rented his homestead and -come to town, was the proprietor. In his saloon there were long tables -where the Bohemian and German farmers could eat the lunches they -brought from home while they drank their beer. Jelinek kept rye bread -on hand, and smoked fish and strong imported cheeses to please the -foreign<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page248">[pg 248]</span><a name="Pg248" id="Pg248" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -palate. I liked to drop into his bar-room and listen to the talk. But -one day he overtook me on the street and clapped me on the -shoulder.</p> - -<p id="p0598" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Jim,” he said, “I am good friends -with you and I always like to see you. But you know how the church -people think about saloons. Your grandpa has always treated me fine, -and I don’t like to have you come into my place, because I know -he don’t like it, and it puts me in bad with him.”</p> - -<p id="p0599" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">So I was shut out of that.</p> - -<p id="p0600" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One could hang about the drug-store, and listen to -the old men who sat there every evening, talking politics and telling -raw stories. One could go to the cigar factory and chat with the old -German who raised canaries for sale, and look at his stuffed birds. -But whatever you began with him, the talk went back to taxidermy. -There was the depot, of course; I often went down to see the night -train come in, and afterward sat awhile with the disconsolate -telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to Omaha or -Denver, “where there was some life.” He was sure to bring -out his pictures of actresses and dancers. He got them with cigarette -coupons,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page249">[pg 249]</span><a name="Pg249" id="Pg249" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and nearly smoked himself to death to possess these desired forms and -faces. For a change, one could talk to the station agent; but he was -another malcontent; spent all his spare time writing letters to -officials requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming -where he could go trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say -“there was nothing in life for him but trout streams, ever since -he’d lost his twins.”</p> - -<p id="p0601" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">These were the distractions I had to choose from. -There were no other lights burning downtown after nine o’clock. -On starlight nights I used to pace up and down those long, cold -streets, scowling at the little, sleeping houses on either side, with -their storm-windows and covered back porches. They were flimsy -shelters, most of them poorly built of light wood, with spindle -porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. Yet for all their -frailness, how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness some of them -managed to contain! The life that went on in them seemed to me made up -of evasions and negations; shifts to save cooking, to save washing and -cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of gossip. This guarded -mode of existence was<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page250">[pg 250]</span><a name="Pg250" id="Pg250" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -like living under a tyranny. People’s speech, their voices, -their very glances, became furtive and repressed. Every individual -taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. The people -asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice in -their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over -the surface of things in the dark. The growing piles of ashes and -cinders in the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful, -consuming process of life went on at all. On Tuesday nights the Owl -Club danced; then there was a little stir in the streets, and here and -there one could see a lighted window until midnight. But the next -night all was dark again.</p> - -<p id="p0602" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After I refused to join “the Owls,” as -they were called, I made a bold resolve to go to the Saturday night -dances at Firemen’s Hall. I knew it would be useless to acquaint -my elders with any such plan. Grandfather did n’t approve of -dancing anyway; he would only say that if I wanted to dance I could go -to the Masonic Hall, among “the people we knew.” It was -just my point that I saw altogether too much of the people we knew.</p> - -<p id="p0603" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">My bedroom was on the ground floor, and as<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page251">[pg 251]</span><a name="Pg251" id="Pg251" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -I studied there, I had a stove in it. I used to retire to my room -early on Saturday night, change my shirt and collar and put on my -Sunday coat. I waited until all was quiet and the old people were -asleep, then raised my window, climbed out, and went softly through -the yard. The first time I deceived my grandparents I felt rather -shabby, perhaps even the second time, but I soon ceased to think about -it.</p> - -<p id="p0604" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The dance at the Firemen’s Hall was the one -thing I looked forward to all the week. There I met the same people I -used to see at the Vannis’ tent. Sometimes there were Bohemians -from Wilber, or German boys who came down on the afternoon freight -from Bismarck. Tony and Lena and Tiny were always there, and the three -Bohemian Marys, and the Danish laundry girls.</p> - -<p id="p0605" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The four Danish girls lived with the laundryman and -his wife in their house behind the laundry, with a big garden where -the clothes were hung out to dry. The laundryman was a kind, wise old -fellow, who paid his girls well, looked out for them, and gave them a -good home. He told me once that his own daughter died just as she was -getting old enough to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page252">[pg 252]</span><a name="Pg252" id="Pg252" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -help her mother, and that he had been “trying to make up for it -ever since.” On summer afternoons he used to sit for hours on -the sidewalk in front of his laundry, his newspaper lying on his knee, -watching his girls through the big open window while they ironed and -talked in Danish. The clouds of white dust that blew up the street, -the gusts of hot wind that withered his vegetable garden, never -disturbed his calm. His droll expression seemed to say that he had -found the secret of contentment. Morning and evening he drove about in -his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed clothes, and collecting -bags of linen that cried out for his suds and sunny drying-lines. His -girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they did standing by the -ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine pieces, their white -arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the brightest wild -roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and curling in -little damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much -English, and were not so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were -kind, simple girls and they were always happy. When one danced with -them, one smelled their clean, freshly ironed clothes that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page253">[pg 253]</span><a name="Pg253" id="Pg253" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -had been put away with rosemary leaves from <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Jensen’s garden.</p> - -<p id="p0606" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">There were never girls enough to go round at those -dances, but every one wanted a turn with Tony and Lena. Lena moved -without exertion, rather indolently, and her hand often accented the -rhythm softly on her partner’s shoulder. She smiled if one spoke -to her, but seldom answered. The music seemed to put her into a soft, -waking dream, and her violet-colored eyes looked sleepily and -confidingly at one from under her long lashes. When she sighed she -exhaled a heavy perfume of sachet powder. To dance “Home, Sweet -Home,” with Lena was like coming in with the tide. She danced -every dance like a waltz, and it was always the same waltz—the -waltz of coming home to something, of inevitable, fated return. After -a while one got restless under it, as one does under the heat of a -soft, sultry summer day.</p> - -<p id="p0607" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When you spun out into the floor with Tony, you did -n’t return to anything. You set out every time upon a new -adventure. I liked to schottische with her; she had so much spring and -variety, and was always putting in new steps and slides. She taught me -to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page254">[pg 254]</span><a name="Pg254" id="Pg254" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -dance against and around the hard-and-fast beat of the music. If, -instead of going to the end of the railroad, old <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Shimerda had stayed in New York and picked up a living with his -fiddle, how different Ántonia’s life might have been!</p> - -<p id="p0608" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia often went to the dances with Larry -Donovan, a passenger conductor who was a kind of professional -ladies’ man, as we said. I remember how admiringly all the boys -looked at her the night she first wore her velveteen dress, made like -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s black velvet. She was lovely to -see, with her eyes shining, and her lips always a little parted when -she danced. That constant, dark color in her cheeks never changed.</p> - -<p id="p0609" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One evening when Donovan was out on his run, -Ántonia came to the hall with Norwegian Anna and her young man, -and that night I took her home. When we were in the -Cutter’s -yard, sheltered by the evergreens, I told her she must kiss me -good-night.</p> - -<p id="p0610" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Why, sure, Jim.” A moment later she drew -her face away and whispered indignantly, “Why, Jim! You know you -ain’t right to kiss me like that. I’ll tell your -grandmother on you!”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page255">[pg 255]</span><a name="Pg255" id="Pg255" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0611" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Lena Lingard lets me kiss her,” I -retorted, “and I’m not half as fond of her as I am of -you.”</p> - -<p id="p0612" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Lena does?” Tony gasped. “If -she’s up to any of her nonsense with you, I’ll scratch her -eyes out!” She took my arm again and we walked out of the gate -and up and down the sidewalk. “Now, don’t you go and be a -fool like some of these town boys. You’re not going to sit -around here and whittle store-boxes and tell stories all your life. -You are going away to school and make something of yourself. I’m -just awful proud of you. You won’t go and get mixed up with the -Swedes, will you?”</p> - -<p id="p0613" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t care anything about any of them -but you,” I said. “And you’ll always treat me like a -kid, I suppose.”</p> - -<p id="p0614" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She laughed and threw her arms around me. “I -expect I will, but you’re a kid I’m awful fond of, anyhow! -You can like me all you want to, but if I see you hanging round with -Lena much, I’ll go to your grandmother, as sure as your -name’s Jim Burden! Lena’s all right, only—well, -you know yourself she’s soft that way. She can’t help it. -It’s natural to her.”</p> - -<p id="p0615" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">If she was proud of me, I was so proud of her<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page256">[pg 256]</span><a name="Pg256" id="Pg256" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -that I carried my head high as I emerged from the dark cedars and shut -the Cutters’ gate softly behind me. Her warm, sweet face, her -kind arms, and the true heart in her; she was, oh, she was still my -Ántonia! I looked with contempt at the dark, silent little -houses about me as I walked home, and thought of the stupid young men -who were asleep in some of them. I knew where the real women were, -though I was only a boy; and I would not be afraid of them, either!</p> - -<p id="p0616" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I hated to enter the still house when I went home -from the dances, and it was long before I could get to sleep. Toward -morning I used to have pleasant dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out -in the country, sliding down straw-stacks as we used to do; climbing -up the yellow mountains over and over, and slipping down the smooth -sides into soft piles of chaff.</p> - -<p id="p0617" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was -always the same. I was in a harvest-field full of shocks, and I was -lying against one of them. Lena Lingard came across the stubble -barefoot, in a short skirt, with a curved reaping-hook in her hand, -and she was flushed like the dawn, with a kind of luminous rosiness -all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page257">[pg 257]</span><a name="Pg257" id="Pg257" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -me with a soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can -kiss you as much as I like.”</p> - -<p id="p0618" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I used to wish I could have this flattering dream -about Ántonia, but I never did.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-13" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page258">[pg 258]</span><a name="Pg258" id="Pg258" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc74" id="toc74"></a> -<a name="pdf75" id="pdf75"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XIII</span></h2> - -<p id="p0619" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">I noticed</span></span> one -afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed to drag as -she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I was -studying and went to her, asking if she did n’t feel well, and -if I could n’t help her with her work.</p> - -<p id="p0620" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, thank you, Jim. I’m troubled, but I -guess I’m well enough. Getting a little rusty in the bones, -maybe,” she added bitterly.</p> - -<p id="p0621" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I stood hesitating. “What are you fretting -about, grandmother? Has grandfather lost any money?”</p> - -<p id="p0622" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, it ain’t money. I wish it was. But -I’ve heard things. You must ’a’ known it would come -back to me sometime.” She dropped into a chair, and covering her -face with her apron, began to cry. “Jim,” she said, -“I was never one that claimed old folks could bring up their -grandchildren. But it came about so; there was n’t any other way -for you, it seemed like.”</p> - -<p id="p0623" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I put my arms around her. I could n’t bear to -see her cry.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page259">[pg 259]</span><a name="Pg259" id="Pg259" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0624" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“What is it, grandmother? Is it the -Firemen’s dances?”</p> - -<p id="p0625" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She nodded.</p> - -<p id="p0626" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I’m sorry I sneaked off like that. But -there’s nothing wrong about the dances, and I have n’t -done anything wrong. I like all those country girls, and I like to -dance with them. That’s all there is to it.”</p> - -<p id="p0627" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But it ain’t right to deceive us, son, -and it brings blame on us. People say you are growing up to be a bad -boy, and that ain’t just to us.”</p> - -<p id="p0628" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t care what they say about me, but -if it hurts you, that settles it. I won’t go to the -Firemen’s Hall again.”</p> - -<p id="p0629" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring -months dull enough. I sat at home with the old people in the evenings -now, reading Latin that was not in our High-School course. I had made -up my mind to do a lot of college requirement work in the summer, and -to enter the freshman class at the University without conditions in -the fall. I wanted to get away as soon as possible.</p> - -<p id="p0630" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Disapprobation hurt me, I found,—even that of -people whom I did not admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and -more lonely,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page260">[pg 260]</span><a name="Pg260" id="Pg260" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and fell back on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries -for companionship. I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging -a May-basket for Nina Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from -an old German woman who always had more window plants than any one -else, and spent an afternoon trimming a little work-basket. When dusk -came on, and the new moon hung in the sky, I went quietly to the -Harlings’ front door with my offering, rang the bell, and then -ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I could hear -Nina’s cries of delight, and I felt comforted.</p> - -<p id="p0631" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered -downtown to walk home with Frances, and talked to her about my plans -and about the reading I was doing. One evening she said she thought -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling was not seriously offended with me.</p> - -<p id="p0632" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I -guess. But you know she was hurt about Ántonia, and she -can’t understand why you like to be with Tiny and Lena better -than with the girls of your own set.”</p> - -<p id="p0633" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Can you?” I asked bluntly.</p> - -<p id="p0634" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Frances laughed. “Yes, I think I can. You<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page261">[pg 261]</span><a name="Pg261" id="Pg261" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -knew them in the country, and you like to take sides. In some ways -you’re older than boys of your age. It will be all right with -mama after you pass your college examinations and she sees -you’re in earnest.”</p> - -<p id="p0635" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“If you were a boy,” I persisted, -“you would n’t belong to the Owl Club, either. You’d -be just like me.”</p> - -<p id="p0636" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She shook her head. “I would and I would -n’t. I expect I know the country girls better than you do. You -always put a kind of glamour over them. The trouble with you, Jim, is -that you’re romantic. Mama’s going to your Commencement. -She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to be about. -She wants you to do well.”</p> - -<p id="p0637" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervor -a great many things I had lately discovered. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling -came to the Opera House to hear the Commencement exercises, and I -looked at her most of the time while I made my speech. Her keen, -intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she came back to the -dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our hands, walked -up to me, and said heartily: “You surprised me, Jim. I did -n’t believe you could do as well as that.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page262">[pg 262]</span><a name="Pg262" id="Pg262" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -You did n’t get that speech out of books.” Among my -graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Harling, with my name on the handle.</p> - -<p id="p0638" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed -the Methodist Church, I saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up -and down under the arching maple trees, where the moonlight filtered -through the lush June foliage. They hurried toward me; they were -waiting for me—Lena and Tony and Anna Hansen.</p> - -<p id="p0639" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, Jim, it was splendid!” Tony was -breathing hard, as she always did when her feelings outran her -language. “There ain’t a lawyer in Black Hawk could make a -speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to him. He -won’t tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself, -did n’t he, girls?”</p> - -<p id="p0640" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly: “What -made you so solemn? I thought you were scared. I was sure you’d -forget.”</p> - -<p id="p0641" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Anna spoke wistfully. “It must make you happy, -Jim, to have fine thoughts like that in your mind all the time, and to -have words to put them in. I always wanted to go to school, you -know.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page263">[pg 263]</span><a name="Pg263" id="Pg263" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0642" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could -hear you! Jim,”—Ántonia took hold of my coat -lapels,—“there was something in your speech that made me -think so about my papa!”</p> - -<p id="p0643" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I thought about your papa when I wrote my -speech, Tony,” I said. “I dedicated it to him.”</p> - -<p id="p0644" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was -all wet with tears.</p> - -<p id="p0645" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller -and smaller down the sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other -success that pulled at my heartstrings like that one.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-14" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page264">[pg 264]</span><a name="Pg264" id="Pg264" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc76" id="toc76"></a> -<a name="pdf77" id="pdf77"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XIV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0646" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">The</span></span> day after -Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty room -where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I -worked off a year’s trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil -alone. Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny -little room, looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of -the blond pastures between, scanning the Æneid aloud and -committing long passages to memory. Sometimes in the evening -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling called to me as I passed her gate, and asked -me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for Charley, she -said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents had -misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off -to college alone, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling took up my cause -vigorously. Grandfather had such respect for her judgment that I knew -he would not go against her.</p> - -<p id="p0647" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I -met Ántonia downtown on<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page265">[pg 265]</span><a name="Pg265" id="Pg265" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going -to the river next day with Anna Hansen—the elder was all in -bloom now, and Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine.</p> - -<p id="p0648" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Anna’s to drive us down in the -Marshalls’ delivery wagon, and we’ll take a nice lunch and -have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n’t you happen along, -Jim? It would be like old times.”</p> - -<p id="p0649" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I considered a moment. “Maybe I can, if I -won’t be in the way.”</p> - -<p id="p0650" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black -Hawk while the dew was still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was -the high season for summer flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along -the sandy roadsides, and the cone-flowers and rose mallow grew -everywhere. Across the wire fence, in the long grass, I saw a clump of -flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in that part of the State. I -left the road and went around through a stretch of pasture that was -always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia came up year -after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety red that -is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except for -the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page266">[pg 266]</span><a name="Pg266" id="Pg266" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me and -to come very close.</p> - -<p id="p0651" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy -rains to the west of us had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and -went upstream along the wooded shore to a pleasant dressing-room I -knew among the dogwood bushes, all overgrown with wild grapevines. I -began to undress for a swim. The girls would not be along yet. For the -first time it occurred to me that I would be homesick for that river -after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean white beaches and -their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, were a sort -of No Man’s Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to -the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these -woods, fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the -river shores and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow.</p> - -<p id="p0652" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After my swim, while I was playing about indolently -in the water, I heard the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I -struck downstream and shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view -on the middle span. They stopped the horse, and the two girls in the -bottom of the cart stood up, steadying<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page267">[pg 267]</span><a name="Pg267" id="Pg267" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they could -see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the -cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of -the thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, -waving to them.</p> - -<p id="p0653" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“How pretty you look!” I called.</p> - -<p id="p0654" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“So do you!” they shouted altogether, and -broke into peals of laughter. Anna Hansen shook the reins and they -drove on, while I zigzagged back to my inlet and clambered up behind -an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the sun, and dressed slowly, -reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the sunlight flickered -so bright through the grapevine leaves and the woodpecker hammered -away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the water. As I went -along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off little pieces of -scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking them up in my -hands.</p> - -<p id="p0655" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I came upon the Marshalls’ delivery horse, -tied in the shade, the girls had already taken their baskets and gone -down the east road which wound through the sand and scrub. I could -hear them calling to each other. The<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page268">[pg 268]</span><a name="Pg268" id="Pg268" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the -bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their -roots were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms -were unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer.</p> - -<p id="p0656" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush -until I came to a slope that fell away abruptly to the water’s -edge. A great chunk of the shore had been bitten out by some spring -freshet, and the scar was masked by elder bushes, growing down to the -water in flowery terraces. I did not touch them. I was overcome by -content and drowsiness and by the warm silence about me. There was no -sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild bees and the sunny gurgle -of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge of the bank to see the -little stream that made the noise; it flowed along perfectly clear -over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main current by a -long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I saw -Ántonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked -up when she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. -I slid down into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the -matter.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page269">[pg 269]</span><a name="Pg269" id="Pg269" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0657" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this -smell,” she said softly. “We have this flower very much at -home, in the old country. It always grew in our yard and my papa had a -green bench and a table under the bushes. In summer, when they were in -bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that played the trombone. -When I was little I used to go down there to hear them talk—beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country.”</p> - -<p id="p0658" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“What did they talk about?” I asked -her.</p> - -<p id="p0659" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, I -don’t know! About music, and the woods, and about God, and when -they were young.” She turned to me suddenly and looked into my -eyes. “You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father’s spirit can -go back to those old places?”</p> - -<p id="p0660" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I told her about the feeling of her father’s -presence I had on that winter day when my grandparents had gone over -to see his dead body and I was left alone in the house. I said I felt -sure then that he was on his way back to his own country, and that -even now, when I passed his grave, I always thought of him as being -among the woods and fields that were so dear to him.</p> - -<p id="p0661" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia had the most trusting, responsive<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page270">[pg 270]</span><a name="Pg270" id="Pg270" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -eyes in the world; love and credulousness seemed to look out of them -with open faces. “Why did n’t you ever tell me that -before? It makes me feel more sure for him.” After a while she -said: “You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He -did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with -him because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper -about it. They said he could have paid my mother money, and not -married her. But he was older than she was, and he was too kind to -treat her like that. He lived in his mother’s house, and she was -a poor girl come in to do the work. After my father married her, my -grandmother never let my mother come into her house again. When I went -to my grandmother’s funeral was the only time I was ever in my -grandmother’s house. Don’t that seem strange?”</p> - -<p id="p0662" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and -looked up at the blue sky between the flat bouquets of elder. I could -hear the bees humming and singing, but they stayed up in the sun above -the flowers and did not come down into the shadow of the leaves. -Ántonia seemed to me that day exactly like the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page271">[pg 271]</span><a name="Pg271" id="Pg271" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -little girl who used to come to our house with <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Shimerda.</p> - -<p id="p0663" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Some day, Tony, I am going over to your -country, and I am going to the little town where you lived. Do you -remember all about it?”</p> - -<p id="p0664" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Jim,” she said earnestly, “if I -was put down there in the middle of the night, I could find my way all -over that little town; and along the river to the next town, where my -grandmother lived. My feet remember all the little paths through the -woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip you. I ain’t -never forgot my own country.”</p> - -<p id="p0665" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">There was a crackling in the branches above us, and -Lena Lingard peered down over the edge of the bank.</p> - -<p id="p0666" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You lazy things!” she cried. “All -this elder, and you two lying there! Did n’t you hear us calling -you?” Almost as flushed as she had been in my dream, she leaned -over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our flowery pagoda. I -had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with zeal, and the -perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper lip. I sprang -to my feet and ran up the bank.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page272">[pg 272]</span><a name="Pg272" id="Pg272" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0667" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and -scrub-oaks began to turn up the silvery under-side of their leaves, -and all the foliage looked soft and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket -to the top of one of the chalk bluffs, where even on the calmest days -there was always a breeze. The flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw -light shadows on the grass. Below us we could see the windings of the -river, and Black Hawk, grouped among its trees, and, beyond, the -rolling country, swelling gently until it met the sky. We could -recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the girls pointed -out to me the direction in which her father’s farm lay, and told -me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn.</p> - -<p id="p0668" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“My old folks,” said Tiny Soderball, -“have put in twenty acres of rye. They get it ground at the -mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my mother ain’t -been so homesick, ever since father’s raised rye flour for -her.”</p> - -<p id="p0669" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It must have been a trial for our -mothers,” said Lena, “coming out here and having to do -everything different. My mother had always lived in town. She says she -started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page273">[pg 273]</span><a name="Pg273" id="Pg273" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0670" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, a new country’s hard on the old -ones, sometimes,” said Anna thoughtfully. “My -grandmother’s getting feeble now, and her mind wanders. -She’s forgot about this country, and thinks she’s at home -in Norway. She keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside -and the fish market. She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home -I take her canned salmon and mackerel.”</p> - -<p id="p0671" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Mercy, it’s hot!” Lena yawned. She -was supine under a little oak, resting after the fury of her -elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled slippers she had been -silly enough to wear. “Come here, Jim. You never got the sand -out of your hair.” She began to draw her fingers slowly through -my hair.</p> - -<p id="p0672" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia pushed her away. “You’ll -never get it out like that,” she said sharply. She gave my head -a rough touzling and finished me off with something like a box on the -ear. “Lena, you ought n’t to try to wear those slippers -any more. They’re too small for your feet. You’d better -give them to me for Yulka.”</p> - -<p id="p0673" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“All right,” said Lena good-naturedly, -tucking her white stockings under her skirt. “You get all -Yulka’s things, don’t you? I<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page274">[pg 274]</span><a name="Pg274" id="Pg274" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -wish father did n’t have such bad luck with his farm machinery; -then I could buy more things for my sisters. I’m going to get -Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky plough’s never paid -for!”</p> - -<p id="p0674" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tiny asked her why she did n’t wait until after -Christmas, when coats would be cheaper. “What do you think of -poor me?” she added; “with six at home, younger than I am? -And they all think I’m rich, because when I go back to the -country I’m dressed so fine!” She shrugged her shoulders. -“But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them -playthings better than what they need.”</p> - -<p id="p0675" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I know how that is,” said Anna. -“When we first came here, and I was little, we were too poor to -buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll somebody gave me before -we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I still hate him for -it.”</p> - -<p id="p0676" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I guess after you got here you had plenty of -live dolls to nurse, like me!” Lena remarked cynically.</p> - -<p id="p0677" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be -sure. But I never minded. I was fond of them all. The youngest one, -that we did n’t any of us want, is the one we love best -now.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page275">[pg 275]</span><a name="Pg275" id="Pg275" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0678" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena sighed. “Oh, the babies are all right; if -only they don’t come in winter. Ours nearly always did. I -don’t see how mother stood it. I tell you -what -girls,” she sat up with sudden energy; “I’m going to -get my mother out of that old sod house where she’s lived so -many years. The men will never do it. Johnnie, that’s my oldest -brother, he’s wanting to get married now, and build a house for -his girl instead of his mother. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas says she -thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go into business -for myself. If I don’t get into business, I’ll maybe marry -a rich gambler.”</p> - -<p id="p0679" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That would be a poor way to get on,” -said Anna sarcastically. “I wish I could teach school, like -Selma Kronn. Just think! She’ll be the first Scandinavian girl -to get a position in the High School. We ought to be proud of -her.”</p> - -<p id="p0680" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance -for giddy things like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with -admiration.</p> - -<p id="p0681" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her -straw hat. “If I was smart like her, I’d be at my books -day and night. But<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page276">[pg 276]</span><a name="Pg276" id="Pg276" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -she was born smart—and look how her father’s trained -her! He was something high up in the old country.”</p> - -<p id="p0682" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“So was my mother’s father,” -murmured Lena, “but that’s all the good it does us! My -father’s father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a -Lapp. I guess that’s what’s the matter with me; they say -Lapp blood will out.”</p> - -<p id="p0683" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“A real Lapp, Lena?” I exclaimed. -“The kind that wear skins?”</p> - -<p id="p0684" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t know if she wore skins, but she -was a Lapp all right, and his folks felt dreadful about it. He was -sent up north on some Government job he had, and fell in with her. He -would marry her.”</p> - -<p id="p0685" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, -and had squint eyes, like Chinese?” I objected.</p> - -<p id="p0686" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t know, maybe. There must be -something mighty taking about the Lapp girls, though; mother says the -Norwegians up north are always afraid their boys will run after -them.”</p> - -<p id="p0687" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, -we had a lively game of “Pussy Wants a Corner,” on the -flat bluff-top, with<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page277">[pg 277]</span><a name="Pg277" id="Pg277" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the little trees for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally -said she would n’t play any more. We threw ourselves down on the -grass, out of breath.</p> - -<p id="p0688" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Jim,” Ántonia said dreamily, -“I want you to tell the girls about how the Spanish first came -here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. I’ve -tried to tell them, but I leave out so much.”</p> - -<p id="p0689" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the -trunk and the other girls leaning against her and each other, and -listened to the little I was able to tell them about Coronado and his -search for the Seven Golden Cities. At school we were taught that he -had not got so far north as Nebraska, but had given up his quest and -turned back somewhere in Kansas. But Charley Harling and I had a -strong belief that he had been along this very river. A farmer in the -county north of ours, when he was breaking sod, had turned up a metal -stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a Spanish inscription on -the blade. He lent these relics to <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling, who -brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were -on exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page278">[pg 278]</span><a name="Pg278" id="Pg278" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -priest, had found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an -abbreviation that stood for the city of Cordova.</p> - -<p id="p0690" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“And that I saw with my own eyes,” -Ántonia put in triumphantly. “So Jim and Charley were -right, and the teachers were wrong!”</p> - -<p id="p0691" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had -the Spaniards come so far? What must this country have been like, -then? Why had Coronado never gone back to Spain, to his riches and his -castles and his king? I could n’t tell them. I only knew the -school books said he “died in the wilderness, of a broken -heart.”</p> - -<p id="p0692" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“More than him has done that,” said -Ántonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent.</p> - -<p id="p0693" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We sat looking off across the country, watching the -sun go down. The curly grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the -oaks turned red as copper. There was a shimmer of gold on the brown -river. Out in the stream the sandbars glittered like glass, and the -light trembled in the willow thickets as if little flames were leaping -among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the ravine a ringdove -mourned plaintively, and somewhere<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page279">[pg 279]</span><a name="Pg279" id="Pg279" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -off in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning -against each other. The long fingers of the sun touched their -foreheads.</p> - -<p id="p0694" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no -clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as -the lower edge of the red disc rested on the high fields against the -horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the -sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment -we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left -standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified -across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the -sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disc; the handles, -the tongue, the share—black against the molten red. There it -was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.</p> - -<p id="p0695" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Even while we whispered about it, our vision -disappeared; the ball dropped and dropped until the red tip went -beneath the earth. The fields below us were dark, the sky was growing -pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its own littleness -somewhere on the prairie.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap2-15" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page280">[pg 280]</span><a name="Pg280" id="Pg280" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc78" id="toc78"></a> -<a name="pdf79" id="pdf79"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">XV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0696" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Late</span></span> in August the -Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving Ántonia in charge -of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick Cutter -could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him.</p> - -<p id="p0697" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The day after the Cutters left, Ántonia came -over to see us. Grandmother noticed that she seemed troubled and -distracted. “You’ve got something on your mind, -Ántonia,” she said anxiously.</p> - -<p id="p0698" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Yes, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden. I could -n’t sleep much last night.” She hesitated, and then told -us how strangely <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Cutter had behaved before he went -away. He put all the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed, -and with it a box of papers which he told her were valuable. He made -her promise that she would not sleep away from the house, or be out -late in the evening, while he was gone. He strictly forbade her to ask -any of the girls she knew to stay with her at night. She would be -perfectly safe, he said, as he had just put a new Yale lock on the -front door.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page281">[pg 281]</span><a name="Pg281" id="Pg281" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0699" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cutter had been so insistent in regard to these -details that now she felt uncomfortable about staying there alone. She -had n’t liked the way he kept coming into the kitchen to -instruct her, or the way he looked at her. “I feel as if he is -up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to scare me, -somehow.”</p> - -<p id="p0700" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother was apprehensive at once. “I -don’t think it’s right for you to stay there, feeling that -way. I suppose it would n’t be right for you to leave the place -alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be willing to -go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I’d -feel safer, knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take -care of their silver and old usury notes as well as you -could.”</p> - -<p id="p0701" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia turned to me eagerly. “Oh, would -you, Jim? I’d make up my bed nice and fresh for you. It’s -a real cool room, and the bed’s right next the window. I was -afraid to leave the window open last night.”</p> - -<p id="p0702" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I liked my own room, and I did n’t like the -Cutters’ house under any circumstances; but Tony looked so -troubled that I consented to try this arrangement. I found that I -slept there as well as anywhere, and when I got<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page282">[pg 282]</span><a name="Pg282" id="Pg282" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After -prayers she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times -in the country.</p> - -<p id="p0703" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The third night I spent at the Cutters’, I -awoke suddenly with the impression that I had heard a door open and -shut. Everything was still, however, and I must have gone to sleep -again immediately.</p> - -<p id="p0704" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The next thing I knew, I felt some one sit down on -the edge of the bed. I was only half awake, but I decided that he -might take the Cutters’ silver, whoever he was. Perhaps if I did -not move, he would find it and get out without troubling me. I held my -breath and lay absolutely still. A hand closed softly on my shoulder, -and at the same moment I felt something hairy and cologne-scented -brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been flooded with electric -light, I could n’t have seen more clearly the detestable bearded -countenance that I knew was bending over me. I caught a handful of -whiskers and pulled, shouting something. The hand that held my -shoulder was instantly at my throat. The man became insane; he stood -over me, choking me with one fist and beating me in<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page283">[pg 283]</span><a name="Pg283" id="Pg283" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the face with the other, hissing and chuckling and letting out a flood -of abuse.</p> - -<p id="p0705" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“So this is what she’s up to when -I’m away, is it? Where is she, you nasty whelp, where is she? -Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks! Wait till I get at -you! I’ll fix this rat you’ve got in here. He’s -caught, all right!”</p> - -<p id="p0706" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">So long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no -chance for me at all. I got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until -he let go with a yell. In a bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent -him sprawling to the floor. Then I made a dive for the open window, -struck the wire screen, knocked it out, and tumbled after it into the -yard.</p> - -<p id="p0707" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Suddenly I found myself running across the north end -of Black Hawk in my nightshirt, just as one sometimes finds -one’s self behaving in bad dreams. When I got home I climbed in -at the kitchen window. I was covered with blood from my nose and lip, -but I was too sick to do anything about it. I found a shawl and an -overcoat on the hatrack, lay down on the parlor sofa, and in spite of -my hurts, went to sleep.</p> - -<p id="p0708" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother found me there in the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page284">[pg 284]</span><a name="Pg284" id="Pg284" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -morning. Her cry of fright awakened me. Truly, I was a battered -object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a glimpse of myself in -the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a snout. My nose looked -like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut and hideously -discolored. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at once, but I -implored her, as I had never begged for anything before, not to send -for him. I could stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw me -or knew what had happened to me. I entreated her not to let -grandfather, even, come into my room. She seemed to understand, though -I was too faint and miserable to go into explanations. When she took -off my nightshirt, she found such bruises on my chest and shoulders -that she began to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing and -poulticing me, and rubbing me with arnica. I heard Ántonia -sobbing outside my door, but I asked grandmother to send her away. I -felt that I never wanted to see her again. I hated her almost as much -as I hated Cutter. She had let me in for all this disgustingness. -Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought to be that I had been -there instead of Ántonia. But I lay with my<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page285">[pg 285]</span><a name="Pg285" id="Pg285" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -disfigured face to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one -concern was that grandmother should keep every one away from me. If -the story once got abroad, I would never hear the last of it. I could -well imagine what the old men down at the drug-store would do with -such a theme.</p> - -<p id="p0709" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While grandmother was trying to make me comfortable, -grandfather went to the depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come -home on the night express from the east, and had left again on the six -o’clock train for Denver that morning. The agent said his face -was striped with court-plaster, and he carried his left hand in a -sling. He looked so used up, that the agent asked him what had -happened to him since ten o’clock the night before; whereat -Cutter began to swear at him and said he would have him discharged for -incivility.</p> - -<p id="p0710" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That afternoon, while I was asleep, Ántonia -took grandmother with her, and went over to the Cutters’ to pack -her trunk. They found the place locked up, and they had to break the -window to get into Ántonia’s bedroom. There everything -was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her -closet, thrown into the middle of the room, and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page286">[pg 286]</span><a name="Pg286" id="Pg286" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -trampled and torn. My own garments had been treated so badly that I -never saw them again; grandmother burned them in the Cutters’ -kitchen range.</p> - -<p id="p0711" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While Ántonia was packing her trunk and -putting her room in order, to leave it, the front-door bell rang -violently. There stood <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter,—locked out, -for she had no key to the new lock—her head trembling with -rage. “I advised her to control herself, or she would have a -stroke,” grandmother said afterwards.</p> - -<p id="p0712" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother would not let her see Ántonia at -all, but made her sit down in the parlor while she related to her just -what had occurred the night before. Ántonia was frightened, and -was going home to stay for a while, she told <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter; -it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she knew nothing of -what had happened.</p> - -<p id="p0713" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Then <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter told her story. She and -her husband had started home from Omaha together the morning before. -They had to stop over several hours at Waymore Junction to catch the -Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter left her at the depot and -went to the Waymore bank to attend to some business. When he returned, -he told her that he<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page287">[pg 287]</span><a name="Pg287" id="Pg287" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -would have to stay overnight there, but she could go on home. He -bought her ticket and put her on the train. She saw him slip a -twenty-dollar bill into her handbag with her ticket. That bill, she -said, should have aroused her suspicions at once—but did -not.</p> - -<p id="p0714" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The trains are never called at little junction towns; -everybody knows when they come in. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Cutter showed his -wife’s ticket to the conductor, and settled her in her seat -before the train moved off. It was not until nearly nightfall that she -discovered she was on the express bound for Kansas City, that her -ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter must have planned -it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was due at Waymore -twelve minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at once that -her husband had played this trick in order to get back to Black Hawk -without her. She had no choice but to go on to Kansas City and take -the first fast train for home.</p> - -<p id="p0715" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cutter could have got home a day earlier than his -wife by any one of a dozen simpler devices; he could have left her in -the Omaha hotel, and said he was going on to Chicago for<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page288">[pg 288]</span><a name="Pg288" id="Pg288" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -a few days. But apparently it was part of his fun to outrage her -feelings as much as possible.</p> - -<p id="p0716" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Cutter will pay for this, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden. He will pay!” <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter -avouched, nodding her horselike head and rolling her eyes.</p> - -<p id="p0717" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Grandmother said she had n’t a doubt of it.</p> - -<p id="p0718" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Certainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a -devil. In some way he depended upon the excitement he could arouse in -her hysterical nature. Perhaps he got the feeling of being a rake more -from his wife’s rage and amazement than from any experiences of -his own. His zest in debauchery might wane, but never -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter’s belief in it. The reckoning with his -wife at the end of an escapade was something he counted on—like the last powerful liqueur after a long dinner. The one excitement -he really could n’t do without was quarreling with -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter!</p> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="book3" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page291">[pg 291]</span><a name="Pg291" id="Pg291" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc80" id="toc80"></a> -<a name="pdf81" id="pdf81"></a> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Book III—Lena Lingard</span></h1> -<p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"></p> - -<div id="chap3-01" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<a name="toc82" id="toc82"></a> -<a name="pdf83" id="pdf83"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">I</span></h2> - -<p id="p0719" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">At</span></span> the University -I had the good fortune to come immediately under the influence of a -brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had arrived in -Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as head of -the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his -physicians, his health having been enfeebled by a long illness in -Italy. When I took my entrance examinations he was my examiner, and my -course was arranged under his supervision.</p> - -<p id="p0720" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but -stayed in Lincoln, working off a year’s Greek, which had been my -only condition on entering the Freshman class. Cleric’s doctor -advised against his going back to New England, and except for a few -weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln all that summer. We played -tennis, read, and took long walks together. I shall always look back -on that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page292">[pg 292]</span><a name="Pg292" id="Pg292" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -time of mental awakening as one of the happiest in my life. Gaston -Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas; when one first enters that -world everything else fades for a time, and all that went before is as -if it had not been. Yet I found curious survivals; some of the figures -of my old life seemed to be waiting for me in the new.</p> - -<p id="p0721" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In those days there were many serious young men among -the students who had come up to the University from the farms and the -little towns scattered over the thinly settled State. Some of those -boys came straight from the cornfields with only a summer’s -wages in their pockets, hung on through the four years, shabby and -underfed, and completed the course by really heroic self-sacrifice. -Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering pioneer -school-teachers, stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few enthusiastic -young men just out of graduate schools. There was an atmosphere of -endeavor, of expectancy and bright hopefulness about the young college -that had lifted its head from the prairie only a few years before.</p> - -<p id="p0722" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Our personal life was as free as that of our -instructors. There were no college dormitories;<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page293">[pg 293]</span><a name="Pg293" id="Pg293" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms with an old -couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their children -and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near the -open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and -on that account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom, -originally a linen closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to -contain my cot bed, but it enabled me to call the other room my study. -The dresser, and the great walnut wardrobe which held all my clothes, -even my hats and shoes, I had pushed out of the way, and I considered -them non-existent, as children eliminate incongruous objects when they -are playing house. I worked at a commodious green-topped table placed -directly in front of the west window which looked out over the -prairie. In the corner at my right were all my books, in shelves I had -made and painted myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark, -old-fashioned wall-paper was covered by a large map of ancient Rome, -the work of some German scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he -was sending for books from abroad. Over the bookcase hung a<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page294">[pg 294]</span><a name="Pg294" id="Pg294" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -photograph of the Tragic Theater at Pompeii, which he had given me -from his collection.</p> - -<p id="p0723" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I sat at work I half faced a deep, upholstered -chair which stood at the end of my table, its high back against the -wall. I had bought it with great care. My instructor sometimes looked -in upon me when he was out for an evening tramp, and I noticed that he -was more likely to linger and become talkative if I had a comfortable -chair for him to sit in, and if he found a bottle of -Bénédictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he -liked, at his elbow. He was, I had discovered, parsimonious about -small expenditures—a trait absolutely inconsistent with his -general character. Sometimes when he came he was silent and moody, and -after a few sarcastic remarks went away again, to tramp the streets of -Lincoln, which were almost as quiet and oppressively domestic as those -of Black Hawk. Again, he would sit until nearly midnight, talking -about Latin and English poetry, or telling me about his long stay in -Italy.</p> - -<p id="p0724" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and -vividness of his talk. In a crowd he was nearly always silent. Even -for his classroom he had no platitudes, no stock of professorial<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page295">[pg 295]</span><a name="Pg295" id="Pg295" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -anecdotes. When he was tired his lectures were clouded, obscure, -elliptical; but when he was interested they were wonderful. I believe -that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a great poet, and I have -sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to -his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal -communication. How often I have seen him draw his dark brows together, -fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the carpet, -and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his -brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before one out of the -shadows—white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never -forget his face as it looked one night when he told me about the -solitary day he spent among the sea temples at Paestum: the soft wind -blowing through the roofless columns, the birds flying low over the -flowering marsh grasses, the changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung -mountains. He had willfully stayed the short summer night there, -wrapped in his coat and rug, watching the constellations on their path -down the sky until “the bride of old Tithonus” rose out of -the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn. It<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page296">[pg 296]</span><a name="Pg296" id="Pg296" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was there he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his -departure for Greece and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was -still, indeed, doing penance for it.</p> - -<p id="p0725" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I remember vividly another evening, when something -led us to talk of Dante’s veneration for Virgil. Cleric went -through canto after canto of the “Commedia,” repeating the -discourse between Dante and his “sweet teacher,” while his -cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long fingers. I can -hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who spoke for -Dante: “<em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">I was famous on earth with the name -which endures longest and honors most. The seeds of my ardor were the -sparks from that divine flame whereby more than a thousand have -kindled; I speak of the Æneid, mother to me and nurse to me in -poetry.</span></em>”</p> - -<p id="p0726" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I -was not deceived about myself; I knew that I should never be a -scholar. I could never lose myself for long among impersonal things. -Mental excitement was apt to send me with a rush back to my own naked -land and the figures scattered upon it. While I was in the very act of -yearning toward the new forms that Cleric brought up before me, my<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page297">[pg 297]</span><a name="Pg297" id="Pg297" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found myself thinking of the -places and people of my own infinitesimal past. They stood out -strengthened and simplified now, like the image of the plough against -the sun. They were all I had for an answer to the new appeal. I -begrudged the room that Jake and Otto and Russian Peter took up in my -memory, which I wanted to crowd with other things. But whenever my -consciousness was quickened, all those early friends were quickened -within it, and in some strange way they accompanied me through all my -new experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely stopped -to wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap3-02" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page298">[pg 298]</span><a name="Pg298" id="Pg298" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc84" id="toc84"></a> -<a name="pdf85" id="pdf85"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">II</span></h2> - -<p id="p0727" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">One</span></span> March evening -in my Sophomore year I was sitting alone in my room after supper. -There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards and little -streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out of old -snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing through -made me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone -down, the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light -throbbing in it. Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope, -the evening star hung like a lamp suspended by silver chains—like the lamp engraved upon the title-page of old Latin texts, which -is always appearing in new heavens, and waking new desires in men. It -reminded me, at any rate, to shut my window and light my wick in -answer. I did so regretfully, and the dim objects in the room emerged -from the shadows and took their place about me with the helpfulness -which custom breeds.</p> - -<p id="p0728" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the -page of the Georgics where<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page299">[pg 299]</span><a name="Pg299" id="Pg299" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to-morrow’s lesson began. It opened with the melancholy -reflection that, in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first -to flee. “<span lang="la" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="la">Optima dies … -prima fugit.</span>” I turned back to the beginning of the third -book, which we had read in class that morning. “<span lang="la" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="la">Primus ego in patriam mecum … -deducam Musas</span>”; “for I shall be the first, if I live, -to bring the Muse into my country.” Cleric had explained to us -that “<span lang="la" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="la">patria</span>” -here meant, not a nation or even a province, but the little rural -neighborhood on the Mincio where the poet was born. This was not a -boast, but a hope, at once bold and devoutly humble, that he might -bring the Muse (but lately come to Italy from her cloudy Grecian -mountains), not to the capital, the -<span lang="la" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="la">palatia Romana</span>, but to his own -little “country”; to his father’s fields, -“sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with -broken tops.”</p> - -<p id="p0729" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at -Brindisi, must have remembered that passage. After he had faced the -bitter fact that he was to leave the Æneid unfinished, and had -decreed that the great canvas, crowded with figures of gods and men, -should be burned rather than survive him unperfected, then his<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page300">[pg 300]</span><a name="Pg300" id="Pg300" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance of -the Georgics, where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is -to the furrow; and he must have said to himself with the thankfulness -of a good man, “I was the first to bring the Muse into my -country.”</p> - -<p id="p0730" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had -been brushed by the wing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone -knew Cleric intimately enough to guess what that feeling was. In the -evening, as I sat staring at my book, the fervor of his voice stirred -through the quantities on the page before me. I was wondering whether -that particular rocky strip of New England coast about which he had so -often told me was Cleric’s -<span lang="la" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="la">patria</span>. Before I had got far -with my reading I was disturbed by a knock. I hurried to the door and -when I opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall.</p> - -<p id="p0731" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I expect you hardly know me, Jim.”</p> - -<p id="p0732" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize -her until she stepped into the light of my doorway and I beheld—Lena Lingard! She was so quietly conventionalized by city -clothes that I might have passed her on the street without seeing her. -Her black suit fitted<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page301">[pg 301]</span><a name="Pg301" id="Pg301" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -her figure smoothly, and a black lace hat, with pale-blue -forget-me-nots, sat demurely on her yellow hair.</p> - -<p id="p0733" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I led her toward Cleric’s chair, the only -comfortable one I had, questioning her confusedly.</p> - -<p id="p0734" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She -looked about her with the naïve curiosity I remembered so well. -“You are quite comfortable here, are n’t you? I live in -Lincoln now, too, Jim. I’m in business for myself. I have a -dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street. I’ve -made a real good start.”</p> - -<p id="p0735" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But, Lena, when did you come?”</p> - -<p id="p0736" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, I’ve been here all winter. Did -n’t your grandmother ever write you? I’ve thought about -looking you up lots of times. But we’ve all heard what a -studious young man you’ve got to be, and I felt bashful. I did -n’t know whether you’d be glad to see me.” She -laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that was either very artless or very -comprehending, one never quite knew which. “You seem the same, -though,—except you’re a young man, now, of course. Do -you think I’ve changed?”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page302">[pg 302]</span><a name="Pg302" id="Pg302" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0737" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Maybe you’re prettier—though you -were always pretty enough. Perhaps it’s your clothes that make a -difference.”</p> - -<p id="p0738" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty -well in my business.” She took off her jacket and sat more at -ease in her blouse, of some soft, flimsy silk. She was already at home -in my place, had slipped quietly into it, as she did into everything. -She told me her business was going well, and she had saved a little -money.</p> - -<p id="p0739" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“This summer I’m going to build the house -for mother I’ve talked about so long. I won’t be able to -pay up on it at first, but I want her to have it before she is too old -to enjoy it. Next summer I’ll take her down new furniture and -carpets, so she’ll have something to look forward to all -winter.”</p> - -<p id="p0740" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and -well cared-for, and thought of how she used to run barefoot over the -prairie until after the snow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased -her round and round the cornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she -should have got on so well in the world. Certainly she had no one but -herself to thank for it.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page303">[pg 303]</span><a name="Pg303" id="Pg303" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0741" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You must feel proud of yourself, Lena,” -I said heartily. “Look at me; I’ve never earned a dollar, -and I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to.”</p> - -<p id="p0742" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Tony says you’re going to be richer than -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling some day. She’s always bragging about -you, you know.”</p> - -<p id="p0743" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Tell me, how <em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">is</span></em> -Tony?”</p> - -<p id="p0744" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She’s fine. She works for -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener at the hotel now. She’s housekeeper. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s health is n’t what it was, -and she can’t see after everything like she used to. She has -great confidence in Tony. Tony’s made it up with the Harlings, -too. Little Nina is so fond of her that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling kind -of overlooked things.”</p> - -<p id="p0745" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Is she still going with Larry -Donovan?”</p> - -<p id="p0746" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, that’s on, worse than ever! I guess -they’re engaged. Tony talks about him like he was president of -the railroad. Everybody laughs about it, because she was never a girl -to be soft. She won’t hear a word against him. She’s so -sort of innocent.”</p> - -<p id="p0747" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I said I did n’t like Larry, and never -would.</p> - -<p id="p0748" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena’s face dimpled. “Some of us could -tell her things, but it would n’t do any good. She’d -always believe him. That’s Ántonia’s<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page304">[pg 304]</span><a name="Pg304" id="Pg304" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -failing, you know; if she once likes people, she won’t hear -anything against them.”</p> - -<p id="p0749" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I think I’d better go home and look -after Ántonia,” I said.</p> - -<p id="p0750" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I think you had.” Lena looked up at me -in frank amusement. “It’s a good thing the Harlings are -friendly with her again. Larry’s afraid of them. They ship so -much grain, they have influence with the railroad people. What are you -studying?” She leaned her elbows on the table and drew my book -toward her. I caught a faint odor of violet sachet. “So -that’s Latin, is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theater -sometimes, though, for I’ve seen you there. Don’t you just -love a good play, Jim? I can’t stay at home in the evening if -there’s one in town. I’d be willing to work like a slave, -it seems to me, to live in a place where there are theaters.”</p> - -<p id="p0751" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Let’s go to a show together sometime. -You are going to let me come to see you, are n’t you?”</p> - -<p id="p0752" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Would you like to? I’d be ever so -pleased. I’m never busy after six o’clock, and I let my -sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to save time, but -sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I’d be glad to cook one -for you.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page305">[pg 305]</span><a name="Pg305" id="Pg305" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Well,”—she began to put on her white gloves,—“it’s been awful good to see you, Jim.”</p> - -<p id="p0753" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You need n’t hurry, need you? -You’ve hardly told me anything yet.”</p> - -<p id="p0754" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“We can talk when you come to see me. I expect -you don’t often have lady visitors. The old woman downstairs did -n’t want to let me come up very much. I told her I was from your -home town, and had promised your grandmother to come and see you. How -surprised <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Burden would be!” Lena laughed -softly as she rose.</p> - -<p id="p0755" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I caught up my hat she shook her head. -“No, I don’t want you to go with me. I’m to meet -some Swedes at the drug-store. You would n’t care for them. I -wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but I must -tell her how I left you right here with your books. She’s always -so afraid some one will run off with you!” Lena slipped her silk -sleeves into the jacket I held for her, smoothed it over her person, -and buttoned it slowly. I walked with her to the door. “Come and -see me sometimes when you’re lonesome. But maybe you have all -the friends you want. Have you?” She turned her soft cheek to -me. “Have you?” she whispered<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page306">[pg 306]</span><a name="Pg306" id="Pg306" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -teasingly in my ear. In a moment I watched her fade down the dusky -stairway.</p> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p0756" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I turned back to my room the place seemed much -pleasanter than before. Lena had left something warm and friendly in -the lamplight. How I loved to hear her laugh again! It was so soft and -unexcited and appreciative—gave a favorable interpretation to -everything. When I closed my eyes I could hear them all laughing—the Danish laundry girls and the three Bohemian Marys. Lena -had brought them all back to me. It came over me, as it had never done -before, the relation between girls like those and the poetry of -Virgil. If there were no girls like them in the world, there would be -no poetry. I understood that clearly, for the first time. This -revelation seemed to me inestimably precious. I clung to it as if it -might suddenly vanish.</p> - -<p id="p0757" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about -Lena coming across the harvest field in her short skirt seemed to me -like the memory of an actual experience. It floated before me on the -page like a picture, and underneath it stood the mournful line: <span lang="la" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="la">Optima dies … prima -fugit.</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap3-03" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page307">[pg 307]</span><a name="Pg307" id="Pg307" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc86" id="toc86"></a> -<a name="pdf87" id="pdf87"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">III</span></h2> - -<p id="p0758" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">In</span></span> Lincoln the -best part of the theatrical season came late, when the good companies -stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long runs in New -York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see Joseph -Jefferson in “Rip Van Winkle,” and to a war play called -“Shenandoah.” She was inflexible about paying for her own -seat; said she was in business now, and she would n’t have a -schoolboy spending his money on her. I liked to watch a play with -Lena; everything was wonderful to her, and everything was true. It was -like going to revival meetings with some one who was always being -converted. She handed her feelings over to the actors with a kind of -fatalistic resignation. Accessories of costume and scene meant much -more to her than to me. She sat entranced through “Robin -Hood” and hung upon the lips of the contralto who sang, -“Oh, Promise Me!”</p> - -<p id="p0759" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I -watched anxiously in those days,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page308">[pg 308]</span><a name="Pg308" id="Pg308" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which two names -were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an -actress of whom I had often heard, and the name -“Camille.”</p> - -<p id="p0760" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday -evening, and we walked down to the theater. The weather was warm and -sultry and put us both in a holiday humor. We arrived early, because -Lena liked to watch the people come in. There was a note on the -programme, saying that the “incidental music” would be -from the opera “Traviata,” which was made from the same -story as the play. We had neither of us read the play, and we did not -know what it was about—though I seemed to remember having -heard it was a piece in which great actresses shone. “The Count -of Monte Cristo,” which I had seen James O’Neill play that -winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I knew. This play, I saw, was -by his son, and I expected a family resemblance. A couple of -jack-rabbits, run in off the prairie, could not have been more -innocent of what awaited them than were Lena and I.</p> - -<p id="p0761" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Our excitement began with the rise of the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page309">[pg 309]</span><a name="Pg309" id="Pg309" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -curtain, when the moody Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated -Nanine. Decidedly, there was a new tang about this dialogue. I had -never heard in the theater lines that were alive, that presupposed and -took for granted, like those which passed between Varville and -Marguerite in the brief encounter before her friends entered. This -introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most enchantingly gay -scene I had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne bottles -opened on the stage before—indeed, I had never seen them -opened anywhere. The memory of that supper makes me hungry now; the -sight of it then, when I had only a students’ boarding-house -dinner behind me, was delicate torment. I seem to remember gilded -chairs and tables (arranged hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and -stockings), linen of dazzling whiteness, glittering glass, silver -dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the reddest of roses. The room was -invaded by beautiful women and dashing young men, laughing and talking -together. The men were dressed more or less after the period in which -the play was written; the women were not. I saw no inconsistency. -Their talk seemed<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page310">[pg 310]</span><a name="Pg310" id="Pg310" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to open to one the brilliant world in which they lived; every sentence -made one older and wiser, every pleasantry enlarged one’s -horizon. One could experience excess and satiety without the -inconvenience of learning what to do with one’s hands in a -drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I missed some -of the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery. I strained -my ears and eyes to catch every exclamation.</p> - -<p id="p0762" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The actress who played Marguerite was even then -old-fashioned, though historic. She had been a member of Daly’s -famous New York company, and afterward a “star” under his -direction. She was a woman who could not be taught, it is said, though -she had a crude natural force which carried with people whose feelings -were accessible and whose taste was not squeamish. She was already -old, with a ravaged countenance and a physique curiously hard and -stiff. She moved with difficulty—I think she was lame—I seem to remember some story about a malady of the spine. Her Armand -was disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth, perplexed -in the extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly in her -power to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page311">[pg 311]</span><a name="Pg311" id="Pg311" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed her young, -ardent, reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish, avid of -pleasure. I wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted -Armand in the frilled shirt to convince her that there was still -loyalty and devotion in the world. Her sudden illness, when the gayety -was at its height, her pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against -her lips, the cough she smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept -playing the piano lightly—it all wrung my heart. But not so -much as her cynicism in the long dialogue with her lover which -followed. How far was I from questioning her unbelief! While the -charmingly sincere young man pleaded with her—accompanied by -the orchestra in the old “Traviata” duet, -<span lang="it" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="it">“misterioso, misterioso!”</span>—she maintained her bitter skepticism, and the curtain fell on -her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent -away with his flower.</p> - -<p id="p0763" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Between the acts we had no time to forget. The -orchestra kept sawing away at the “Traviata” music, so -joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so clap-trap and yet so -heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page312">[pg 312]</span><a name="Pg312" id="Pg312" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to -smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not -brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the -Junior dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena -was at least a woman, and I was a man.</p> - -<p id="p0764" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder -Duval, Lena wept unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the -closing of that chapter of idyllic love, dreading the return of the -young man whose ineffable happiness was only to be the measure of his -fall.</p> - -<p id="p0765" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I suppose no woman could have been further in person, -voice, and temperament from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the -veteran actress who first acquainted me with her. Her conception of -the character was as heavy and uncompromising as her diction; she bore -hard on the idea and on the consonants. At all times she was highly -tragic, devoured by remorse. Lightness of stress or behavior was far -from her. Her voice was heavy and deep: “Ar-r-r-mond!” she -would begin, as if she were summoning him to the bar of Judgment. But -the lines were enough. She had<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page313">[pg 313]</span><a name="Pg313" id="Pg313" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her.</p> - -<p id="p0766" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with -Varville had never been so glittering and reckless as on the night -when it gathered in Olympe’s salon for the fourth act. There -were chandeliers hung from the ceiling, I remember, many servants in -livery, gaming-tables where the men played with piles of gold, and a -staircase down which the guests made their entrance. After all the -others had gathered round the card tables, and young Duval had been -warned by Prudence, Marguerite descended the staircase with Varville; -such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels—and her face! One knew -at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the terrible words, -“Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!” flung the -gold and -bank-notes -at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside me and covered -her face with her hands.</p> - -<p id="p0767" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time -there was n’t a nerve in me that had n’t been twisted. -Nanine alone could have made me cry. I loved Nanine tenderly; and -Gaston, how one clung to that good<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page314">[pg 314]</span><a name="Pg314" id="Pg314" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -fellow! The New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could -be too much now. I wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my -breast-pocket, worn for elegance and not at all for use, was wet -through by the time that moribund woman sank for the last time into -the arms of her lover.</p> - -<p id="p0768" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When we reached the door of the theater, the streets -were shining with rain. I had prudently brought along -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling’s useful Commencement present, and I -took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I walked slowly -out into the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were -all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of -the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a -sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the -showery trees, mourning for Marguerite -Gauthier -as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, -which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night, -across long years and several languages, through the person of an -infirm old actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can -frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is put on, it is April.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap3-04" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page315">[pg 315]</span><a name="Pg315" id="Pg315" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc88" id="toc88"></a> -<a name="pdf89" id="pdf89"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">IV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0769" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">How</span></span> well I -remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: the -hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long -mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a -moment I was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to -my clothes after I went away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was -so easy-going; had none of the push and self-assertiveness that get -people ahead in business. She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, -with no introductions except to some cousins of <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Thomas who lived there, and she was already making clothes for the -women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great -natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what -people looked well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion -books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in her -work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite -blissful expression of countenance. I could n’t help thinking -that the years when Lena literally<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page316">[pg 316]</span><a name="Pg316" id="Pg316" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -had n’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to -do with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her -clients said that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her -habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by -the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on -materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at -six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her -awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to -say apologetically:—</p> - -<p id="p0770" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You’ll try to keep it under fifty for -me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too -young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more -with her than anybody else.”</p> - -<p id="p0771" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, that will be all right, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> -Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,” Lena -replied blandly.</p> - -<p id="p0772" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I thought her manner with her customers very good, -and wondered where she had learned such self-possession.</p> - -<p id="p0773" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used -to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, -with<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page317">[pg 317]</span><a name="Pg317" id="Pg317" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring -morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a -hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would -hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would -murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of -sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump.</p> - -<p id="p0774" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at -Lena’s. At the back of her long work-room was a bay-window, -large enough to hold a box-couch and a reading-table. We breakfasted -in this recess, after drawing the curtains that shut out the long -room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped garments on -the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table -shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear -altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince, -breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very -well until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to -practice, when Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. -Lena’s landlord, old Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and -at first she was not at all pleased.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page318">[pg 318]</span><a name="Pg318" id="Pg318" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have much -sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she -grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead -dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap -on his head—I had to take military drill at the University—and give him a yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His -gravity made us laugh immoderately.</p> - -<p id="p0775" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena’s talk always amused me. Ántonia -had never talked like the people about her. Even after she learned to -speak English readily there was always something impulsive and foreign -in her speech. But Lena had picked up all the conventional expressions -she heard at <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas’s dressmaking shop. Those -formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and the -flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became -very funny, very engaging, when they were uttered in Lena’s soft -voice, with her caressing intonation and arch naïveté. -Nothing could be more diverting than to hear Lena, who was almost as -candid as Nature, call a leg a “limb” or a house a -“home.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page319">[pg 319]</span><a name="Pg319" id="Pg319" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0776" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We used to linger a long while over our coffee in -that sunny corner. Lena was never so pretty as in the morning; she -wakened fresh with the world every day, and her eyes had a deeper -color then, like the blue flowers that are never so blue as when they -first open. I could sit idle all through a Sunday morning and look at -her. Ole Benson’s behavior was now no mystery to me.</p> - -<p id="p0777" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“There was never any harm in Ole,” she -said once. “People need n’t have troubled themselves. He -just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side and forget about his -bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company’s welcome when -you’re off with cattle all the time.”</p> - -<p id="p0778" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But was n’t he always glum?” I -asked. “People said he never talked at all.”</p> - -<p id="p0779" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He’d been -a sailor on an English boat and had seen lots of queer places. He had -wonderful tattoos. We used to sit and look at them for hours; there -was n’t much to look at out there. He was like a picture book. -He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, and on the other a -girl standing before a little house, with a fence and gate and all, -waiting for<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page320">[pg 320]</span><a name="Pg320" id="Pg320" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor had come back and was -kissing her. ‘The Sailor’s Return,’ he called -it.”</p> - -<p id="p0780" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a -pretty girl once in a while, with such a fright at home.</p> - -<p id="p0781" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You know,” Lena said confidentially, -“he married Mary because he thought she was strong-minded and -would keep him straight. He never could keep straight on shore. The -last time he landed in Liverpool he’d been out on a two -years’ voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he -had n’t a cent left, and his watch and compass were gone. -He’d got with some women, and they’d taken everything. He -worked his way to this country on a little passenger boat. Mary was a -stewardess, and she tried to convert him on the way over. He thought -she was just the one to keep him steady. Poor Ole! He used to bring me -candy from town, hidden in his feed-bag. He could n’t refuse -anything to a girl. He’d have given away his tattoos long ago, -if he could. He’s one of the people I’m sorriest -for.”</p> - -<p id="p0782" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">If I happened to spend an evening with Lena and -stayed late, the Polish violin-teacher<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page321">[pg 321]</span><a name="Pg321" id="Pg321" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -across the hall used to come out and watch me descend the stairs, -muttering so threateningly that it would have been easy to fall into a -quarrel with him. Lena had told him once that she liked to hear him -practice, so he always left his door open, and watched who came and -went.</p> - -<p id="p0783" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">There was a coolness between the Pole and -Lena’s landlord on her account. Old Colonel Raleigh had come to -Lincoln from Kentucky and invested an inherited fortune in real -estate, at the time of inflated prices. Now he sat day after day in -his office in the Raleigh Block, trying to discover where his money -had gone and how he could get some of it back. He was a widower, and -found very little congenial companionship in this casual Western city. -Lena’s good looks and gentle manners appealed to him. He said -her voice reminded him of Southern voices, and he found as many -opportunities of hearing it as possible. He painted and papered her -rooms for her that spring, and put in a porcelain bathtub in place of -the tin one that had satisfied the former tenant. While these repairs -were being made, the old gentleman often dropped in to consult -Lena’s preferences.<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page322">[pg 322]</span><a name="Pg322" id="Pg322" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -She told me with amusement how Ordinsky, the Pole, had presented -himself at her door one evening, and said that if the landlord was -annoying her by his attentions, he would promptly put a stop to it.</p> - -<p id="p0784" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t exactly know what to do about -him,” she said, shaking her head, “he’s so sort of -wild all the time. I would n’t like to have him say anything -rough to that nice old man. The Colonel is long-winded, but then I -expect he’s lonesome. I don’t think he cares much for -Ordinsky, either. He said once that if I had any complaints to make of -my neighbors, I must n’t hesitate.”</p> - -<p id="p0785" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One Saturday evening when I was having supper with -Lena we heard a knock at her parlor door, and there stood the Pole, -coatless, in a dress shirt and collar. Prince dropped on his paws and -began to growl like a mastiff, while the visitor apologized, saying -that he could not possibly come in thus attired, but he begged Lena to -lend him some safety pins.</p> - -<p id="p0786" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, you’ll have to come in, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Ordinsky, and let me see what’s the -matter.” She closed the door behind him. “Jim, won’t -you make Prince behave?”</p> - -<p id="p0787" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I rapped Prince on the nose, while<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page323">[pg 323]</span><a name="Pg323" id="Pg323" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Ordinsky explained that he had not had his dress clothes on for a long -time, and to-night, when he was going to play for a concert, his -waistcoat had split down the back. He thought he could pin it together -until he got it to a tailor.</p> - -<p id="p0788" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena took him by the elbow and turned him round. She -laughed when she saw the long gap in the satin. “You could never -pin that, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Ordinsky. You’ve kept it folded too -long, and the goods is all gone along the crease. Take it off. I can -put a new piece of lining-silk in there for you in ten minutes.” -She disappeared into her work-room with the vest, leaving me to -confront the Pole, who stood against the door like a wooden figure. He -folded his arms and glared at me with his excitable, slanting brown -eyes. His head was the shape of a chocolate drop, and was covered with -dry, straw-colored hair that fuzzed up about his pointed crown. He had -never done more than mutter at me as I passed him, and I was surprised -when he now addressed me.</p> - -<p id="p0789" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Miss Lingard,” he said haughtily, -“is a young woman for whom I have the utmost, the utmost -respect.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page324">[pg 324]</span><a name="Pg324" id="Pg324" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0790" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“So have I,” I said coldly.</p> - -<p id="p0791" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He paid no heed to my remark, but began to do rapid -finger-exercises on his shirt-sleeves, as he stood with tightly folded -arms.</p> - -<p id="p0792" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Kindness of heart,” he went on, staring -at the ceiling, “sentiment, are not understood in a place like -this. The noblest qualities are ridiculed. Grinning college boys, -ignorant and conceited, what do they know of delicacy!”</p> - -<p id="p0793" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I controlled my features and tried to speak -seriously.</p> - -<p id="p0794" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“If you mean me, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Ordinsky, I -have known Miss Lingard a long time, and I think I appreciate her -kindness. We come from the same town, and we grew up -together.”</p> - -<p id="p0795" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">His gaze traveled slowly down from the ceiling and -rested on me. “Am I to understand that you have this young -woman’s interests at heart? That you do not wish to compromise -her?”</p> - -<p id="p0796" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That’s a word we don’t use much -here, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Ordinsky. A girl who makes her own living can -ask a college boy to supper without being talked about. We take some -things for granted.”</p> - -<p id="p0797" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then I have misjudged you, and I ask<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page325">[pg 325]</span><a name="Pg325" id="Pg325" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -your pardon,”—he bowed gravely. “Miss -Lingard,” he went on, “is an absolutely trustful heart. -She has not learned the hard lessons of life. As for you and me, <span lang="fr" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="fr">noblesse oblige,</span>”—he -watched me narrowly.</p> - -<p id="p0798" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena returned with the vest. “Come in and let -us look at you as you go out, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Ordinsky. I’ve -never seen you in your dress suit,” she said as she opened the -door for him.</p> - -<p id="p0799" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">A few moments later he reappeared with his violin -case—a heavy muffler about his neck and thick woolen gloves on -his bony hands. Lena spoke encouragingly to him, and he went off with -such an important, professional air, that we fell to laughing as soon -as we had shut the door. “Poor fellow,” Lena said -indulgently, “he takes everything so hard.”</p> - -<p id="p0800" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After that Ordinsky was friendly to me, and behaved -as if there were some deep understanding between us. He wrote a -furious article, attacking the musical taste of the town, and asked me -to do him a great service by taking it to the editor of the morning -paper. If the editor refused to print it, I was to tell him that he -would be answerable to Ordinsky “in person.” He declared -that he would<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page326">[pg 326]</span><a name="Pg326" id="Pg326" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -never retract one word, and that he was quite prepared to lose all his -pupils. In spite of the fact that nobody ever mentioned his article to -him after it appeared—full of typographical errors which he -thought intentional—he got a certain satisfaction from -believing that the citizens of Lincoln had meekly accepted the epithet -“coarse barbarians.” “You see how it is,” he -said to me, “where there is no chivalry, there is no -<span lang="fr" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="fr">amour propre</span>.” When I met -him on his rounds now, I thought he carried his head more disdainfully -than ever, and strode up the steps of front porches and rang doorbells -with more assurance. He told Lena he would never forget how I had -stood by him when he was “under fire.”</p> - -<p id="p0801" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">All this time, of course, I was drifting. Lena had -broken up my serious mood. I was n’t interested in my classes. I -played with Lena and Prince, I played with the Pole, I went -buggy-riding with the old Colonel, who had taken a fancy to me and -used to talk to me about Lena and the “great beauties” he -had known in his youth. We were all three in love with Lena.</p> - -<p id="p0802" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Before the first of June, Gaston Cleric was offered -an instructorship at Harvard College,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page327">[pg 327]</span><a name="Pg327" id="Pg327" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and accepted it. He suggested that I should follow him in the fall, -and complete my course at Harvard. He had found out about Lena—not from me—and he talked to me seriously.</p> - -<p id="p0803" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You won’t do anything here now. You -should either quit school and go to work, or change your college and -begin again in earnest. You won’t recover yourself while you are -playing about with this handsome Norwegian. Yes, I’ve seen her -with you at the theater. She’s very pretty, and perfectly -irresponsible, I should judge.”</p> - -<p id="p0804" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cleric wrote my grandfather that he would like to -take me East with him. To my astonishment, grandfather replied that I -might go if I wished. I was both glad and sorry on the day when the -letter came. I stayed in my room all evening and thought things over; -I even tried to persuade myself that I was standing in Lena’s -way—it is so necessary to be a little noble!—and that -if she had not me to play with, she would probably marry and secure -her future.</p> - -<p id="p0805" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The next evening I went to call on Lena. I found her -propped up on the couch in her bay window, with her foot in a big -slipper. An<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page328">[pg 328]</span><a name="Pg328" id="Pg328" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -awkward little Russian girl whom she had taken into her work-room had -dropped a flat-iron on Lena’s toe. On the table beside her there -was a basket of early summer flowers which the Pole had left after he -heard of the accident. He always managed to know what went on in -Lena’s apartment.</p> - -<p id="p0806" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena was telling me some amusing piece of gossip -about one of her clients, when I interrupted her and picked up the -flower basket.</p> - -<p id="p0807" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“This old chap will be proposing to you some -day, Lena.”</p> - -<p id="p0808" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, he has—often!” she -murmured.</p> - -<p id="p0809" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“What! After you’ve refused -him?”</p> - -<p id="p0810" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He does n’t mind that. It seems to cheer -him to mention the subject. Old men are like that, you know. It makes -them feel important to think they’re in love with -somebody.”</p> - -<p id="p0811" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“The Colonel would marry you in a minute. I -hope you won’t marry some old fellow; not even a rich -one.”</p> - -<p id="p0812" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena shifted her pillows and looked up at me in -surprise. “Why, I’m not going to marry anybody. Did -n’t you know that?”</p> - -<p id="p0813" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Nonsense, Lena. That’s what girls say, -but you know better. Every handsome girl like you marries, of -course.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page329">[pg 329]</span><a name="Pg329" id="Pg329" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0814" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She shook her head. “Not me.”</p> - -<p id="p0815" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But why not? What makes you say that?” I -persisted.</p> - -<p id="p0816" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena laughed. “Well, it’s mainly because -I don’t want a husband. Men are all right for friends, but as -soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the -wild ones. They begin to tell you what’s sensible and -what’s foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I -prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to -nobody.”</p> - -<p id="p0817" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But you’ll be lonesome. You’ll get -tired of this sort of life, and you’ll want a family.”</p> - -<p id="p0818" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Not me. I like to be lonesome. When I went to -work for <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Thomas I was nineteen years old, and I had -never slept a night in my life when there were n’t three in the -bed. I never had a minute to myself except when I was off with the -cattle.”</p> - -<p id="p0819" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the -country at all, she dismissed it with a single remark, humorous or -mildly cynical. But to-night her mind seemed to dwell on those early -years. She told me she could n’t remember a time when she was so -little that she was n’t lugging a heavy baby about, helping to -wash for babies, trying to keep their<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page330">[pg 330]</span><a name="Pg330" id="Pg330" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -little chapped hands and faces clean. She remembered home as a place -where there were always too many children, a cross man, and work -piling up around a sick woman.</p> - -<p id="p0820" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It was n’t mother’s fault. She -would have made us comfortable if she could. But that was no life for -a girl! After I began to herd and milk I could never get the smell of -the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had I kept in a cracker box. -On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, then I could take a -bath if I was n’t too tired. I could make two trips to the -windmill to carry water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove. -While the water was heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the -cave, and take my bath in the kitchen. Then I could put on a clean -nightgown and get into bed with two others, who likely had n’t -had a bath unless I’d given it to them. You can’t tell me -anything about family life. I’ve had plenty to last -me.”</p> - -<p id="p0821" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“But it’s not all like that,” I -objected.</p> - -<p id="p0822" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Near enough. It’s all being under -somebody’s thumb. What’s on your mind, Jim? Are you afraid -I’ll want you to marry me some day?”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page331">[pg 331]</span><a name="Pg331" id="Pg331" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0823" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Then I told her I was going away.</p> - -<p id="p0824" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“What makes you want to go away, Jim? Have -n’t I been nice to you?”</p> - -<p id="p0825" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You’ve been just awfully good to me, -Lena,” I blurted. “I don’t think about much else. I -never shall think about much else while I’m with you. I’ll -never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that.” I -dropped down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have -forgotten all my reasonable explanations.</p> - -<p id="p0826" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in -her voice that had hurt me was not there when she spoke again.</p> - -<p id="p0827" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I ought n’t to have begun it, ought -I?” she murmured. “I ought n’t to have gone to see -you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve always been -a little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it into -my head, unless it was Ántonia, always telling me I must -n’t be up to any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a -long while, though, did n’t I?”</p> - -<p id="p0828" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that -Lena Lingard!</p> - -<p id="p0829" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, -renunciatory kiss. “You are n’t sorry<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page332">[pg 332]</span><a name="Pg332" id="Pg332" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so -natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart. -You were such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were -sadly and wisely sending one away forever.</p> - -<p id="p0830" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she -never tried to hinder me or hold me back. “You are going, but -you have n’t gone yet, have you?” she used to say.</p> - -<p id="p0831" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my -grandparents for a few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in -Virginia until I joined Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years -old.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="book4" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page335">[pg 335]</span><a name="Pg335" id="Pg335" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc90" id="toc90"></a> -<a name="pdf91" id="pdf91"></a> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Book IV—The Pioneer Woman’s Story</span></h1> -<p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"></p> - -<div id="chap4-01" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<a name="toc92" id="toc92"></a> -<a name="pdf93" id="pdf93"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">I</span></h2> - -<p id="p0832" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Two</span></span> years after I -left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I -entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the -night of my arrival <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling and Frances and Sally -came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My -grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married -now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black -Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly -believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided -all evening.</p> - -<p id="p0833" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I was walking home with Frances, after we had -left <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling at her gate, she said simply, -“You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.”</p> - -<p id="p0834" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that -now, I thought bitterly. I replied that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page336">[pg 336]</span><a name="Pg336" id="Pg336" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry -Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her, -and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.</p> - -<p id="p0835" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He never married her,” Frances said. -“I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at -home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the -baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled -down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.”</p> - -<p id="p0836" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was -bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an -object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always -foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much -respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like -it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the -world.</p> - -<p id="p0837" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of -Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try -her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, -brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as -she had allowed people to think, but with<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page337">[pg 337]</span><a name="Pg337" id="Pg337" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the -water-front -in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of -his empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors’ -lodging-house. This, every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if -she had begun by running a decent place, she could n’t keep it -up; all sailors’ boarding-houses were alike.</p> - -<p id="p0838" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I thought about it, I discovered that I had -never known Tiny as well as I knew the other girls. I remembered her -tripping briskly about the dining-room on her high heels, carrying a -big tray full of dishes, glancing rather pertly at the spruce -traveling men, and contemptuously at the scrubby ones—who were -so afraid of her that they did n’t dare to ask for two kinds of -pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, might be -afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat talking -about her on Frances Harling’s front porch, if we could have -known what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who -grew up together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page338">[pg 338]</span><a name="Pg338" id="Pg338" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to lead the most adventurous life and to achieve the most solid -worldly success.</p> - -<p id="p0839" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was -running her lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. -Miners and sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and -pouches of gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring -which nobody had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business -and set out for Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife -whom she had persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a -snowstorm, went in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the -Yukon in flatboats. They reached Circle City on the very day when some -Siwash Indians came into the settlement with the report that there had -been a rich gold strike farther up the river, on a certain Klondike -Creek. Two days later Tiny and her friends, and nearly every one else -in Circle City, started for the Klondike fields on the last steamer -that went up the Yukon before it froze for the winter. That boatload -of people founded Dawson City. Within a few weeks there were fifteen -hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page339">[pg 339]</span><a name="Pg339" id="Pg339" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -carpenter’s wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners -gave her a lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There -she sometimes fed a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on -snowshoes from their placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh -bread from her, and paid for it in gold.</p> - -<p id="p0840" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs -had been frozen one night in a storm when he was trying to find his -way back to his cabin. The poor fellow thought it great good fortune -to be cared for by a woman, and a woman who spoke his own tongue. When -he was told that his feet must be amputated, he said he hoped he would -not get well; what could a working-man do in this hard world without -feet? He did, in fact, die from the operation, but not before he had -deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel, -invested half her money in Dawson building lots, and with the rest she -developed her claim. She went off into the wilds and lived on it. She -bought other claims from discouraged miners, traded or sold them on -percentages.</p> - -<p id="p0841" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny -returned, with a considerable fortune,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page340">[pg 340]</span><a name="Pg340" id="Pg340" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. She was -a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in manner. -Curiously enough, she reminded me of <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Gardener, for -whom she had worked in Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some -of the desperate chances she had taken in the gold country, but the -thrill of them was quite gone. She said frankly that nothing -interested her much now but making money. The only two human beings of -whom she spoke with any feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who had given -her his claim, and Lena Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to San -Francisco and go into business there.</p> - -<p id="p0842" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Lincoln was never any place for her,” -Tiny remarked. “In a town of that size Lena would always be -gossiped about. Frisco’s the right field for her. She has a fine -class of trade. Oh, she’s just the same as she always was! -She’s careless, but she’s level-headed. She’s the -only person I know who never gets any older. It’s fine for me to -have her there; somebody who enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye -on me and won’t let me be shabby. When she thinks I need a new -dress,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page341">[pg 341]</span><a name="Pg341" id="Pg341" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -she makes it and sends it home—with a bill that’s long -enough, I can tell you!”</p> - -<p id="p0843" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on -Hunker Creek took toll from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a -sudden turn of weather, like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from -one of those pretty little feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in -pointed slippers and striped stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation -quite casually—did n’t seem sensitive about it. She was -satisfied with her success, but not elated. She was like some one in -whom the faculty of becoming interested is worn out.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap4-02" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page342">[pg 342]</span><a name="Pg342" id="Pg342" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc94" id="toc94"></a> -<a name="pdf95" id="pdf95"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">II</span></h2> - -<p id="p0844" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">Soon</span></span> after I got -home that summer I persuaded my grandparents to have their photographs -taken, and one morning I went into the photographer’s shop to -arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of his -developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses on -his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms -holding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a -heavy frame, one of those depressing “crayon enlargements” -often seen in farmhouse parlors, the subject being a round-eyed baby -in short dresses. The photographer came out and gave a constrained, -apologetic laugh.</p> - -<p id="p0845" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That’s Tony Shimerda’s baby. You -remember her; she used to be the -Harling’s -Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; would n’t -hear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in -for it Saturday.”</p> - -<p id="p0846" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I went away feeling that I must see Ántonia -again. Another girl would have kept<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page343">[pg 343]</span><a name="Pg343" id="Pg343" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture on -exhibition at the town photographer’s, in a great gilt frame. -How like her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she had n’t -thrown herself away on such a cheap sort of fellow.</p> - -<p id="p0847" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those -train-crew aristocrats who are always afraid that some one may ask -them to put up a car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a -menial service, silently point to the button that calls the porter. -Larry wore this air of official aloofness even on the street, where -there were no car-windows to compromise his dignity. At the end of his -run he stepped indifferently from the train along with the passengers, -his street hat on his head and his conductor’s cap in an -alligator-skin bag, went directly into the station and changed his -clothes. It was a matter of the utmost importance to him never to be -seen in his blue trousers away from his train. He was usually cold and -distant with men, but with all women he had a silent, grave -familiarity, a special handshake, accompanied by a significant, -deliberate look. He took women, married or single, into his<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page344">[pg 344]</span><a name="Pg344" id="Pg344" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -confidence; walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling them -what a mistake he had made by not entering the office branch of the -service, and how much better fitted he was to fill the post of General -Passenger Agent in Denver than the roughshod man who then bore that -title. His unappreciated worth was the tender secret Larry shared with -his sweethearts, and he was always able to make some foolish heart -ache over it.</p> - -<p id="p0848" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As I drew near home that morning, I saw -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling out in her yard, digging round her - -mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now no boy to help -her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhere on the -Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate—it was with a feeling -of pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked -the feel of it under my hand. I took the spade away from -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling, and while I loosened the earth around the -tree, she sat down on the steps and talked about the oriole family -that had a nest in its branches.</p> - -<p id="p0849" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling,” I said -presently, “I wish I could find out exactly how -Ántonia’s marriage fell through.”</p> - -<p id="p0850" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Why don’t you go out and see your<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page345">[pg 345]</span><a name="Pg345" id="Pg345" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -grandfather’s tenant, the Widow Steavens? She knows more about -it than anybody else. She helped Ántonia get ready to be -married, and she was there when Ántonia came back. She took -care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything. -Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkable -memory.”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap4-03" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page346">[pg 346]</span><a name="Pg346" id="Pg346" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc96" id="toc96"></a> -<a name="pdf97" id="pdf97"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">III</span></h2> - -<p id="p0851" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">On</span></span> the first or -second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out for the high -country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was over, and -here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of smoke from -the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now being -broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was -disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There -were wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little -orchards, and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented -women, and men who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The -windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another, had enriched -and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that had gone -into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility. The -changes seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching -the growth of a great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree -and sandbank and<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page347">[pg 347]</span><a name="Pg347" id="Pg347" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -rugged draw. I found that I remembered the conformation of the land as -one remembers the modeling of human faces.</p> - -<p id="p0852" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow -Steavens came out to meet me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, -and very strong. When I was little, her massive head had always seemed -to me like a Roman senator’s. I told her at once why I had -come.</p> - -<p id="p0853" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You’ll stay the night with us, Jimmy? -I’ll talk to you after supper. I can take more interest when my -work is off my mind. You’ve no prejudice against hot biscuit for -supper? Some have, these days.”</p> - -<p id="p0854" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster -squawking. I looked at my watch and sighed; it was three -o’clock, and I knew that I must eat him at six.</p> - -<p id="p0855" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After supper <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens and I went -upstairs to the old sitting-room, while her grave, silent brother -remained in the basement to read his farm papers. All the windows were -open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was -pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand -in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page348">[pg 348]</span><a name="Pg348" id="Pg348" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool -comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with -callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed -her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some -kind.</p> - -<p id="p0856" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia -you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person. -I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter.</p> - -<p id="p0857" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“When she came home to do her sewing that -summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every -day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’, -and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I -helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by -the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the -happiest thing in the world.</p> - -<p id="p0858" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘Ántonia,’ I used to say, -‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten -the day none that way.’</p> - -<p id="p0859" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then she’d laugh and slow down for a -little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again. -I never saw a girl<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page349">[pg 349]</span><a name="Pg349" id="Pg349" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely -table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her -nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and -pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda -knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just -how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought -silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always -coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her -real often, from the different towns along his run.</p> - -<p id="p0860" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“The first thing that troubled her was when he -wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to -live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said, -‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in -a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’ -She soon cheered up, though.</p> - -<p id="p0861" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“At last she got the letter telling her when to -come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this -room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted, -waiting; though she’d never let me see it.</p> - -<p id="p0862" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then there was a great time of packing. It<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page350">[pg 350]</span><a name="Pg350" id="Pg350" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, -with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me -say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought -her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her -station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check. -He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out, -and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room. -‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said, -‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</p> - -<p id="p0863" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and -her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here, -and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and -kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so -happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks -was all wet with rain.</p> - -<p id="p0864" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘You’re surely handsome enough for -any man,’ I said, looking her over.</p> - -<p id="p0865" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She laughed kind of flighty like, and -whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page351">[pg 351]</span><a name="Pg351" id="Pg351" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your -grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you. -This house had always been a refuge to her.</p> - -<p id="p0866" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she -got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be -married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he -married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The -next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and -happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky -with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match.</p> - -<p id="p0867" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“One night brother William came in and said -that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from -town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front -seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a -woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought ’t was -Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name ought -now to be.</p> - -<p id="p0868" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“The next morning I got brother to drive me -over. I can walk still, but my feet ain’t<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page352">[pg 352]</span><a name="Pg352" id="Pg352" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the -Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle -of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out -there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung -clothes, but she darted back into the house like she was loath to see -us. When I went in, Ántonia was standing over the tubs, just -finishing up a big washing. <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda was going about -her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n’t so much -as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to -me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she -drew away. ‘Don’t, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens,’ she -says, ‘you’ll make me cry, and I don’t want -to.’</p> - -<p id="p0869" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I whispered and asked her to come out of doors -with me. I knew she could n’t talk free before her mother. She -went out with me, bareheaded, and we walked up toward the garden.</p> - -<p id="p0870" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘I’m not married, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens,’ she says to me very quiet and -natural-like, ‘and I ought to be.’</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page353">[pg 353]</span><a name="Pg353" id="Pg353" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0871" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘Oh, my child,’ says I, -‘what’s happened to you? Don’t be afraid to tell -me!’</p> - -<p id="p0872" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of -the house. ‘He’s run away from me,’ she said. -‘I don’t know if he ever meant to marry me.’</p> - -<p id="p0873" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘You mean he’s thrown up his job -and quit the country?’ says I.</p> - -<p id="p0874" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘He did n’t have any job. -He’d been fired; blacklisted for knocking down fares. I did -n’t know. I thought he had n’t been treated right. He was -sick when I got there. He’d just come out of the hospital. He -lived with me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had -n’t really been hunting work at all. Then he just did n’t -come back. One nice fellow at the station told me, when I kept going -to look for him, to give it up. He said he was afraid Larry’d -gone bad and would n’t come back any more. I guess he’s -gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, collecting -half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was always -talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.’</p> - -<p id="p0875" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I asked her, of course, why she did n’t -insist on a civil marriage at once—that would<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page354">[pg 354]</span><a name="Pg354" id="Pg354" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on her hands, -poor child, and said, ‘I just don’t know, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens. I guess my patience was wore out, waiting -so long. I thought if he saw how well I could do for him, he’d -want to stay with me.’</p> - -<p id="p0876" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside -her and made lament. I cried like a young thing. I could n’t -help it. I was just about heart-broke. It was one of them lovely warm -May days, and the wind was blowing and the colts jumping around in the -pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. My Ántonia, that had -so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that Lena Lingard, -that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out so well, -and was coming home here every summer in her silks and her satins, and -doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit is due, but -you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference in the -principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that had -come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As -we went back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see -if they was drying well, and seemed<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page355">[pg 355]</span><a name="Pg355" id="Pg355" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -to take pride in their whiteness—she said she’d been -living in a brick block, where she did n’t have proper -conveniences to wash them.</p> - -<p id="p0877" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“The next time I saw Ántonia, she was -out in the fields ploughing corn. All that spring and summer she did -the work of a man on the farm; it seemed to be an understood thing. -Ambrosch did n’t get any other hand to help him. Poor Marek had -got violent and been sent away to an institution a good while back. We -never even saw any of Tony’s pretty dresses. She did n’t -take them out of her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected -her industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. They -talked, to be sure; but not like they would if she’d put on -airs. She was so crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to -humble her. She never went anywhere. All that summer she never once -came to see me. At first I was hurt, but I got to feel that it was -because this house reminded her of too much. I went over there when I -could, but the times when she was in from the fields were the times -when I was busiest here. She talked about the grain and the weather as -if she’d<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page356">[pg 356]</span><a name="Pg356" id="Pg356" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -never had another interest, and if I went over at night she always -looked dead weary. She was afflicted with toothache; one tooth after -another ulcerated, and she went about with her face swollen half the -time. She would n’t go to Black Hawk to a dentist for fear of -meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spell long -ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let -Ántonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, ‘If -you put that in her head, you better stay home.’ And after that -I did.</p> - -<p id="p0878" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Ántonia worked on through harvest and -thrashing, though she was too modest to go out thrashing for the -neighbors, like when she was young and free. I did n’t see much -of her until late that fall when she begun to herd Ambrosch’s -cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big -dog town. -Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and I -would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty -cattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or -she would n’t have brought them so far.</p> - -<p id="p0879" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be -alone. While the steers grazed, she used to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page357">[pg 357]</span><a name="Pg357" id="Pg357" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun herself for hours. -Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she had n’t gone -too far.</p> - -<p id="p0880" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘It does seem like I ought to make lace, -or knit like Lena used to,’ she said one day, ‘but if I -start to work, I look around and forget to go on. It seems such a -little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all over this -country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father used -to stand. Sometimes I feel like I’m not going to live very long, -so I’m just enjoying every day of this fall.’</p> - -<p id="p0881" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“After the winter begun she wore a man’s -long overcoat and boots, and a man’s felt hat with a wide brim. -I used to watch her coming and going, and I could see that her steps -were getting heavier. One day in December, the snow began to fall. -Late in the afternoon I saw Ántonia driving her cattle homeward -across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to face -it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. ‘Deary -me,’ I says to myself, ‘the girl’s stayed out too -late. It’ll be dark before she gets them cattle put into the -corral.’ I seemed to sense<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page358">[pg 358]</span><a name="Pg358" id="Pg358" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -she’d been feeling too miserable to get up and drive them.</p> - -<p id="p0882" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That very night, it happened. She got her -cattle home, turned them into the corral, and went into the house, -into her room behind the kitchen, and shut the door. There, without -calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay down on the bed and bore -her child.</p> - -<p id="p0883" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I was lifting supper when old -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda came running down the basement stairs, out -of breath and screeching:—</p> - -<p id="p0884" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘Baby come, baby come!’ she says. -‘Ambrosch much like devil!’</p> - -<p id="p0885" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Brother William is surely a patient man. He -was just ready to sit down to a hot supper after a long day in the -fields. Without a word he rose and went down to the barn and hooked up -his team. He got us over there as quick as it was humanly possible. I -went right in, and began to do for Ántonia; but she laid there -with her eyes shut and took no account of me. The old woman got a -tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked what she was doing -and I said out loud:—</p> - -<p id="p0886" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda, don’t -you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. You’ll blister -its little skin.’ I was indignant.</p> - -<a name="fig98" id="fig98"></a><div class="tei tei-figure" style="text-align: center"><img src="images/image09.png" width="640" height="839" alt="Illustration: Ántonia driving her cattle home" /></div> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page359">[pg 359]</span><a name="Pg359" id="Pg359" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0887" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens,’ -Ántonia said from the bed, ‘if you’ll look in the -top tray of my trunk, you’ll see some fine soap.’ That was -the first word she spoke.</p> - -<p id="p0888" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“After I’d dressed the baby, I took it -out to show it to Ambrosch. He was muttering behind the stove and -would n’t look at it.</p> - -<p id="p0889" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘You’d better put it out in the -rain barrel,’ he says.</p> - -<p id="p0890" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“‘Now, see here, Ambrosch,’ says I, -‘there’s a law in this land, don’t forget that. I -stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world sound and -strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.’ I pride -myself I cowed him.</p> - -<p id="p0891" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well, I expect you’re not much -interested in babies, but Ántonia’s got on fine. She -loved it from the first as dearly as if she’d had a ring on her -finger, and was never ashamed of it. It’s a year and eight -months old now, and no baby was ever better cared-for. Ántonia -is a natural-born mother. I wish she could marry and raise a family, -but I don’t know as there’s much chance now.”</p> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p0892" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I slept that night in the room I used to have when I -was a little boy, with the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page360">[pg 360]</span><a name="Pg360" id="Pg360" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the ripe -fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn -and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark -shadow against the blue sky.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap4-04" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page361">[pg 361]</span><a name="Pg361" id="Pg361" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc99" id="toc99"></a> -<a name="pdf100" id="pdf100"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">IV</span></h2> - -<p id="p0893" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">The</span></span> next afternoon -I walked over to the Shimerdas’. Yulka showed me the baby and -told me that Ántonia was shocking wheat on the southwest -quarter. I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long -way off. She stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, -watching me as I came. We met like the people in the old song, in -silence, if not in tears. Her warm hand clasped mine.</p> - -<p id="p0894" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I thought you’d come, Jim. I heard you -were at <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens’s last night. I’ve been -looking for you all day.”</p> - -<p id="p0895" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, -as <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Steavens said, “worked down,” but -there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her -color still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor. Still? -Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in her life -and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old.</p> - -<p id="p0896" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and -instinctively we walked toward that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page362">[pg 362]</span><a name="Pg362" id="Pg362" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to -talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that -shut <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the -world. The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down -in winter and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and -shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her -everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into the law -office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; about -Gaston Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the -difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends -and my way of living, and my dearest hopes.</p> - -<p id="p0897" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Of course it means you are going away from us -for good,” she said with a sigh. “But that don’t -mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead -all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody -else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all -the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I -understand him.”</p> - -<p id="p0898" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She asked me whether I had learned to like big -cities. “I’d always be miserable in a<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page363">[pg 363]</span><a name="Pg363" id="Pg363" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every -stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live -and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world -for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going -to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had. -I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.”</p> - -<p id="p0899" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I told her I knew she would. “Do you know, -Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often -than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked -to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a -part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, -hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part -of me.”</p> - -<p id="p0900" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the -tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you -know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so? -Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other? -I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t -wait till my little girl’s old enough to<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page364">[pg 364]</span><a name="Pg364" id="Pg364" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always -remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I -guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest -people.”</p> - -<p id="p0901" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun -dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it -hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale -silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. -For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each -other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world. -In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every -sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high -and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand -up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that -comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little -boy again, and that my way could end there.</p> - -<p id="p0902" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We reached the edge of the field, where our ways -parted. I took her hands and held them against my breast, feeling once -more how strong and warm and good they were, those<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page365">[pg 365]</span><a name="Pg365" id="Pg365" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -brown hands, and remembering how many kind things they had done for -me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it was -growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her face, -which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, -under all the shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my -memory.</p> - -<p id="p0903" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I’ll come back,” I said earnestly, -through the soft, intrusive darkness.</p> - -<p id="p0904" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Perhaps you will”—I felt rather -than saw her smile. “But even if you don’t, you’re -here, like my father. So I won’t be lonesome.”</p> - -<p id="p0905" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could -almost believe that a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows -used to do, laughing and whispering to each other in the grass.</p> -</div> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="book5" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page369">[pg 369]</span><a name="Pg369" id="Pg369" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc101" id="toc101"></a> -<a name="pdf102" id="pdf102"></a> -<h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Book V—Cuzak’s Boys</span></h1> -<p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"></p> - -<div id="chap5-01" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<a name="toc103" id="toc103"></a> -<a name="pdf104" id="pdf104"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">I</span></h2> - -<p id="p0906" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">I told</span></span> -Ántonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was -twenty years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to -time; that she married, very soon after I last saw her, a young -Bohemian, a cousin of Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a -large family. Once when I was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from -Prague I sent Ántonia some photographs of her native village. -Months afterward came a letter from her, telling me the names and ages -of her many children, but little else; signed, “Your old friend, -Ántonia Cuzak.” When I met Tiny Soderball in Salt Lake, -she told me that Ántonia had not “done very well”; -that her husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard -life. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business -took me West several times every year, and it was always in the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page370">[pg 370]</span><a name="Pg370" id="Pg370" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -back of my mind that I would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see -Ántonia. But I kept putting it off until the next trip. I did -not want to find her aged and broken; I really dreaded it. In the -course of twenty crowded years one parts with many illusions. I did -not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are realities, and are -better than anything that can ever happen to one again.</p> - -<p id="p0907" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see -Ántonia at last. I was in San Francisco two summers ago when -both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. Tiny lives in a house of -her own, and Lena’s shop is in an apartment house just around -the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the two -women together. Tiny audits Lena’s accounts occasionally, and -invests her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny -does n’t grow too miserly. “If there’s anything I -can’t stand,” she said to me in Tiny’s presence, -“it’s a shabby rich woman.” Tiny smiled grimly and -assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. “And -I don’t want to be,” the other agreed complacently.</p> - -<p id="p0908" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Lena gave me a cheerful account of Ántonia and -urged me to make her a visit.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page371">[pg 371]</span><a name="Pg371" id="Pg371" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0909" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such -a satisfaction to her. Never mind what Tiny says. There’s -nothing the matter with Cuzak. You’d like him. He is n’t a -hustler, but a rough man would never have suited Tony. Tony has nice -children—ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. I should -n’t care for a family of that size myself, but somehow -it’s just right for Tony. She’d love to show them to -you.”</p> - -<p id="p0910" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in -Nebraska, and set off with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team -to find the Cuzak farm. At a little past midday, I knew I must be -nearing my destination. Set back on a swell of land at my right, I saw -a wide farmhouse, with a red barn and an ash grove, and cattle yards -in front that sloped down to the high road. I drew up my horses and -was wondering whether I should drive in here, when I heard low voices. -Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the road, I saw two boys bending -over a dead dog. The little one, not more than four or five, was on -his knees, his hands folded, and his close-clipped, bare head drooping -forward in deep dejection. The other stood beside him, a hand on his<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page372">[pg 372]</span><a name="Pg372" id="Pg372" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -shoulder, and was comforting him in a language I had not heard for a -long while. When I stopped my horses opposite them, the older boy took -his brother by the hand and came toward me. He, too, looked grave. -This was evidently a sad afternoon for them.</p> - -<p id="p0911" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Are you <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cuzak’s -boys?” I asked.</p> - -<p id="p0912" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in -his own feelings, but his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes. -“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p id="p0913" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Does she live up there on the hill? I am going -to see her. Get in and ride up with me.”</p> - -<p id="p0914" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He glanced at his reluctant little brother. “I -guess we’d better walk. But we’ll open the gate for -you.”</p> - -<p id="p0915" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly -behind. When I pulled up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and -curly-headed, ran out of the barn to tie my team for me. He was a -handsome one, this chap, fair-skinned and freckled, with red cheeks -and a ruddy pelt as thick as a lamb’s wool, growing down on his -neck in little tufts. He tied my team with two flourishes of his -hands, and nodded when I asked him if his mother was at home. As he -glanced at me, his<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page373">[pg 373]</span><a name="Pg373" id="Pg373" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -face dimpled with a seizure of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up -the windmill tower with a lightness that struck me as disdainful. I -knew he was peering down at me as I walked toward the house.</p> - -<p id="p0916" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White -cats were sunning themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. -I looked through the wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a -white floor. I saw a long table, rows of wooden chairs against the -wall, and a shining range in one corner. Two girls were washing dishes -at the sink, laughing and chattering, and a little one, in a short -pinafore, sat on a stool playing with a rag baby. When I asked for -their mother, one of the girls dropped her towel, ran across the floor -with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. The older one, who wore -shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me. She was a buxom -girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed.</p> - -<p id="p0917" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Won’t you come in? Mother will be here -in a minute.”</p> - -<p id="p0918" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, -the miracle happened; one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page374">[pg 374]</span><a name="Pg374" id="Pg374" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -and take more courage than the noisy, excited passages in life. -Ántonia came in and stood before me; a stalwart, brown woman, -flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little grizzled. It was a shock, -of course. It always is, to meet people after long years, especially -if they have lived as much and as hard as this woman had. We stood -looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously at me were—simply Ántonia’s eyes. I had seen no others like -them since I looked into them last, though I had looked at so many -thousands of human faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less -apparent to me, her identity stronger. She was there, in the full -vigor of her personality, battered but not diminished, looking at me, -speaking to me in the husky, breathy voice I remembered so well.</p> - -<p id="p0919" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“My husband’s not at home, sir. Can I do -anything?”</p> - -<p id="p0920" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Don’t you remember me, Ántonia? -Have I changed so much?”</p> - -<p id="p0921" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her -brown hair look redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her -whole face seemed to grow broader. She caught her breath and put out -two hard-worked hands.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page375">[pg 375]</span><a name="Pg375" id="Pg375" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0922" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Why, it’s Jim! Anna, Yulka, it’s -Jim Burden!” She had no sooner caught my hands than she looked -alarmed. “What’s happened? Is anybody dead?”</p> - -<p id="p0923" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I patted her arm. “No. I did n’t come to -a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings and drove down to -see you and your family.”</p> - -<p id="p0924" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She dropped my hand and began rushing about. -“Anton, Yulka, Nina, where are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for -the boys. They’re off looking for that dog, somewhere. And call -Leo. Where is that Leo!” She pulled them out of corners and came -bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her kittens. “You -don’t have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy’s not here. -He’s gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won’t -let you go! You’ve got to stay and see Rudolph and our -papa.” She looked at me imploringly, panting with excitement.</p> - -<p id="p0925" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While I reassured her and told her there would be -plenty of time, the barefooted boys from outside were slipping into -the kitchen and gathering about her.</p> - -<p id="p0926" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, tell me their names, and how old they -are.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page376">[pg 376]</span><a name="Pg376" id="Pg376" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0927" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As she told them off in turn, she made several -mistakes about ages, and they roared with laughter. When she came to -my light-footed friend of the windmill, she said, “This is Leo, -and he’s old enough to be better than he is.”</p> - -<p id="p0928" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his -curly head, like a little ram, but his voice was quite desperate. -“You’ve forgot! You always forget mine. It’s mean! -Please tell him, mother!” He clenched his fists in vexation and -looked up at her impetuously.</p> - -<p id="p0929" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and -pulled it, watching him. “Well, how old are you?”</p> - -<p id="p0930" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I’m twelve,” he panted, looking -not at me but at her; “I’m twelve years old, and I was -born on Easter day!”</p> - -<p id="p0931" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She nodded to me. “It’s true. He was an -Easter baby.”</p> - -<p id="p0932" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The children all looked at me, as if they expected me -to exhibit astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they -were proud of each other, and of being so many. When they had all been -introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter, who had met me at the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page377">[pg 377]</span><a name="Pg377" id="Pg377" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -door, scattered them gently, and came bringing a white apron which she -tied round her mother’s waist.</p> - -<p id="p0933" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, mother, sit down and talk to -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden. We’ll finish the dishes quietly and not -disturb you.”</p> - -<p id="p0934" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia looked about, quite distracted. -“Yes, child, but why don’t we take him into the parlor, -now that we’ve got a nice parlor for company?”</p> - -<p id="p0935" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat -from me. “Well, you’re here, now, mother, and if you talk -here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You can show him the parlor after -while.” She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her -sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom -step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up, -looking out at us expectantly.</p> - -<p id="p0936" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,” -Ántonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like -Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I -love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, -like as if they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what -I want to say, you’ve got me<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page378">[pg 378]</span><a name="Pg378" id="Pg378" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I -don’t often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to -speak real well.” She said they always spoke Bohemian at home. -The little ones could not speak English at all—did n’t -learn it until they went to school.</p> - -<p id="p0937" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I can’t believe it’s you, sitting -here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t have known me, would you, -Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a -man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I -married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many -left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much -work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got -plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got, -Jim?”</p> - -<p id="p0938" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When I told her I had no children she seemed -embarrassed. “Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take -one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.” -She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the -best,” she whispered.</p> - -<p id="p0939" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Mother!” the two girls murmured -reproachfully from the dishes.</p> - -<p id="p0940" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia threw up her head and laughed. -“I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page379">[pg 379]</span><a name="Pg379" id="Pg379" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And -he’s never out of mischief one minute!”</p> - -<p id="p0941" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it -mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women -who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow -has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the -fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of -flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away.</p> - -<p id="p0942" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While we were talking, the little boy whom they -called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the -hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a -smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his -head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful -gray eyes.</p> - -<p id="p0943" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. -They found it dead,” Anna said, as she passed us on her way to -the cupboard.</p> - -<p id="p0944" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by -her chair, leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron -strings in his slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page380">[pg 380]</span><a name="Pg380" id="Pg380" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His -mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and in a whisper promised -him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped -away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to her and -talking behind his hand.</p> - -<p id="p0945" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, -she came and stood behind her mother’s chair. “Why -don’t we show <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden our new fruit cave?” -she asked.</p> - -<p id="p0946" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We started off across the yard with the children at -our heels. The boys were standing by the windmill, talking about the -dog; some of them ran ahead to open the cellar door. When we -descended, they all came down after us, and seemed quite as proud of -the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who -had directed me down by the plum bushes, called my attention to the -stout brick walls and the cement floor. “Yes, it is a good way -from the house,” he admitted. “But, you see, in winter -there are nearly always some of us around to come out and get -things.”</p> - -<p id="p0947" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one -full of dill pickles, one full of<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page381">[pg 381]</span><a name="Pg381" id="Pg381" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds.</p> - -<p id="p0948" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You would n’t believe, Jim, what it -takes to feed them all!” their mother exclaimed. “You -ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and Saturdays! It’s -no wonder their poor papa can’t get rich, he has to buy so much -sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for flour,—but then there’s that much less to sell.”</p> - -<p id="p0949" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept -shyly pointing out to me the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, -but glancing at me, traced on the glass with their finger-tips the -outline of the cherries and strawberries and crab-apples within, -trying by a blissful expression of countenance to give me some idea of -their deliciousness.</p> - -<p id="p0950" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans -don’t have those,” said one of the older boys. -“Mother uses them to make -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">kolaches,</span>” he added.</p> - -<p id="p0951" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark -in Bohemian.</p> - -<p id="p0952" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I turned to him. “You think I don’t know -what <span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">kolaches</span> are, eh? -You’re mistaken, young man. I’ve eaten your mother’s<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page382">[pg 382]</span><a name="Pg382" id="Pg382" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">kolaches</span> long before that -Easter day when you were born.”</p> - -<p id="p0953" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Always too fresh, Leo,” Ambrosch -remarked with a shrug.</p> - -<p id="p0954" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me.</p> - -<p id="p0955" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We turned to leave the cave; Ántonia and I -went up the stairs first, and the children waited. We were standing -outside talking, when they all came running up the steps together, big -and little, tow heads and gold heads and brown, and flashing little -naked legs; a veritable explosion of life out of the dark cave into -the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment.</p> - -<p id="p0956" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which -I had n’t yet seen; in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes -by the back door. The roof was so steep that the eaves were not much -above the forest of tall hollyhocks, now brown and in seed. Through -July, Ántonia said, the house was buried in them; the -Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front yard was -enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two silvery, -moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down over -the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page383">[pg 383]</span><a name="Pg383" id="Pg383" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch of -stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer.</p> - -<p id="p0957" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At some distance behind the house were an ash grove -and two orchards; a cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes -between the rows, and an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from -the hot winds. The older children turned back when we reached the -hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie crept through it by a hole known -only to themselves and hid under the low-branching mulberry bushes.</p> - -<p id="p0958" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in -tall bluegrass, Ántonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree -and another. “I love them as if they were people,” she -said, rubbing her hand over the bark. “There was n’t a -tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to carry -water for them, too—after we’d been working in the -fields all day. Anton, he was a city man, and he used to get -discouraged. But I could n’t feel so tired that I would -n’t fret about these trees when there was a dry time. They were -on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep I’ve -got up and come out and carried water to the poor things. And now, you -see,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page384">[pg 384]</span><a name="Pg384" id="Pg384" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -we have the good of them. My man worked in the orange groves in -Florida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain’t one of our -neighbors has an orchard that bears like ours.”</p> - -<p id="p0959" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">In the middle of the orchard we came upon a -grape-arbor, with seats built along the sides and a warped plank -table. The three children were waiting for us there. They looked up at -me bashfully and made some request of their mother.</p> - -<p id="p0960" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“They want me to tell you how the teacher has -the school picnic here every year. These don’t go to school yet, -so they think it’s all like the picnic.”</p> - -<p id="p0961" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the -youngsters ran away to an open place where there was a rough jungle of -French pinks, and squatted down among them, crawling about and -measuring with a string. “Jan wants to bury his dog -there,” Ántonia explained. “I had to tell him he -could. He’s kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she -used to take little things? He has funny notions, like her.”</p> - -<p id="p0962" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We sat down and watched them. Ántonia leaned -her elbows on the table. There was the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page385">[pg 385]</span><a name="Pg385" id="Pg385" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple -enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the -mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to -the protecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could -see nothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the -windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape -leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell -the ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick -as beads on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. -Some hens and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at -the fallen apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray -bodies, their heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers -which grew close and full, changing to blue like a peacock’s -neck. Ántonia said they always reminded her of soldiers—some uniform she had seen in the old country, when she was a child.</p> - -<p id="p0963" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Are there any quail left now?” I asked. -I reminded her how she used to go hunting with me the last summer -before we moved to town. “You were n’t a bad shot, Tony. Do<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page386">[pg 386]</span><a name="Pg386" id="Pg386" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -you remember how you used to want to run away and go for ducks with -Charley Harling and me?”</p> - -<p id="p0964" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I know, but I’m afraid to look at a gun -now.” She picked up one of the drakes and ruffled his green -capote with her fingers. “Ever since I’ve had children, I -don’t like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to wring -an old goose’s neck. Ain’t that strange, Jim?”</p> - -<p id="p0965" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I don’t know. The young Queen of Italy -said the same thing once, to a friend of mine. She used to be a great -huntswoman, but now she feels as you do, and only shoots clay -pigeons.”</p> - -<p id="p0966" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then I’m sure she’s a good -mother,” Ántonia said warmly.</p> - -<p id="p0967" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She told me how she and her husband had come out to -this new country when the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy -payments. The first ten years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew -very little about farming and often grew discouraged. -“We’d never have got through if I had n’t been so -strong. I’ve always had good health, thank God, and I was able -to help him in the fields until right up to the time before my babies<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page387">[pg 387]</span><a name="Pg387" id="Pg387" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -came. Our children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, -the one you saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she -trained Anna to be just like her. My Martha’s married now, and -has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim!</p> - -<p id="p0968" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a -good man, and I loved my children and always believed they would turn -out well. I belong on a farm. I’m never lonesome here like I -used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used to have, when -I did n’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had -them out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t -have to put up with sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand -and looked down through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing -more and more golden.</p> - -<p id="p0969" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You ought never to have gone to town, -Tony,” I said, wondering at her.</p> - -<p id="p0970" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">She turned to me eagerly. “Oh, I’m glad I -went! I’d never have known anything about cooking or -housekeeping if I had n’t. I learned nice ways at the -Harlings’, and I’ve been able to bring my children up so -much better. Don’t you think they are pretty well-behaved for -country children? If it had n’t been for<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page388">[pg 388]</span><a name="Pg388" id="Pg388" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -what <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Harling taught me, I expect I’d have -brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance -to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have -to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm -of anybody I loved.”</p> - -<p id="p0971" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that -she could keep me for the night. “We’ve plenty of room. -Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but -there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and -Ambrosch goes along to look after him.”</p> - -<p id="p0972" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with -the boys.</p> - -<p id="p0973" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You can do just as you want to. The chest is -full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my -girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper -myself.”</p> - -<p id="p0974" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and -Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I -joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead -and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, -“I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big -bull-snake.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page389">[pg 389]</span><a name="Pg389" id="Pg389" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0975" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I walked between the two older boys—straight, -well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about -their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the -harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were -easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the -family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, -and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after -all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the -sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my -right, over the close-cropped grass.</p> - -<p id="p0976" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her -from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had -them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad -to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about -anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice -that made me wish I had given more occasion for it.</p> - -<p id="p0977" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother, -you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful -girl.”</p> - -<p id="p0978" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, we know!” They both spoke<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page390">[pg 390]</span><a name="Pg390" id="Pg390" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary -to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The -Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.”</p> - -<p id="p0979" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does -n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and -pretty.”</p> - -<p id="p0980" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly. -“She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch added. “Not -much older than you.”</p> - -<p id="p0981" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Well,” I said, “if you were -n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the -whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were -inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who -looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother -once, and I know there’s nobody like her.”</p> - -<p id="p0982" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. -“She never told us that,” said Anton. “But -she’s always talked lots about you, and about what good times -you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the -Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up -to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he -likes to be smart.”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page391">[pg 391]</span><a name="Pg391" id="Pg391" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0983" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the -barn, and the boys milked them while night came on. Everything was as -it should be: the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, -the clear blue and gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the -milk into the pails, the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over -their supper. I began to feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at -evening, when the chores seem everlastingly the same, and the world so -far away.</p> - -<p id="p0984" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of -restless heads in the lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly -upon Ántonia as she sat at the head of the table, filling the -plates and starting the dishes on their way. The children were seated -according to a system; a little one next an older one, who was to -watch over his behavior and to see that he got his food. Anna and -Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh plates of <span lang="cs" class="tei tei-foreign" xml:lang="cs">kolaches</span> and pitchers of milk.</p> - -<p id="p0985" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka -and Leo could play for me. Ántonia went first, carrying the -lamp. There were not nearly chairs enough to go round, so the younger -children sat down on the bare<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page392">[pg 392]</span><a name="Pg392" id="Pg392" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -floor. Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a -parlor carpet if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a -good deal of fussing, got out his violin. It was old <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> -Shimerda’s instrument, which Ántonia had always kept, and -it was too big for him. But he played very well for a self-taught boy. -Poor Yulka’s efforts were not so successful. While they were -playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into the middle -of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the boards with -her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and when she -was through she stole back and sat down by her brother.</p> - -<p id="p0986" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned -and wrinkled up his face. He seemed to be trying to pout, but his -attempt only brought out dimples in unusual places. After twisting and -screwing the keys, he played some Bohemian airs, without the organ to -hold him back, and that went better. The boy was so restless that I -had not had a chance to look at his face before. My first impression -was right; he really was faun-like. He had n’t much head behind -his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the back of his<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page393">[pg 393]</span><a name="Pg393" id="Pg393" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the other -boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive to -the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put -together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were -broken, teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull -would stand for, or how sharp the new axe was.</p> - -<p id="p0987" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After the concert was over Ántonia brought out -a big boxful of photographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes, -holding hands; her brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a -farm of her own, and who bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; -the three Bohemian Marys and their large families.</p> - -<p id="p0988" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You would n’t believe how steady those -girls have turned out,” Ántonia remarked. “Mary -Svoboda’s the best butter-maker in all this country, and a fine -manager. Her children will have a grand chance.”</p> - -<p id="p0989" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As Ántonia turned over the pictures the young -Cuzaks stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder with -interested faces. Nina and Jan, after trying to see round the taller -ones, quietly brought a chair, climbed up on it, and stood close -together, looking. The<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page394">[pg 394]</span><a name="Pg394" id="Pg394" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -little boy forgot his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar -faces came into view. In the group about Ántonia I was -conscious of a kind of physical harmony. They leaned this way and -that, and were not afraid to touch each other. They contemplated the -photographs with pleased recognition; looked at some admiringly, as if -these characters in their mother’s girlhood had been remarkable -people. The little children, who could not speak English, murmured -comments to each other in their rich old language.</p> - -<p id="p0990" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia held out a photograph of Lena that had -come from San Francisco last Christmas. “Does she still look -like that? She has n’t been home for six years now.” Yes, -it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, a trifle too -plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy eyes, and -the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of her -mouth.</p> - -<p id="p0991" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">There was a picture of Frances Harling in a -be-frogged riding costume that I remembered well. “Is n’t -she fine!” the girls murmured. They all assented. One could see -that Frances had come down as a heroine in the family legend. Only Leo -was unmoved.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page395">[pg 395]</span><a name="Pg395" id="Pg395" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p0992" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“And there’s <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Harling, in -his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, was n’t he, -mother?”</p> - -<p id="p0993" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He was n’t any Rockefeller,” put -in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which reminded me of the way in -which <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Shimerda had once said that my grandfather -“was n’t Jesus.” His habitual skepticism was like a -direct inheritance from that old woman.</p> - -<p id="p0994" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“None of your smart speeches,” said -Ambrosch severely.</p> - -<p id="p0995" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a -moment later broke into a giggle at a tintype of two men, -uncomfortably seated, with an awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes -standing between them; Jake and Otto and I! We had it taken, I -remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the first Fourth of July I -spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake’s grin again, and -Otto’s ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about -them.</p> - -<p id="p0996" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“He made grandfather’s coffin, did -n’t he?” Anton asked.</p> - -<p id="p0997" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Was n’t they good fellows, Jim?” -Ántonia’s eyes filled. “To this day I’m -ashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy and -impertinent to him, Leo, like you<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page396">[pg 396]</span><a name="Pg396" id="Pg396" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -are with people sometimes, and I wish somebody had made me -behave.”</p> - -<p id="p0998" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“We are n’t through with you, yet,” -they warned me. They produced a photograph taken just before I went -away to college; a tall youth in striped trousers and a straw hat, -trying to look easy and jaunty.</p> - -<p id="p0999" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Tell us, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden,” said -Charley, “about the rattler you killed at the -dog town. -How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes she says -five.”</p> - -<p id="p1000" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">These children seemed to be upon very much the same -terms with Ántonia as the Harling children had been so many -years before. They seemed to feel the same pride in her, and to look -to her for stories and entertainment as we used to do.</p> - -<p id="p1001" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It was eleven o’clock when I at last took my -bag and some blankets and started for the barn with the boys. Their -mother came to the door with us, and we tarried for a moment to look -out at the white slope of the corral and the two ponds asleep in the -moonlight, and the long sweep of the pasture under the star-sprinkled -sky.</p> - -<p id="p1002" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The boys told me to choose my own place in the -haymow, and I lay down before a big<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page397">[pg 397]</span><a name="Pg397" id="Pg397" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the stars. -Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, and -lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and -tumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, -they were still. There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland -slumber.</p> - -<p id="p1003" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving -moon passed my window on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about -Ántonia and her children; about Anna’s solicitude for -her, Ambrosch’s grave affection, Leo’s jealous, animal -little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out of the cave -into the light, was a sight any man might have come far to see. -Ántonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that -did not fade—that grew stronger with time. In my memory there -was a succession of such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts -of one’s first primer: Ántonia kicking her bare legs -against the sides of my pony when we came home in triumph with our -snake; Ántonia in her black shawl and fur cap, as she stood by -her father’s grave in the snowstorm; Ántonia coming in -with her work-team along the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page398">[pg 398]</span><a name="Pg398" id="Pg398" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which -we recognize by instinct as universal and true. I had not been -mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; but she -still had that something which fires the imagination, could still stop -one’s breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow -revealed the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the -orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the -apples, to make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and -harvesting at last. All the strong things of her heart came out in her -body, that had been so tireless in serving generous emotions.</p> - -<p id="p1004" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and -straight. She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early -races.</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap5-02" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page399">[pg 399]</span><a name="Pg399" id="Pg399" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc105" id="toc105"></a> -<a name="pdf106" id="pdf106"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">II</span></h2> - -<p id="p1005" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">When</span></span> I awoke in -the morning long bands of sunshine were coming in at the window and -reaching back under the eaves where the two boys lay. Leo was wide -awake and was tickling his brother’s leg with a dried -cone-flower he had pulled out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and -turned over. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on -his back, elevated one foot, and began exercising his toes. He picked -up dried flowers with his toes and brandished them in the belt of -sunlight. After he had amused himself thus for some time, he rose on -one elbow and began to look at me, cautiously, then critically, -blinking his eyes in the light. His expression was droll; it dismissed -me lightly. “This old fellow is no different from other people. -He does n’t know my secret.” He seemed conscious of -possessing a keener power of enjoyment than other people; his quick -recognitions made him frantically impatient of deliberate judgments. -He always knew what he wanted without thinking.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page400">[pg 400]</span><a name="Pg400" id="Pg400" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p1006" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold -water at the windmill. Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen, -and Yulka was baking griddle-cakes. The three older boys set off for -the fields early. Leo and Yulka were to drive to town to meet their -father, who would return from Wilber on the noon train.</p> - -<p id="p1007" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“We’ll only have a lunch at noon,” -Ántonia said, “and cook the geese for supper, when our -papa will be here. I wish my Martha could come down to see you. They -have a Ford car now, and she don’t seem so far away from me as -she used to. But her husband’s crazy about his farm and about -having everything just right, and they almost never get away except on -Sundays. He’s a handsome boy, and he’ll be rich some day. -Everything he takes hold of turns out well. When they bring that baby -in here, and unwrap him, he looks like a little prince; Martha takes -care of him so beautiful. I’m reconciled to her being away from -me now, but at first I cried like I was putting her into her -coffin.”</p> - -<p id="p1008" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who -was pouring cream into the churn. She looked up at me. “Yes, she -did. We were just ashamed of mother. She went round<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page401">[pg 401]</span><a name="Pg401" id="Pg401" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -crying, when Martha was so happy, and the rest of us were all glad. -Joe certainly was patient with you, mother.”</p> - -<p id="p1009" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Ántonia nodded and smiled at herself. “I -know it was silly, but I could n’t help it. I wanted her right -here. She’d never been away from me a night since she was born. -If Anton had made trouble about her when she was a baby, or wanted me -to leave her with my mother, I would n’t have married him. I -could n’t. But he always loved her like she was his -own.”</p> - -<p id="p1010" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“I did n’t even know Martha was n’t -my full sister until after she was engaged to Joe,” Anna told -me.</p> - -<p id="p1011" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Toward the middle of the afternoon the wagon drove -in, with the father and the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard, -and as I went out to meet them, Ántonia came running down from -the house and hugged the two men as if they had been away for -months.</p> - -<p id="p1012" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Papa” interested me, from my first -glimpse of him. He was shorter than his older sons; a crumpled little -man, with run-over boot heels, and he carried one shoulder higher than -the other. But he moved very quickly, and there was an air of jaunty -liveliness about him. He<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page402">[pg 402]</span><a name="Pg402" id="Pg402" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -had a strong, ruddy color, thick black hair, a little grizzled, a -curly mustache, and red lips. His smile showed the strong teeth of -which his wife was so proud, and as he saw me his lively, quizzical -eyes told me that he knew all about me. He looked like a humorous -philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder under the burdens of life, -and gone on his way having a good time when he could. He advanced to -meet me and gave me a hard hand, burned red on the back and heavily -coated with hair. He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick and hot for -the weather, an unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie with big -white dots, like a little boy’s, tied in a flowing bow. Cuzak -began at once to talk about his holiday—from politeness he -spoke in English.</p> - -<p id="p1013" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the -slack-wire in the street at night. They throw a bright light on her -and she float through the air something beautiful, like a bird! They -have a dancing bear, like in the old country, and two three -merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and what you call the big -wheel, Rudolph?”</p> - -<p id="p1014" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“A Ferris wheel,” Rudolph entered the<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page403">[pg 403]</span><a name="Pg403" id="Pg403" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -conversation in a deep baritone voice. He was six foot two, and had a -chest like a young blacksmith. “We went to the big dance in the -hall behind the saloon last night, mother, and I danced with all the -girls, and so did father. I never saw so many pretty girls. It was a -Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n’t hear a word of English on the -street, except from the show people, did we, papa?”</p> - -<p id="p1015" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cuzak nodded. “And very many send word to you, -Ántonia. You will excuse”—turning to me—“if I tell her.” While we walked toward the house he -related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke -fluently, and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their -relations had become—or remained. The two seemed to be on -terms of easy friendliness, touched with humor. Clearly, she was the -impulse, and he the corrective. As they went up the hill he kept -glancing at her sidewise, to see whether she got his point, or how she -received it. I noticed later that he always looked at people sidewise, -as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even when he sat opposite me in -the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a little toward the clock -or the stove and look at me from<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page404">[pg 404]</span><a name="Pg404" id="Pg404" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -the side, but with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not -suggest duplicity or secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the -horse.</p> - -<p id="p1016" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for -Ántonia’s collection, and several paper bags of candy for -the children. He looked a little disappointed when his wife showed him -a big box of candy I had got in Denver—she had n’t let -the children touch it the night before. He put his candy away in the -cupboard, “for when she rains,” and glanced at the box, -chuckling. “I guess you must have hear about how my family -ain’t so small,” he said.</p> - -<p id="p1017" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his -women-folk and the little children with equal amusement. He thought -they were nice, and he thought they were funny, evidently. He had been -off dancing with the girls and forgetting that he was an old fellow, -and now his family rather surprised him; he seemed to think it a joke -that all these children should belong to him. As the younger ones -slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of his -pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page405">[pg 405]</span><a name="Pg405" id="Pg405" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, -whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as -not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me, -“This one is bashful. He gets left.”</p> - -<p id="p1018" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated -Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news, -much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name -Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and -presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria -Vasak.</p> - -<p id="p1019" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“You know? You have heard, maybe?” he -asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he -pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg, -climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her -engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in -London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk -the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend -her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about -her looks,<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page406">[pg 406]</span><a name="Pg406" id="Pg406" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether -I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much -money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would -n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. -As a young man, working in -Wienn, -he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one -glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice, -that.”</p> - -<p id="p1020" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the -long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were -put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and -Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way. -When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me.</p> - -<p id="p1021" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Have you been to Black Hawk lately, -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the -Cutters?”</p> - -<p id="p1022" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">No, I had heard nothing at all about them.</p> - -<p id="p1023" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Then you must tell him, son, though it’s -a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be -quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.”</p> - -<p id="p1024" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Hurrah! The murder!” the children -murmured, looking pleased and interested.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page407">[pg 407]</span><a name="Pg407" id="Pg407" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p1025" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Rudolph told his story in great detail, with -occasional promptings from his mother or father.</p> - -<p id="p1026" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the -house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew -so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up, -Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey, -for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. -<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had -known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking -palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her -hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor -woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about -the ultimate disposition of their “property.” A new law -was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her -husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by -the fear that <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter would live longer than he, and -that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so -violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the -boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by -whoever wished to loiter and listen.</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page408">[pg 408]</span><a name="Pg408" id="Pg408" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p1027" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the -hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a -dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old -cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted -Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.)</p> - -<p id="p1028" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a -target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six -o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter -house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They -paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot -came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and -found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his -throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside -his head.</p> - -<p id="p1029" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly. -“I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I -have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make -your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.”</p> - -<p id="p1030" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">One of the neighbors telephoned for a<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page409">[pg 409]</span><a name="Pg409" id="Pg409" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -doctor, while the others went into <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter’s -room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot -through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking -her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast. -Her nightgown was burned from the powder.</p> - -<p id="p1031" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He -opened his eyes and said distinctly, “<span class="tei tei-abbr">Mrs.</span> Cutter -is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in -order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.”</p> - -<p id="p1032" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five -o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his -wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as -he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at six o’clock and -would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in the hope -that passers-by might come in and see him “before life was -extinct,” as he wrote.</p> - -<p id="p1033" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Now, would you have thought that man had such -a cruel heart?” Ántonia turned to me after the story was -told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any comfort she might -have from his money after he was gone!”</p> - -<p id="p1034" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Did you ever hear of anybody else that<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page410">[pg 410]</span><a name="Pg410" id="Pg410" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -killed himself for spite, <span class="tei tei-abbr">Mr.</span> Burden?” asked -Rudolph.</p> - -<p id="p1035" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns -over and over how strong a motive hate can be, but in my collection of -legal anecdotes I had nothing to match this one. When I asked how much -the estate amounted to, Rudolph said it was a little over a hundred -thousand dollars.</p> - -<p id="p1036" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. -“The lawyers, they got a good deal of it, sure,” he said -merrily.</p> - -<p id="p1037" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune -that had been scraped together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter -himself had died for in the end!</p> - -<p id="p1038" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard -and sat down by the windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it -were my business to know it.</p> - -<p id="p1039" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and -he, being a younger son, was apprenticed to the latter’s trade. -You never got anywhere working for your relatives, he said, so when he -was a journeyman he went to Vienna and worked in a big fur shop, -earning good money. But a young fellow who liked a<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page411">[pg 411]</span><a name="Pg411" id="Pg411" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -good time did n’t save anything in Vienna; there were too many -pleasant ways of spending every night what he’d made in the day. -After three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and -went to work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering -big wages. The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a -few hundred dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise -oranges. He had always thought he would like to raise oranges! The -second year a hard frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with -malaria. He came to Nebraska to visit his cousin, Anton Jelinek, and -to look about. When he began to look about, he saw Ántonia, and -she was exactly the kind of girl he had always been hunting for. They -were married at once, though he had to borrow money from his cousin to -buy the wedding-ring.</p> - -<p id="p1040" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“It was a pretty hard job, breaking up this -place and making the first crops grow,” he said, pushing back -his hat and scratching his grizzled hair. “Sometimes I git awful -sore on this place and want to quit, but my wife she always say we -better stick it out. The babies come along pretty fast, so it look -like it be hard to move, anyhow. I guess she was<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page412">[pg 412]</span><a name="Pg412" id="Pg412" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -right, all right. We got this place clear now. We pay only twenty -dollars an acre then, and I been offered a hundred. We bought another -quarter ten years ago, and we got it most paid for. We got plenty -boys; we can work a lot of land. Yes, she is a good wife for a poor -man. She ain’t always so strict with me, neither. Sometimes -maybe I drink a little too much beer in town, and when I come home she -don’t say nothing. She don’t ask me no questions. We -always get along fine, her and me, like at first. The children -don’t make trouble between us, like sometimes happens.” He -lit another pipe and pulled on it contentedly.</p> - -<p id="p1041" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I found Cuzak a most companionable fellow. He asked -me a great many questions about my trip through Bohemia, about Vienna -and the Ringstrasse and the theaters.</p> - -<p id="p1042" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Gee! I like to go back there once, when the -boys is big enough to farm the place. Sometimes when I read the papers -from the old country, I pretty near run away,” he confessed with -a little laugh. “I never did think how I would be a settled man -like this.”</p> - -<p id="p1043" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He was still, as Ántonia said, a city man. He -liked theaters and lighted streets and music and a game of dominoes -after the day’s<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page413">[pg 413]</span><a name="Pg413" id="Pg413" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -work was over. His sociability was stronger than his acquisitive -instinct. He liked to live day by day and night by night, sharing in -the excitement of the crowd.—Yet his wife had managed to hold -him here on a farm, in one of the loneliest countries in the world.</p> - -<p id="p1044" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I could see the little chap, sitting here every -evening by the windmill, nursing his pipe and listening to the -silence; the wheeze of the pump, the grunting of the pigs, an -occasional squawking when the hens were disturbed by a rat. It did -rather seem to me that Cuzak had been made the instrument of -Ántonia’s special mission. This was a fine life, -certainly, but it was n’t the kind of life he had wanted to -live. I wondered whether the life that was right for one was ever -right for two!</p> - -<p id="p1045" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I asked Cuzak if he did n’t find it hard to do -without the gay company he had always been used to. He knocked out his -pipe against an upright, sighed, and dropped it into his pocket.</p> - -<p id="p1046" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“At first I near go crazy with -lonesomeness,” he said frankly, “but my woman is got such -a warm heart. She always make it as good for me as she could. Now it -ain’t so bad; I can begin to have some fun with my boys, -already!”</p> - -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page414">[pg 414]</span><a name="Pg414" id="Pg414" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> - -<p id="p1047" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As we walked toward the house, Cuzak cocked his hat -jauntily over one ear and looked up at the moon. “Gee!” he -said in a hushed voice, as if he had just wakened up, “it -don’t seem like I am away from there twenty-six year!”</p> -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div id="chap5-03" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> -<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page415">[pg 415]</span><a name="Pg415" id="Pg415" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -<a name="toc107" id="toc107"></a> -<a name="pdf108" id="pdf108"></a> -<h2 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 2.88em; margin-top: 2.88em"><span style="font-size: 144%">III</span></h2> - -<p id="p1048" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span class="tei tei-hi"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">After</span></span> dinner the -next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to take the train -for Black Hawk. Ántonia and her children gathered round my -buggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with -friendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When -I reached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still -there by the windmill. Ántonia was waving her apron.</p> - -<p id="p1049" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, -resting his arm on the wheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and -ran off into the pasture.</p> - -<p id="p1050" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“That’s like him,” his brother said -with a shrug. “He’s a crazy kid. Maybe he’s sorry to -have you go, and maybe he’s jealous. He’s jealous of -anybody mother makes a fuss over, even the priest.”</p> - -<p id="p1051" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant -voice and his fine head and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood -there without<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page416">[pg 416]</span><a name="Pg416" id="Pg416" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -a hat, the wind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and -shoulders.</p> - -<p id="p1052" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Don’t forget that you and Rudolph are -going hunting with me up on the Niobrara next summer,” I said. -“Your father’s agreed to let you off after -harvest.”</p> - -<p id="p1053" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He smiled. “I won’t likely forget. -I’ve never had such a nice thing offered to me before. I -don’t know what makes you so nice to us boys,” he added, -blushing.</p> - -<p id="p1054" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">“Oh, yes you do!” I said, gathering up my -reins.</p> - -<p id="p1055" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with -unabashed pleasure and affection as I drove away.</p> - -<div class="tei tei-tb"> </div> - -<p id="p1056" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my -old friends were dead or had moved away. Strange children, who meant -nothing to me, were playing in the Harlings’ big yard when I -passed; the mountain ash had been cut down, and only a sprouting stump -was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that used to guard the gate. I -hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with Anton Jelinek, under -a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his saloon. While I was -having my mid-day<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page417">[pg 417]</span><a name="Pg417" id="Pg417" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -dinner at the hotel, I met one of the old lawyers who was still in -practice, and he took me up to his office and talked over the Cutter -case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how to put in the time until -the night express was due.</p> - -<p id="p1057" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">I took a long walk north of the town, out into the -pastures where the land was so rough that it had never been ploughed -up, and the long red grass of early times still grew shaggy over the -draws and hillocks. Out there I felt at home again. Overhead the sky -was that indescribable blue of autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as -enamel. To the south I could see the dun-shaded river bluffs that used -to look so big to me, and all about stretched drying cornfields, of -the pale-gold color I remembered so well. Russian thistles were -blowing across the uplands and piling against the wire fences like -barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of golden-rod were -already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold threads in it. I -had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over little towns, -and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to take with -the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water. There -were enough Cuzaks to play with for<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page418">[pg 418]</span><a name="Pg418" id="Pg418" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -a long while yet. Even after the boys grew up, there would always be -Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along a few miles of lighted streets -with Cuzak.</p> - -<p id="p1058" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the -good luck to stumble upon a bit of the first road that went from Black -Hawk out to the north country; to my grandfather’s farm, then on -to the Shimerdas’ and to the Norwegian settlement. Everywhere -else it had been ploughed under when the highways were surveyed; this -half-mile or so within the pasture fence was all that was left of that -old road which used to run like a wild thing across the open prairie, -clinging to the high places and circling and doubling like a rabbit -before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had almost disappeared—were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would not have -noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was easy to -find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed them so -deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like gashes -torn by a grizzly’s claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons -used to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling<span class="tei tei-pb" id="page419">[pg 419]</span><a name="Pg419" id="Pg419" class="tei tei-anchor"></a> -muscles on the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the -haystacks turn rosy in the slanting sunlight.</p> - -<p id="p1059" class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">This was the road over which Ántonia and I -came on that night when we got off the train at Black Hawk and were -bedded down in the straw, wondering children, being taken we knew not -whither. I had only to close my eyes to hear the rumbling of the -wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by that obliterating -strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near that I could -reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of coming home -to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man’s -experience is. For Ántonia and for me, this had been the road -of Destiny; had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which -predetermined for us all that we can ever be. Now I understood that -the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, -we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.</p> - -<p class="tei tei-p" style="text-align: center; margin-bottom: 1.00em"><span style="font-variant: small-caps">The End</span></p> -</div> -</div> - -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-back" style="margin-bottom: 2.00em; margin-top: 6.00em"> -<div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> - - - - <div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"> - <h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Footnotes</span></h1> - <dl class="tei tei-list-footnotes"><dt class="tei tei-notelabel"><a id="note_1" name="note_1" href="#noteref_1">1.</a></dt><dd class="tei tei-notetext"><p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">The Bohemian -name <span class="tei tei-title"><span style="font-style: italic">Ántonia</span></span> is strongly accented on the -first syllable, like the English name <em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">Anthony</span></em>, -and the <em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">i</span></em> is, of course, given the sound of long -<em class="tei tei-emph"><span style="font-style: italic">e</span></em>. The name is pronounced Anʹ-ton-ee-ah.</p></dd></dl> - </div> - - -</div> - -<hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 5.00em; margin-top: 5.00em"> -<div id="pgfooter" class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 4.00em; margin-top: 4.00em"><pre class="pre tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 3.00em; margin-top: 3.00em">***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ÁNTONIA*** -</pre><hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 3.00em; margin-top: 3.00em"><a name="rightpageheader109" id="rightpageheader109"></a><a name="pgtoc110" id="pgtoc110"></a><a name="pdf111" id="pdf111"></a><h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">Credits</span></h1><table summary="This is a list." class="tei tei-list" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-top: 1.00em"><tbody><tr><th class="tei tei-label tei-label-gloss">November 14, 2006 </th></tr><tr><td class="tei tei-item tei-item-gloss"><table summary="This is a list." class="tei tei-list" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-top: 1.00em"><tbody><tr class="tei tei-labelitem"><th class="tei tei-label"></th><td class="tei tei-item">LibraryCity Trusted Edition</td></tr><tr class="tei tei-labelitem"><th class="tei tei-label"></th><td class="tei tei-item"><span class="tei tei-respStmt"> - <span class="tei tei-name">Jon Noring<br /></span> - <span class="tei tei-name">Lori Watrous-de Versterre<br /></span> - <span class="tei tei-name">José Menéndez</span> - </span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table summary="This is a list." class="tei tei-list" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-top: 1.00em"><tbody><tr><th class="tei tei-label tei-label-gloss">November 14, 2006 </th></tr><tr><td class="tei tei-item tei-item-gloss"><table summary="This is a list." class="tei tei-list" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em; margin-top: 1.00em"><tbody><tr class="tei tei-labelitem"><th class="tei tei-label"></th><td class="tei tei-item">Conversion to PGTEI v0.4</td></tr><tr class="tei tei-labelitem"><th class="tei tei-label"></th><td class="tei tei-item"><span class="tei tei-respStmt"> - <span class="tei tei-name">Joshua Hutchinson</span> - </span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></div><hr class="doublepage" /><div class="tei tei-div" style="margin-bottom: 3.00em; margin-top: 3.00em"><a name="rightpageheader112" id="rightpageheader112"></a><a name="pgtoc113" id="pgtoc113"></a><a name="pdf114" id="pdf114"></a><h1 class="tei tei-head" style="text-align: left; margin-bottom: 3.46em; margin-top: 3.46em"><span style="font-size: 173%">A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h1><p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">This file should be named - 19810-h.html or - 19810-h.zip.</p><p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">This and all associated files of various formats will be found - in: - - <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/8/1/19810/" class="block tei tei-xref" style="margin-bottom: 1.80em; margin-left: 3.60em; margin-top: 1.80em; margin-right: 3.60em"><span style="font-size: 90%">http://www.gutenberg.org</span><span style="font-size: 90%">/dirs/1/9/8/1/19810/</span></a></p><p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Updated editions will replace the previous one — the old - editions will be renamed.</p><p class="tei tei-p" style="margin-bottom: 1.00em">Creating the works from public domain print editions means that - no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the - Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United - States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. - Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this - license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works - to protect the Project Gutenberg™ concept and trademark. 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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of My Ántonia by Willa Cather
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-online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license
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-Title: My Ántonia
-
-Author: Willa Cather
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-Release Date: November 14, 2006 [Ebook #19810]
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- <date>1918</date>
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- <docTitle><titlePart type="main" rend="font-size: x-large">My Ántonia</titlePart><lb /><lb /></docTitle>
- <byline>By <docAuthor>Willa Sibert Cather</docAuthor><lb /><lb /></byline>
-
- <epigraph><p>Optima dies … prima fugit<lb />
- Virgil</p></epigraph>
-
- <byline>with illustrations by<lb />
- W. T. Benda<lb /><lb /></byline>
-
-<figure url="images/image01.png" rend="w50">
-<figDesc>Illustration: The Riverside Press</figDesc>
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-Houghton Mifflin Companys<lb />
-The Riverside Press Cambridge<lb /><lb /></docImprint>
-<docDate>1918</docDate>
-</titlePage>
-
-<div rend="page-break-before: right" type="dedication">
-<p rend="text-align: center">To<lb />
-Carrie and Irene Miner</p>
-
-<p rend="text-align: center; font-style: italic">In memory of affections old and true</p>
-</div>
-
-<div rend="page-break-before: right">
-<head>Contents</head>
-<divGen type="toc" />
-</div>
-
-<div rend="page-break-before: right">
-<head>Illustrations</head>
-<divGen type="fig" />
-</div>
-
-<div type="introduction" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<pb n="ix" /><anchor id="Pgix" />
-<head>Introduction</head>
-
-<p id="p0001"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Last</hi> summer I
-happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of intense
-heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion
-James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the
-West. He and I are old friends—we grew up together in the same
-Nebraska town—and we had much to say to each other. While the
-train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country
-towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun,
-we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch
-and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning
-wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is
-like to spend one’s childhood in little towns like these, buried
-in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning
-summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky,
-when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of
-strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow,
-when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We
-agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town<pb n="x" /><anchor id="Pgx" />
-could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we
-said.</p>
-
-<p id="p0002">Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and
-are old friends, I do not see much of him there. He is legal counsel
-for one of the great Western railways, and is sometimes away from his
-New York office for weeks together. That is one reason why we do not
-often meet. Another is that I do not like his wife.</p>
-
-<p id="p0003">When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer,
-struggling to make his way in New York, his career was suddenly
-advanced by a brilliant marriage. Genevieve Whitney was the only
-daughter of a distinguished man. Her marriage with young Burden was
-the subject of sharp comment at the time. It was said she had been
-brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, and that she married
-this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She was a restless,
-headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her friends. Later,
-when I knew her, she was always doing something unexpected. She gave
-one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, produced one of
-her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for picketing
-during a garment-makers’ strike, <abbr>etc.</abbr> I am never
-able to believe that she has much feeling for the causes to which she
-lends her name and her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic,<pb n="xi" /><anchor id="Pgxi" />
-executive, but to me she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally
-incapable of enthusiasm. Her husband’s quiet tastes irritate
-her, I think, and she finds it worth while to play the patroness to a
-group of young poets and painters of advanced ideas and mediocre
-ability. She has her own fortune and lives her own life. For some
-reason, she wishes to remain <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> James Burden.</p>
-
-<p id="p0004">As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe
-enough to chill his naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This
-disposition, though it often made him seem very funny when he was a
-boy, has been one of the strongest elements in his success. He loves
-with a personal passion the great country through which his railway
-runs and branches. His faith in it and his knowledge of it have played
-an important part in its development. He is always able to raise
-capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or Montana, and has helped
-young men out there to do remarkable things in mines and timber and
-oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim Burden’s
-attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the wilds
-hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money which
-means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose himself
-in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets new
-people and new enterprises<pb n="xii" /><anchor id="Pgxii" />
-with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood friends remember him. He
-never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color and sandy hair and
-quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and his
-sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is
-Western and American.</p>
-
-<p id="p0005">During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa,
-our talk kept returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we
-had known long ago and whom both of us admired. More than any other
-person we remembered, this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the
-conditions, the whole adventure of our childhood. To speak her name
-was to call up pictures of people and places, to set a quiet drama
-going in one’s brain. I had lost sight of her altogether, but
-Jim had found her again after long years, had renewed a friendship
-that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy life had set apart
-time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full of her that
-day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all my old
-affection for her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0006">“I can’t see,” he said impetuously,
-“why you have never written anything about
-Ántonia.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0007">I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one—knew her much better than I. I was
-ready, however, to make an agreement with him; I would set down on
-paper all<pb n="xiii" /><anchor id="Pgxiii" />
-that I remembered of Ántonia if he would do the same. We might,
-in this way, get a picture of her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0008">He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture,
-which with him often announces a new determination, and I could see
-that my suggestion took hold of him. “Maybe I will, maybe I
-will!” he declared. He stared out of the window for a few
-moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden
-clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. “Of
-course,” he said, “I should have to do it in a direct way,
-and say a great deal about myself. It’s through myself that I
-knew and felt her, and I’ve had no practice in any other form of
-presentation.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0009">I told him that how he knew her and felt her was
-exactly what I most wanted to know about Ántonia. He had had
-opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go,
-had not.</p>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p0010">Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment
-one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered
-under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him
-and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands.</p>
-
-<p id="p0011">“I finished it last night—the thing
-about Ántonia,” he said. “Now, what about yours?”</p>
-
-<pb n="xiv" /><anchor id="Pgxiv" />
-
-<p id="p0012">I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few
-straggling notes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0013">“Notes? I did n’t make any.” He
-drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. “I did n’t
-arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself
-and other people Ántonia’s name recalls to me. I suppose
-it has n’t any form. It has n’t any title, either.”
-He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the
-pinkish face of the portfolio the word, “Ántonia.”
-He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it
-“My Ántonia.” That seemed to satisfy him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0014">“Read it as soon as you can,” he said,
-rising, “but don’t let it influence your own
-story.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0015">My own story was never written, but the following
-narrative is Jim’s manuscript, substantially as he brought it to
-me.</p>
-</div>
-</front>
-
-<body>
-<div rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="003" /><anchor id="Pg003" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>Book I— The Shimerdas</head>
-<p></p>
-
-<div id="chap1-01">
-<head>I</head>
-
-<p id="p0016"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">I first</hi> heard of
-Ántonia<note place="foot"><p>The Bohemian
-name <title rend="font-style: italic">Ántonia</title> is strongly accented on the
-first syllable, like the English name <emph>Anthony</emph>,
-and the <emph>i</emph> is, of course, given the sound of long
-<emph>e</emph>. The name is pronounced Anʹ-ton-ee-ah.</p></note>
-on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland
-plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my
-father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were
-sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I traveled
-in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the
-“hands” on my father’s old farm under the Blue
-Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake’s
-experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never
-been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to
-try our fortunes in a new world.</p>
-
-<pb n="004" /><anchor id="Pg004" />
-
-<p id="p0017">We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more
-sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought
-everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar
-buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a “Life of Jesse
-James,” which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I
-have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a
-friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which
-we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our
-confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had
-been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the
-names of distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and
-badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his
-cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more
-inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he
-told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from
-“across the water” whose destination was the same as
-ours.</p>
-
-<p id="p0018">“They can’t any of them speak English,
-except one little girl, and all she can say is ‘We go Black Hawk,
-Nebraska.’ She’s not<pb n="005" /><anchor id="Pg005" />
-much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she’s as
-bright as a new dollar. Don’t you want to go ahead and see her,
-Jimmy? She’s got the pretty brown eyes, too!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0019">This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head
-and settled down to “Jesse James.” Jake nodded at me
-approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from
-foreigners.</p>
-
-<p id="p0020">I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or
-anything about the long day’s journey through Nebraska. Probably
-by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The
-only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all
-day long, Nebraska.</p>
-
-<p id="p0021">I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat,
-for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took
-me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding,
-where men were running about with lanterns. I could n’t see any
-town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness.
-The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow
-from the fire-box, a group of people stood<pb n="006" /><anchor id="Pg006" />
-huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I
-knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us
-about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she
-carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a
-baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and
-a girl stood holding
-oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother’s skirts.
-Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk,
-shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively
-the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue.</p>
-
-<p id="p0022">Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called
-out: “Hello, are you <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden’s folks? If
-you are, it’s me you’re looking for. I’m Otto Fuchs.
-I’m <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden’s hired man, and I’m to
-drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain’t you scared to come so far
-west?”</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image02.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<p id="p0023">I looked up with interest at the new face in the
-lantern light. He might have stepped out of the pages of “Jesse
-James.” He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a
-bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache were twisted up stiffly,
-like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and<pb n="007" /><anchor id="Pg007" />
-as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the
-corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was
-gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian’s. Surely this was the
-face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his
-high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather
-slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a
-long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us
-to a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the
-foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake
-got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the
-bottom of the wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The
-immigrants rumbled off into the empty darkness, and we followed
-them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0024">I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite
-my tongue, and I soon began to ache all over. When the straw settled
-down I had a hard bed. Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo
-hide, got up on my knees and peered over the side of the wagon. There
-seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills
-or fields. If there was<pb n="008" /><anchor id="Pg008" />
-a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was
-nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which
-countries are made. No, there was nothing but land—slightly
-undulating, I knew, because often our wheels ground against the brake
-as we went down into a hollow and lurched up again on the other side.
-I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over
-the edge of it, and were outside man’s jurisdiction. I had never
-before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain
-ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there
-was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and mother were
-watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me at the
-sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to the
-mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon
-jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don’t think I was
-homesick. If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between
-that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my
-prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-02" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="009" /><anchor id="Pg009" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>II</head>
-
-<p id="p0025"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">I do</hi> not remember
-our arrival at my grandfather’s farm sometime before daybreak,
-after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. When I
-awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely larger
-than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was
-flapping softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin
-and black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my
-grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my
-eyes she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of
-my bed.</p>
-
-<p id="p0026">“Had a good sleep, Jimmy?” she asked
-briskly. Then in a very different tone she said, as if to herself,
-“My, how you do look like your father!” I remembered that
-my father had been her little boy; she must often have come to wake
-him like this when he overslept. “Here are your clean
-clothes,” she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand
-as she talked. “But first you come down to the kitchen with me,
-and have a nice warm bath<pb n="010" /><anchor id="Pg010" />
-behind the stove. Bring your things; there’s nobody
-about.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0027">“Down to the kitchen” struck me as
-curious; it was always “out in the kitchen” at home. I
-picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her through the
-living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This basement
-was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a
-kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed—the plaster laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in
-dugouts. The floor was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling
-there were little half-windows with white curtains, and pots of
-geraniums and wandering Jew in the deep sills. As I entered the
-kitchen I sniffed a pleasant smell of gingerbread baking. The stove
-was very large, with bright nickel trimmings, and behind it there was
-a long wooden bench against the wall, and a tin washtub, into which
-grandmother poured hot and cold water. When she brought the soap and
-towels, I told her that I was used to taking my bath without help.</p>
-
-<p id="p0028">“Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure?
-Well, now, I call you a right smart little boy.”</p>
-
-<pb n="011" /><anchor id="Pg011" />
-
-<p id="p0029">It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone
-into my bath-water through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat
-came up and rubbed himself against the tub, watching me curiously.
-While I scrubbed, my grandmother busied herself in the dining-room
-until I called anxiously, “Grandmother, I’m afraid the
-cakes are burning!” Then she came laughing, waving her apron
-before her as if she were shooing chickens.</p>
-
-<p id="p0030">She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and
-she was apt to carry her head thrust forward in an attitude of
-attention, as if she were looking at something, or listening to
-something, far away. As I grew older, I came to believe that it was
-only because she was so often thinking of things that were far away.
-She was quick-footed and energetic in all her movements. Her voice was
-high and rather shrill, and she often spoke with an anxious
-inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous that everything should go
-with due order and decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, and perhaps a
-little strident, but there was a lively intelligence in it. She was
-then fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance.</p>
-
-<p id="p0031">After I was dressed I explored the long cellar<pb n="012" /><anchor id="Pg012" />
-next the kitchen. It was dug out under the wing of the house, was
-plastered and cemented, with a stairway and an outside door by which
-the men came and went. Under one of the windows there was a place for
-them to wash when they came in from work.</p>
-
-<p id="p0032">While my grandmother was busy about supper I settled
-myself on the wooden bench behind the stove and got acquainted with
-the cat—he caught not only rats and mice, but gophers, I was
-told. The patch of yellow sunlight on the floor traveled back toward
-the stairway, and grandmother and I talked about my journey, and about
-the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she said they were to be our
-nearest neighbors. We did not talk about the farm in Virginia, which
-had been her home for so many years. But after the men came in from
-the fields, and we were all seated at the supper-table, then she asked
-Jake about the old place and about our friends and neighbors
-there.</p>
-
-<p id="p0033">My grandfather said little. When he first came in he
-kissed me and spoke kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt
-at once his deliberateness and personal dignity, and was a little in
-awe of him. The thing one<pb n="013" /><anchor id="Pg013" />
-immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, snow-white
-beard. I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of an
-Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive.</p>
-
-<p id="p0034">Grandfather’s eyes were not at all like those
-of an old man; they were bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle.
-His teeth were white and regular—so sound that he had never
-been to a dentist in his life. He had a delicate skin, easily
-roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man his hair and beard
-were red; his eyebrows were still coppery.</p>
-
-<p id="p0035">As we sat at the table Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing
-covert glances at each other. Grandmother had told me while she was
-getting supper that he was an Austrian who came to this country a
-young boy and had led an adventurous life in the Far West among
-mining-camps and cow outfits. His iron constitution was somewhat
-broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had drifted back to live in a
-milder country for a while. He had relatives in Bismarck, a German
-settlement to the north of us, but for a year now he had been working
-for grandfather.</p>
-
-<pb n="014" /><anchor id="Pg014" />
-
-<p id="p0036">The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the
-kitchen to whisper to me about a pony down in the barn that had been
-bought for me at a sale; he had been riding him to find out whether he
-had any bad tricks, but he was a “perfect gentleman,” and
-his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I wanted to know: how he
-had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was a stage-driver, and
-how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for me before
-sundown next day. He got out his “chaps” and silver spurs
-to show them to Jake and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops
-stitched in bold design—roses, and true-lover’s knots,
-and undraped female figures. These, he solemnly explained, were
-angels.</p>
-
-<p id="p0037">Before we went to bed Jake and Otto were called up to
-the living-room for prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed
-spectacles and read several Psalms. His voice was so sympathetic and
-he read so interestingly that I wished he had chosen one of my
-favorite chapters in the Book of Kings. I was awed by his intonation
-of the word “Selah.” “<emph>He shall
-choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom He loved.
-Selah.</emph>” I had no idea what the word meant; perhaps he had not.<pb n="015" /><anchor id="Pg015" />
-But, as he uttered it, it became oracular, the most sacred of
-words.</p>
-
-<p id="p0038">Early the next morning I ran out of doors to look
-about me. I had been told that ours was the only wooden house west of
-Black Hawk—until you came to the Norwegian settlement, where
-there were several. Our neighbors lived in sod houses and dugouts—comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame house, with a
-story and half-story above the basement, stood at the east end of what
-I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the kitchen
-door. From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the barns
-and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare,
-and washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs,
-at the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty
-willow bushes growing about it. The road from the post-office came
-directly by our door, crossed the farmyard, and curved round this
-little pond, beyond which it began to climb the gentle swell of
-unbroken prairie to the west. There, along the western sky-line, it
-skirted a great cornfield, much larger than any field I had ever seen.
-This cornfield, and the<pb n="016" /><anchor id="Pg016" />
-sorghum patch behind the barn, were the only broken land in sight.
-Everywhere, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but
-rough, shaggy, red grass, most of it as tall as I.</p>
-
-<p id="p0039">North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks,
-grew a thick-set strip of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves
-already turning yellow. This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile
-long, but I had to look very hard to see it at all. The little trees
-were insignificant against the grass. It seemed as if the grass were
-about to run over them, and over the plum-patch behind the sod
-chicken-house.</p>
-
-<p id="p0040">As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the
-country, as the water is the sea. The red of the grass made all the
-great prairie the color of wine-stains, or of certain seaweeds when
-they are first washed up. And there was so much motion in it; the
-whole country seemed, somehow, to be running.</p>
-
-<p id="p0041">I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when
-she came out, her sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and
-asked me if I did not want to go to the garden with her to dig
-potatoes for dinner. The garden, curiously enough, was a quarter of a
-mile from<pb n="017" /><anchor id="Pg017" />
-the house, and the way to it led up a shallow draw past the cattle
-corral. Grandmother called my attention to a stout hickory cane,
-tipped with copper, which hung by a leather thong from her belt. This,
-she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I must never go to the garden
-without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had killed a good many
-rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who lived on the
-Black Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all
-summer.</p>
-
-<p id="p0042">I can remember exactly how the country looked to me
-as I walked beside my grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that
-early September morning. Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was
-still with me, for more than anything else I felt motion in the
-landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth
-itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort of loose hide, and
-underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, galloping
-…</p>
-
-<p id="p0043">Alone, I should never have found the garden—except,
-perhaps, for the big yellow pumpkins that lay about
-unprotected by their withering vines—and I felt very little
-interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk straight on<pb n="018" /><anchor id="Pg018" />
-through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not
-be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world ended
-here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a
-little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float
-off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making
-slow shadows on the grass. While grandmother took the pitchfork we
-found standing in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked
-them up out of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag, I kept
-looking up at the hawks that were doing what I might so easily do.</p>
-
-<p id="p0044">When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like
-to stay up there in the garden awhile.</p>
-
-<p id="p0045">She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet.
-“Are n’t you afraid of snakes?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0046">“A little,” I admitted, “but
-I’d like to stay anyhow.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0047">“Well, if you see one, don’t have
-anything to do with him. The big yellow and brown ones won’t
-hurt you; they’re bull-snakes and help to keep the gophers down.
-Don’t be scared if you see anything look out of that<pb n="019" /><anchor id="Pg019" />
-hole in the bank over there. That’s a badger hole. He’s
-about as big as a big ’possum, and his face is striped, black
-and white. He takes a chicken once in a while, but I won’t let
-the men harm him. In a new country a body feels friendly to the
-animals. I like to have him come out and watch me when I’m at
-work.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0048">Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her
-shoulder and went down the path, leaning forward a little. The road
-followed the windings of the draw; when she came to the first bend she
-waved at me and disappeared. I was left alone with this new feeling of
-lightness and content.</p>
-
-<p id="p0049">I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes
-could scarcely approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm
-yellow pumpkin. There were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the
-furrows, full of fruit. I turned back the papery triangular sheaths
-that protected the berries and ate a few. All about me giant
-grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever seen, were doing
-acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers scurried up and
-down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered draw-bottom the wind
-did not blow very hard, but I could hear it
-<pb n="020" /><anchor id="Pg020" />
-singing its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall
-grasses wave. The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it
-through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow
-squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black
-spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect
-anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt
-it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was
-entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a
-part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and
-knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into
-something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as
-naturally as sleep.</p>
-</div>
-
-
-<div id="chap1-03" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="021" /><anchor id="Pg021" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>III</head>
-
-<p id="p0050"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">On</hi> Sunday morning
-Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance of our new
-Bohemian neighbors. We were taking them some provisions, as they had
-come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or
-chicken-house, and very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of
-potatoes and a piece of cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother
-packed some loaves of Saturday’s bread, a jar of butter, and
-several pumpkin pies in the straw of the wagon-box. We clambered up to
-the front seat and jolted off past the little pond and along the road
-that climbed to the big cornfield.</p>
-
-<p id="p0051">I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that
-cornfield; but there was only red grass like ours, and nothing else,
-though from the high wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The
-road ran about like a wild thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing
-them where they were wide and shallow. And all along it, wherever it
-looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; some of them were as big as little
-trees, with<pb n="022" /><anchor id="Pg022" />
-great rough leaves and many branches which bore dozens of blossoms.
-They made a gold ribbon across the prairie. Occasionally one of the
-horses would tear off with his teeth a plant full of blossoms, and
-walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in time to his bites as he
-ate down toward them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0052">The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove
-along, had bought the homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek,
-and had paid him more than it was worth. Their agreement with him was
-made before they left the old country, through a cousin of his, who
-was also a relative of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda. The Shimerdas were
-the first Bohemian family to come to this part of the county. Krajiek
-was their only interpreter, and could tell them anything he chose.
-They could not speak enough English to ask for advice, or even to make
-their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs said, was well-grown,
-and strong enough to work the land; but the father was old and frail
-and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by trade; had been a
-skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. He had brought
-his fiddle with him, which would n’t be of much<pb n="023" /><anchor id="Pg023" />
-use here, though he used to pick up money by it at home.</p>
-
-<p id="p0053">“If they’re nice people, I hate to think
-of them spending the winter in that cave of Krajiek’s,”
-said grandmother. “It’s no better than a badger hole; no
-proper dugout at all. And I hear he’s made them pay twenty
-dollars for his old cookstove that ain’t worth ten.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0054">“Yes’m,” said Otto; “and
-he’s sold ’em his oxen and his two bony old horses for the
-price of good work-teams. I’d have interfered about the horses—the old man can understand some German—if I’d
-’a’ thought it would do any good. But Bohemians has a
-natural distrust of Austrians.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0055">Grandmother looked interested. “Now, why is
-that, Otto?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0056">Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. “Well,
-ma’m, it’s politics. It would take me a long while to
-explain.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0057">The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were
-approaching Squaw Creek, which cut up the west half of the
-Shimerdas’ place and made the land of little value for farming.
-Soon we could see the broken, grassy clay cliffs which indicated the
-windings of the<pb n="024" /><anchor id="Pg024" />
-stream, and the glittering tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that
-grew down in the ravine. Some of the cottonwoods had already turned,
-and the yellow leaves and shining white bark made them look like the
-gold and silver trees in fairy tales.</p>
-
-<p id="p0058">As we approached the Shimerdas’ dwelling, I
-could still see nothing but rough red hillocks, and draws with
-shelving banks and long roots hanging out where the earth had crumbled
-away. Presently, against one of those banks, I saw a sort of shed,
-thatched with the same wine-colored grass that grew everywhere. Near
-it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had no wheel. We drove up
-to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a door and window
-sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a woman and a
-girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A little girl
-trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same
-embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had
-alighted from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was
-certainly not young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin
-and shrewd little eyes. She shook grandmother’s hand
-energetically.</p>
-
-<pb n="025" /><anchor id="Pg025" />
-
-<p id="p0059">“Very glad, very glad!” she ejaculated.
-Immediately she pointed to the bank out of which she had emerged and
-said, “House no good, house no good!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0060">Grandmother nodded consolingly. “You’ll
-get fixed up comfortable after while, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda; make
-good house.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0061">My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to
-foreigners, as if they were deaf. She made <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda
-understand the friendly intention of our visit, and the Bohemian woman
-handled the loaves of bread and even smelled them, and examined the
-pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, “Much good, much
-thank!”—and again she wrung grandmother’s hand.</p>
-
-<p id="p0062">The oldest son, Ambrož,—they called it
-Ambrosch,—came out of the cave and stood beside his mother. He
-was nineteen years old, short and broad-backed, with a close-cropped,
-flat head, and a wide, flat face. His hazel eyes were little and
-shrewd, like his mother’s, but more sly and suspicious; they
-fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on corncakes
-and sorghum molasses for three days.</p>
-
-<p id="p0063">The little girl was pretty, but Án-tonia—<pb n="026" /><anchor id="Pg026" />
-they accented the name thus, strongly, when they spoke to her—was
-still prettier. I remembered what the conductor had said about her
-eyes. They were big and warm and full of light, like the sun shining
-on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was brown, too, and in her cheeks
-she had a glow of rich, dark color. Her brown hair was curly and
-wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called Yulka (Julka), was
-fair, and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood awkwardly
-confronting the two girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see what
-was going on. With him was another Shimerda son. Even from a distance
-one could see that there was something strange about this boy. As he
-approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands
-to show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a
-duck’s foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow
-delightedly, “Hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!” like a rooster. His
-mother scowled and said sternly, “Marek!” then spoke
-rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian.</p>
-
-<p id="p0064">“She wants me to tell you he won’t hurt
-nobody, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden. He was born like that. The others
-are smart. Ambrosch, he make<pb n="027" /><anchor id="Pg027" />
-good farmer.” He struck Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled
-knowingly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0065">At that moment the father came out of the hole in the
-bank. He wore no hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed
-straight back from his forehead. It was so long that it bushed out
-behind his ears, and made him look like the old portraits I remembered
-in Virginia. He was tall and slender, and his thin shoulders stooped.
-He looked at us understandingly, then took grandmother’s hand
-and bent over it. I noticed how white and well-shaped his own hands
-were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. His eyes were
-melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face was
-ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes—like something from
-which all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old
-man was in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed.
-Under his coat he wore a knitted gray vest, and, instead of a collar,
-a silk scarf of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held
-together by a red coral pin. While Krajiek was translating for
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda, Ántonia came up to me and held out
-her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were running up<pb n="028" /><anchor id="Pg028" />
-the steep drawside together, Yulka trotting after us.</p>
-
-<p id="p0066">When we reached the level and could see the gold
-tree-tops, I pointed toward them, and Ántonia laughed and
-squeezed my hand as if to tell me how glad she was I had come. We
-raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop until the ground itself
-stopped—fell away before us so abruptly that the next step
-would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the edge
-of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below
-us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the
-girls’ skirts were blown out before them. Ántonia seemed
-to like it; she held her little sister by the hand and chattered away
-in that language which seemed to me spoken so much more rapidly than
-mine. She looked at me, her eyes fairly blazing with things she could
-not say.</p>
-
-<p id="p0067">“Name? What name?” she asked, touching me
-on the shoulder. I told her my name, and she repeated it after me and
-made Yulka say it. She pointed into the gold cottonwood tree behind
-whose top we stood and said again, “What name?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0068">We sat down and made a nest in the<pb n="029" /><anchor id="Pg029" />
-long red grass. Yulka curled up like a baby rabbit and played with a
-grasshopper. Ántonia pointed up to the sky and questioned me
-with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not satisfied and
-pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, making it
-sound like “ice.” She pointed up to the sky, then to my
-eyes, then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that
-she distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on
-her knees and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook
-her head, then to mine and to the sky, nodding violently.</p>
-
-<p id="p0069">“Oh,” I exclaimed, “blue; blue
-sky.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0070">She clapped her hands and murmured, “Blue sky,
-blue eyes,” as if it amused her. While we snuggled down there
-out of the wind she learned a score of words. She was quick, and very
-eager. We were so deep in the grass that we could see nothing but the
-blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of us. It was wonderfully
-pleasant. After Ántonia had said the new words over and over,
-she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on her
-middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite
-sternly. I did n’t<pb n="030" /><anchor id="Pg030" />
-want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless and extravagant
-about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never seen before.
-No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was how they
-behaved.</p>
-
-<p id="p0071">While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a
-mournful voice calling, “Án-tonia,
-Án-tonia!” She sprang up like a hare.
-“<foreign lang="cs">Tatinek</foreign>,
-<foreign lang="cs">Tatinek</foreign>!” she shouted,
-and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us.
-Ántonia reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I
-came up, he touched my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my
-face for several seconds. I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was
-used to being taken for granted by my elders.</p>
-
-<p id="p0072">We went with <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda back to the
-dugout, where grandmother was waiting for me. Before I got into the
-wagon, he took a book out of his pocket, opened it, and showed me a
-page with two alphabets, one English and the other Bohemian. He placed
-this book in my grandmother’s hands, looked at her entreatingly,
-and said with an earnestness which I shall never forget,
-“Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my Án-tonia!”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-04" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="031" /><anchor id="Pg031" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>IV</head>
-
-<p id="p0073"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">On</hi> the afternoon
-of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, under
-Otto’s direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the
-post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of
-time by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow
-anything, or to send about word that there would be preaching at the
-sod schoolhouse, I was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended
-to such things after working hours.</p>
-
-<p id="p0074">All the years that have passed have not dimmed my
-memory of that first glorious autumn. The new country lay open before
-me: there were no fences in those days, and I could choose my own way
-over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again.
-Sometimes I followed the sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that
-the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the Mormons; that
-at the time of the persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out
-into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship<pb n="032" /><anchor id="Pg032" />
-God in their own way, the members of the first exploring party,
-crossing the plains to Utah, scattered sunflower seed as they went.
-The next summer, when the long trains of wagons came through with all
-the women and children, they had the sunflower trail to follow. I
-believe that botanists do not confirm
-Jake’s
-story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains.
-Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered
-roads always seem to me the roads to freedom.</p>
-
-<p id="p0075">I used to love to drift along the pale yellow
-cornfields, looking for the damp spots one sometimes found at their
-edges, where the smartweed soon turned a rich copper color and the
-narrow brown leaves hung curled like cocoons about the swollen joints
-of the stem. Sometimes I went south to visit our German neighbors and
-to admire their catalpa grove, or to see the big elm tree that grew up
-out of a deep crack in the earth and had a hawk’s nest in its
-branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make
-such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them,
-and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity
-of<pb n="033" /><anchor id="Pg033" />
-detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious.</p>
-
-<p id="p0076">Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to
-watch the
-brown,
-earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests
-underground with the dogs. Ántonia Shimerda liked to go with
-me, and we used to wonder a great deal about these birds of
-subterranean habit. We had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes
-were always lurking about. They came to pick up an easy living among
-the dogs and owls, which were quite defenseless against them; took
-possession of their comfortable houses and ate the eggs and puppies.
-We felt sorry for the owls. It was always mournful to see them come
-flying home at sunset and disappear under the earth. But, after all,
-we felt, winged things who would live like that must be rather
-degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any pond or
-creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the desert
-where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that
-some of the holes must go down to water—nearly two hundred
-feet, hereabouts. Ántonia said she did n’t believe it;
-that the dogs probably<pb n="034" /><anchor id="Pg034" />
-lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits.</p>
-
-<p id="p0077">Ántonia had opinions about everything, and she
-was soon able to make them known. Almost every day she came running
-across the prairie to have her reading lesson with me.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was important
-that one member of the family should learn English. When the lesson
-was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the garden.
-I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the
-hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The
-white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with
-curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set
-in, and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the
-Shimerdas were famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for
-miles along the edge of the cornfields, hunting for
-ground-cherries.</p>
-
-<p id="p0078">Ántonia loved to help grandmother in the
-kitchen and to learn about cooking and housekeeping. She would stand
-beside her, watching her every movement. We were willing to believe
-that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda was a good housewife in her own
-country, but she managed<pb n="035" /><anchor id="Pg035" />
-poorly under new conditions: the conditions were bad enough,
-certainly!</p>
-
-<p id="p0079">I remember how horrified we were at the sour,
-ashy-gray bread she gave her family to eat. She mixed her dough, we
-discovered, in an old tin peck-measure that Krajiek had used about the
-barn. When she took the paste out to bake it, she left smears of dough
-sticking to the sides of the measure, put the measure on the shelf
-behind the stove, and let this residue ferment. The next time she made
-bread, she scraped this sour stuff down into the fresh dough to serve
-as yeast.</p>
-
-<p id="p0080">During those first months the Shimerdas never went to
-town. Krajiek encouraged them in the belief that in Black Hawk they
-would somehow be mysteriously separated from their money. They hated
-Krajiek, but they clung to him because he was the only human being
-with whom they could talk or from whom they could get information. He
-slept with the old man and the two boys in the dugout barn, along with
-the oxen. They kept him in their hole and fed him for the same reason
-that the prairie dogs and the brown owls housed the rattlesnakes—because they did not know how to get rid of him.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-05" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="036" /><anchor id="Pg036" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>V</head>
-
-<p id="p0081"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">We</hi> knew that
-things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two girls were
-light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to forget
-their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie,
-scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail.</p>
-
-<p id="p0082">I remember Ántonia’s excitement when she
-came into our kitchen one afternoon and announced: “My papa find
-friends up north, with Russian mans. Last night he take me for see,
-and I can understand very much talk. Nice mans, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody laugh. The first
-time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very nice!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0083">I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived
-up by the big dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them
-when I was riding in that direction, but one of them was a
-wild-looking fellow and I was a little afraid of him. Russia seemed to
-me more remote than any other country—farther away than China,
-almost as far as the North Pole. Of<pb n="037" /><anchor id="Pg037" />
-all the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two
-men were the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were
-unpronounceable, so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about
-making signs to people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no
-friends. Krajiek could understand them a little, but he had cheated
-them in a trade, so they avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to
-be an anarchist; since he had no means of imparting his opinions,
-probably his wild gesticulations and his generally excited and
-rebellious manner gave rise to this supposition. He must once have
-been a very strong man, but now his great frame, with big, knotty
-joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn tight over his high
-cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always had a cough.</p>
-
-<p id="p0084">Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of
-fellow; short, bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed
-pleased when he met people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to
-every one, men as well as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he
-looked like an old man; his hair and beard were of such a pale flaxen
-color that they seemed white in<pb n="038" /><anchor id="Pg038" />
-the sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face,
-with its snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its
-leaves. He was usually called “Curly Peter,” or
-“Rooshian Peter.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0085">The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer
-they worked out together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they
-told how Peter always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other
-bachelor homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes
-Peter came to church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw
-him, sitting on a low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands,
-his bare feet tucked apologetically under the seat.</p>
-
-<p id="p0086">After <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda discovered the
-Russians, he went to see them almost every evening, and sometimes took
-Ántonia with him. She said they came from a part of Russia
-where the language was not very different from Bohemian, and if I
-wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for me. One
-afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there together on
-my pony.</p>
-
-<p id="p0087">The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy
-slope, with a windlass well beside the<pb n="039" /><anchor id="Pg039" />
-door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, and a
-garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We
-found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was
-working so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved
-up and down as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with
-his shaggy head and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to
-greet us, drops of perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down
-on to his curly beard. Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave
-his washing. He took us down to see his chickens, and his cow that was
-grazing on the hillside. He told Ántonia that in his country
-only rich people had cows, but here any man could have one who would
-take care of her. The milk was good for Pavel, who was often sick, and
-he could make butter by beating sour cream with a wooden spoon. Peter
-was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks and talked to her in
-Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it in a new
-place.</p>
-
-<p id="p0088">After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a
-load of watermelons up the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at
-home. He<pb n="040" /><anchor id="Pg040" />
-was off somewhere helping to dig a well. The house I thought very
-comfortable for two men who were “batching.” Besides the
-kitchen, there was a living-room, with a wide double bed built against
-the wall, properly made up with blue gingham sheets and pillows. There
-was a little storeroom, too, with a window, where they kept guns and
-saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That day the floor was
-covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and beans and fat
-yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in the house,
-and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies and
-sunshine alike.</p>
-
-<p id="p0089">Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered
-table and stood over them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the
-blade got fairly into them, they split of their own ripeness, with a
-delicious sound. He gave us knives, but no plates, and the top of the
-table was soon swimming with juice and seeds. I had never seen any one
-eat so many melons as Peter ate. He assured us that they were good for
-one—better than medicine; in his country people lived on them
-at this time of year. He was very hospitable and jolly.<pb n="041" /><anchor id="Pg041" />
-Once, while he was looking at Ántonia, he sighed and told us
-that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would
-have had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him.
-He said he had left his country because of a “great
-trouble.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0090">When we got up to go, Peter looked about in
-perplexity for something that would entertain us. He ran into the
-storeroom and brought out a gaudily painted harmonica, sat down on a
-bench, and spreading his fat legs apart began to play like a whole
-band. The tunes were either very lively or very doleful, and he sang
-words to some of them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0091">Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack
-for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda and gave us a lard-pail full of milk to
-cook them in. I had never heard of cooking cucumbers, but
-Ántonia assured me they were very good. We had to walk the pony
-all the way home to keep from spilling the milk.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-06" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="042" /><anchor id="Pg042" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>VI</head>
-
-<p id="p0092"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">One</hi> afternoon we
-were having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank where the
-badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a shiver
-of coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little horse-pond
-that morning, and as we went through the garden we found the tall
-asparagus, with its red berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy
-green.</p>
-
-<p id="p0093">Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton
-dress and was comfortable only when we were tucked down on the baked
-earth, in the full blaze of the sun. She could talk to me about almost
-anything by this time. That afternoon she was telling me how highly
-esteemed our friend the badger was in her part of the world, and how
-men kept a special kind of dog, with very short legs, to hunt him.
-Those dogs, she said, went down into the hole after the badger and
-killed him there in a terrific struggle underground; you could hear
-the barks and yelps outside. Then the dog dragged himself back,
-covered with bites and scratches, to be rewarded and petted by his
-master. She<pb n="043" /><anchor id="Pg043" />
-knew a dog who had a star on his collar for every badger he had
-killed.</p>
-
-<p id="p0094">The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They
-kept starting up all about us, and dashing off down the draw as if
-they were playing a game of some kind. But the little buzzing things
-that lived in the grass were all dead—all but one. While we
-were lying there against the warm bank, a little insect of the palest,
-frailest green hopped painfully out of the buffalo grass and tried to
-leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, fell back, and sat with
-his head sunk between his long legs, his antennæ quivering, as
-if he were waiting for something to come and finish him. Tony made a
-warm nest for him in her hands; talked to him gayly and indulgently in
-Bohemian. Presently he began to sing for us—a thin, rusty
-little chirp. She held him close to her ear and laughed, but a moment
-afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told me that in her
-village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about selling
-herbs and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and
-gave her a warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children
-in a cracked voice, like this. Old Hata, she<pb n="044" /><anchor id="Pg044" />
-was called, and the children loved to see her coming and saved their
-cakes and sweets for her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0095">When the bank on the other side of the draw began to
-throw a narrow shelf of shadow, we knew we ought to be starting
-homeward; the chill came on quickly when the sun got low, and
-Ántonia’s dress was thin. What were we to do with the
-frail little creature we had lured back to life by false pretenses? I
-offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put the
-green insect in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over
-her curls. I said I would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek,
-and then turn and run home. We drifted along lazily, very happy,
-through the magical light of the late afternoon.</p>
-
-<p id="p0096">All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never
-got used to them. As far as we could see, the miles of copper-red
-grass were drenched in sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at
-any other time of the day. The blond cornfields were red gold, the
-haystacks turned rosy and threw long shadows. The whole prairie was
-like the bush that burned with fire and was not consumed. That hour
-always had the exultation of victory, of<pb n="045" /><anchor id="Pg045" />
-triumphant ending, like a hero’s death—heroes who died
-young and gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of
-day.</p>
-
-<p id="p0097">How many an afternoon Ántonia and I have
-trailed along the prairie under that magnificence! And always two long
-black shadows flitted before us or followed after, dark spots on the
-ruddy grass.</p>
-
-<p id="p0098">We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the
-sun sank nearer and nearer the prairie floor, when we saw a figure
-moving on the edge of the upland, a gun over his shoulder. He was
-walking slowly, dragging his feet along as if he had no purpose. We
-broke into a run to overtake him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0099">“My papa sick all the time,” Tony panted
-as we flew. “He not look good, Jim.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0100">As we neared <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda she shouted,
-and he lifted his head and peered about. Tony ran up to him, caught
-his hand and pressed it against her cheek. She was the only one of his
-family who could rouse the old man from the torpor in which he seemed
-to live. He took the bag from his belt and showed us three rabbits he
-had shot, looked at Ántonia with a wintry flicker of a smile
-and began to tell her something. She turned to me.</p>
-
-<pb n="046" /><anchor id="Pg046" />
-
-<p id="p0101">“My
-<foreign lang="cs">tatinek</foreign> make me little hat with
-the skins, little hat for win-ter!” she exclaimed joyfully.
-“Meat for eat, skin for hat,”—she told off these
-benefits on her fingers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0102">Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught
-his wrist and lifted it carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I
-heard the name of old Hata. He untied the handkerchief, separated her
-hair with his fingers, and stood looking down at the green insect.
-When it began to chirp faintly, he listened as if it were a beautiful
-sound.</p>
-
-<p id="p0103">I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece
-from the old country, short and heavy, with a stag’s head on the
-cock. When he saw me examining it, he turned to me with his far-away
-look that always made me feel as if I were down at the bottom of a
-well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and Ántonia
-translated:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0104">“My
-<foreign lang="cs">tatinek</foreign> say when you are big
-boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from Bohemie. It was belong to a
-great man, very rich, like what you not got here; many fields, many
-forests, many big house. My papa play for his wedding, and he give my
-papa fine gun, and my papa give you.”</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image03.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over his shoulder</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<p id="p0105">I was glad that this project was one of<pb n="047" /><anchor id="Pg047" />
-futurity. There never were such people as the Shimerdas for wanting to
-give away everything they had. Even the mother was always offering me
-things, though I knew she expected substantial presents in return. We
-stood there in friendly silence, while the feeble minstrel sheltered
-in Ántonia’s hair went on with its scratchy chirp. The
-old man’s smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of pity
-for things, that I never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there
-came a sudden coolness and the strong smell of earth and drying grass.
-Ántonia and her father went off hand in hand, and I buttoned up
-my jacket and raced my shadow home.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-07" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="048" /><anchor id="Pg048" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>VII</head>
-
-<p id="p0106"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Much</hi> as I liked
-Ántonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took with
-me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of
-the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her
-protecting manner. Before the autumn was over she began to treat me
-more like an equal and to defer to me in other things than reading
-lessons. This change came about from an adventure we had together.</p>
-
-<p id="p0107">One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas’ I
-found Ántonia starting off on foot for Russian Peter’s
-house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I offered to take her on the
-pony, and she got up behind me. There had been another black frost the
-night before, and the air was clear and heady as wine. Within a week
-all the blooming roads had been despoiled—hundreds of miles of
-yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, burry
-stalks.</p>
-
-<p id="p0108">We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were
-glad to go in and get warm<pb n="049" /><anchor id="Pg049" />
-by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons,
-heaped in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade,
-Ántonia suggested that we stop at the prairie-dog town and dig
-into one of the holes. We could find out whether they ran straight
-down, or were horizontal, like mole-holes; whether they had
-underground connections; whether the owls had nests down there, lined
-with feathers. We might get some puppies, or owl eggs, or
-snake-skins.</p>
-
-<p id="p0109">The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres.
-The grass had been nibbled short and even, so this stretch was not
-shaggy and red like the surrounding country, but gray and velvety. The
-holes were several yards apart, and were disposed with a good deal of
-regularity, almost as if the town had been laid out in streets and
-avenues. One always felt that an orderly and very sociable kind of
-life was going on there. I picketed Dude down in a draw, and we went
-wandering about, looking for a hole that would be easy to dig. The
-dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on their hind legs
-over the doors of their houses. As we approached, they barked, shook
-their tails at us, and scurried<pb n="050" /><anchor id="Pg050" />
-underground. Before the mouths of the holes were little patches of
-sand and gravel, scratched up, we supposed, from a long way below the
-surface. Here and there, in the town, we came on larger gravel
-patches, several yards away from any hole. If the dogs had scratched
-the sand up in excavating, how had they carried it so far? It was on
-one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure.</p>
-
-<p id="p0110">We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The
-burrow sloped into the ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see
-where the two corridors united, and the floor was dusty from use, like
-a little highway over which much travel went. I was walking backward,
-in a crouching position, when I heard Ántonia scream. She was
-standing opposite me, pointing behind me and shouting something in
-Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of those dry gravel beds,
-was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was sunning himself, after
-the cold night, and he must have been asleep when Ántonia
-screamed. When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a
-letter “<abbr>W.</abbr>” He twitched and began to coil
-slowly. He was not merely a big snake, I thought—he was a
-circus monstrosity. His<pb n="051" /><anchor id="Pg051" />
-abominable muscularity, his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow made me
-sick. He was as thick as my leg, and looked as if millstones could
-n’t crush the disgusting vitality out of him. He lifted his
-hideous little head, and rattled. I did n’t run because I did
-n’t think of it—if my back had been against a stone wall
-I could n’t have felt more cornered. I saw his coils tighten—now he would spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up
-and drove at his head with my spade, struck him fairly across the
-neck, and in a minute he was all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck
-now from hate. Ántonia, barefooted as she was, ran up behind
-me. Even after I had pounded his ugly head flat, his body kept on
-coiling and winding, doubling and falling back on itself. I walked
-away and turned my back. I felt seasick. Ántonia came after me,
-crying, “O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you not run
-when I say?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0111">“What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have
-told me there was a snake behind me!” I said petulantly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0112">“I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so
-scared.” She took my handkerchief from my pocket and tried to
-wipe my face with it, but<pb n="052" /><anchor id="Pg052" />
-I snatched it away from her. I suppose I looked as sick as I felt.</p>
-
-<p id="p0113">“I never know you was so brave, Jim,” she
-went on comfortingly. “You is just like big mans; you wait for
-him lift his head and then you go for him. Ain’t you feel scared
-a bit? Now we take that snake home and show everybody. Nobody
-ain’t seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you
-kill.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0114">She went on in this strain until I began to think
-that I had longed for this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy.
-Cautiously we went back to the snake; he was still groping with his
-tail, turning up his ugly belly in the light. A faint, fetid smell
-came from him, and a thread of green liquid oozed from his crushed
-head.</p>
-
-<p id="p0115">“Look, Tony, that’s his poison,” I
-said.</p>
-
-<p id="p0116">I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she
-lifted his head with the spade while I tied a noose around it. We
-pulled him out straight and measured him by my riding-quirt; he was
-about five and a half feet long. He had twelve rattles, but they were
-broken off before they began to taper, so I insisted that he must once
-have had twenty-four. I explained to Ántonia how this meant
-that he<pb n="053" /><anchor id="Pg053" />
-was twenty-four years old, that he must have been there when white men
-first came, left on from buffalo and Indian times. As I turned him
-over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind of respect for his
-age and size. He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. Certainly his
-kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all warm-blooded life.
-When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off to the end of
-his tether and shivered all over—would n’t let us come
-near him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0117">We decided that Ántonia should ride Dude home,
-and I would walk. As she rode along slowly, her bare legs swinging
-against the pony’s sides, she kept shouting back to me about how
-astonished everybody would be. I followed with the spade over my
-shoulder, dragging my snake. Her exultation was contagious. The great
-land had never looked to me so big and free. If the red grass were
-full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. Nevertheless, I stole
-furtive glances behind me now and then to see that no avenging mate,
-older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the rear.</p>
-
-<p id="p0118">The sun had set when we reached our garden and went
-down the draw toward the<pb n="054" /><anchor id="Pg054" />
-house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge
-of the cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. Ántonia
-called him to come quick and look. He did not say anything for a
-minute, but scratched his head and turned the snake over with his
-boot.</p>
-
-<p id="p0119">“Where did you run onto that beauty,
-Jim?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0120">“Up at the dog-town,” I answered
-laconically.</p>
-
-<p id="p0121">“Kill him yourself? How come you to have a
-weepon?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0122">“We’d been up to Russian Peter’s,
-to borrow a spade for Ambrosch.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0123">Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted
-down to count the rattles. “It was just luck you had a
-tool,” he said cautiously. “Gosh! I would n’t want
-to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a fence-post
-along. Your grandmother’s snake-cane would n’t more than
-tickle him. He could stand right up and talk to you, he could. Did he
-fight hard?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0124">Ántonia broke in: “He fight something
-awful! He is all over Jimmy’s boots. I scream for him to run,
-but he just hit and hit that snake like he was crazy.”</p>
-
-<pb n="055" /><anchor id="Pg055" />
-
-<p id="p0125">Otto winked at me. After Ántonia rode on he
-said: “Got him in the head first crack, did n’t you? That
-was just as well.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0126">We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down
-to the kitchen I found Ántonia standing in the middle of the
-floor, telling the story with a great deal of color.</p>
-
-<p id="p0127">Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me
-that my first encounter was fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler
-was old, and had led too easy a life; there was not much fight in him.
-He had probably lived there for years, with a fat prairie dog for
-breakfast whenever he felt like it, a sheltered home, even an
-owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that the world does
-n’t owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting
-trim, would be more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a
-mock adventure; the game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably
-was for many a dragon-slayer. I had been adequately armed by Russian
-Peter; the snake was old and lazy; and I had Ántonia beside me,
-to appreciate and admire.</p>
-
-<p id="p0128">That snake hung on our corral fence for several days;
-some of the neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the
-biggest rattler<pb n="056" /><anchor id="Pg056" />
-ever killed in those parts. This was enough for Ántonia. She
-liked me better from that time on, and she never took a supercilious
-air with me again. I had killed a big snake—I was now a big
-fellow.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-08" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="057" /><anchor id="Pg057" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>VIII</head>
-
-<p id="p0129"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">While</hi> the autumn
-color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, things went badly
-with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles to
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due
-on the first of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing
-it, and to give a mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk
-cow. His creditor was Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk
-money-lender, a man of evil name throughout the county, of whom I
-shall have more to say later. Peter could give no very clear account
-of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew that he had first
-borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then fifty—that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew
-faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with
-mortgages.</p>
-
-<p id="p0130">Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained
-himself lifting timbers for a new barn, and fell over among the
-shavings with such a gush of blood from the lungs that his<pb n="058" /><anchor id="Pg058" />
-fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. They hauled him home
-and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill indeed.
-Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the log
-house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The
-Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked
-to put them out of mind.</p>
-
-<p id="p0131">One afternoon Ántonia and her father came over
-to our house to get buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did,
-until the sun was low. Just as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove
-up. Pavel was very bad, he said, and wanted to talk to
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch them.
-When Ántonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated
-grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my
-supper, I would sleep in the Shimerdas’ barn and run home in the
-morning. My plan must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was
-often large-minded about humoring the desires of other people. She
-asked Peter to wait a moment, and when she came back from the kitchen
-she brought a bag of sandwiches and doughnuts for us.</p>
-
-<p id="p0132"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda and Peter were on the front<pb n="059" /><anchor id="Pg059" />
-seat; Ántonia and I sat in the straw behind and ate our lunch
-as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a cold wind sprang up and
-moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the weather had come sooner,
-I should not have got away. We burrowed down in the straw and curled
-up close together, watching the angry red die out of the west and the
-stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept sighing and
-groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would never
-get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew
-magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of
-the world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those
-shining groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to
-be. Perhaps Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had
-brought from his land, too, some such belief.</p>
-
-<p id="p0133">The little house on the hillside was so much the
-color of the night that we could not see it as we came up the draw.
-The ruddy windows guided us—the light from the kitchen stove,
-for there was no lamp burning.</p>
-
-<p id="p0134">We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to
-be asleep. Tony and I sat down<pb n="060" /><anchor id="Pg060" />
-on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in front of
-us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the thatch
-overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept
-moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently,
-then swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it
-bore down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They
-made me think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were
-trying desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on.
-Presently, in one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the
-coyotes tuned up with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all
-together—to tell us that winter was coming. This sound brought
-an answer from the bed,—a long complaining cry,—as if
-Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some old misery. Peter
-listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor by the kitchen
-stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap—then the
-high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his
-elbow.</p>
-
-<p id="p0135">“He is scared of the wolves,”
-Ántonia whispered to me. “In his country there are very<pb n="061" /><anchor id="Pg061" />
-many, and they eat men and women.” We slid closer together along
-the bench.</p>
-
-<p id="p0136">I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His
-shirt was hanging open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow
-bristle, rose and fell horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to
-his feet, caught up the tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and
-whiskey. The sharp smell of spirits went through the room.</p>
-
-<p id="p0137">Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter
-give him the bottle and slipped it under his pillow, grinning
-disagreeably, as if he had outwitted some one. His eyes followed Peter
-about the room with a contemptuous, unfriendly expression. It seemed
-to me that he despised him for being so simple and docile.</p>
-
-<p id="p0138">Presently Pavel began to talk to <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. He was telling a long story, and
-as he went on, Ántonia took my hand under the table and held it
-tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to hear him. He grew
-more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his bed, as if
-there were things there and he wanted <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda to see
-them.</p>
-
-<pb n="062" /><anchor id="Pg062" />
-
-<p id="p0139">“It’s wolves, Jimmy,”
-Ántonia whispered. “It’s awful, what he
-says!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0140">The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to
-be cursing people who had wronged him. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda
-caught him by the shoulders, but could hardly hold him in bed. At last
-he was shut off by a coughing fit which fairly choked him. He pulled a
-cloth from under his pillow and held it to his mouth. Quickly it was
-covered with bright red spots—I thought I had never seen any
-blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to the wall, all
-the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for breath,
-like a child with croup. Ántonia’s father uncovered one
-of his long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we
-could see what a hollow case his body was. His spine and
-shoulder-blades stood out like the bones under the hide of a dead
-steer left in the fields. That sharp backbone must have hurt him when
-he lay on it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0141">Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was,
-the worst was over. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda signed to us that Pavel
-was asleep. Without a word Peter got up and lit his lantern. He was
-going out to get his team to drive us<pb n="063" /><anchor id="Pg063" />
-home. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the
-long bowed back under the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe.</p>
-
-<p id="p0142">On the way home, when we were lying in the straw,
-under the jolting and rattling Ántonia told me as much of the
-story as she could. What she did not tell me then, she told later; we
-talked of nothing else for days afterward.</p>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p0143">When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home
-in Russia, they were asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to
-marry the belle of another village. It was in the dead of winter and
-the groom’s party went over to the wedding in sledges. Peter and
-Pavel drove in the groom’s sledge, and six sledges followed with
-all his relatives and friends.</p>
-
-<p id="p0144">After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a
-dinner given by the parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all
-afternoon; then it became a supper and continued far into the night.
-There was much dancing and drinking. At midnight the parents of the
-bride said good-bye to her and blessed her. The groom took her up in
-his arms and carried her out to his sledge and tucked her under the<pb n="064" /><anchor id="Pg064" />
-blankets. He sprang in beside her, and Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and
-Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. The party set out with
-singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom’s sledge going
-first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for merry-making,
-and the groom was absorbed in his bride.</p>
-
-<p id="p0145">The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew
-it, yet when they heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much
-alarmed. They had too much good food and drink inside them. The first
-howls were taken up and echoed and with quickening repetitions. The
-wolves were coming together. There was no moon, but the starlight was
-clear on the snow. A black drove came up over the hill behind the
-wedding party. The wolves ran like streaks of shadow; they looked no
-bigger than dogs, but there were hundreds of them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0146">Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver
-lost control,—he was probably very drunk,—the horses
-left the road, the sledge was caught in a clump of trees, and
-overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, and the fleetest
-of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed made
-everybody sober. The drivers stood up and<pb n="065" /><anchor id="Pg065" />
-lashed their horses. The groom had the best team and his sledge was
-lightest—all the others carried from six to a dozen
-people.</p>
-
-<p id="p0147">Another driver lost control. The screams of the
-horses were more terrible to hear than the cries of the men and women.
-Nothing seemed to check the wolves. It was hard to tell what was
-happening in the rear; the people who were falling behind shrieked as
-piteously as those who were already lost. The little bride hid her
-face on the groom’s shoulder and sobbed. Pavel sat still and
-watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the
-groom’s three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary
-to be calm and to guide them carefully.</p>
-
-<p id="p0148">At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose
-cautiously and looked back. “There are only three sledges
-left,” he whispered.</p>
-
-<p id="p0149">“And the wolves?” Pavel asked.</p>
-
-<p id="p0150">“Enough! Enough for all of us.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0151">Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two
-sledges followed him down the other side. In that moment on the
-hilltop, they saw behind them a whirling black group on the snow.
-Presently the groom screamed. He saw his father’s sledge
-overturned, with his mother<pb n="066" /><anchor id="Pg066" />
-and sisters. He sprang up as if he meant to jump, but the girl
-shrieked and held him back. It was even then too late. The black
-ground-shadows were already crowding over the heap in the road, and
-one horse ran out across the fields, his harness hanging to him,
-wolves at his heels. But the groom’s movement had given Pavel an
-idea.</p>
-
-<p id="p0152">They were within a few miles of their village now.
-The only sledge left out of six was not very far behind them, and
-Pavel’s middle horse was failing. Beside a frozen pond something
-happened to the other sledge; Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves
-got abreast of the horses, and the horses went crazy. They tried to
-jump over each other, got tangled up in the harness, and overturned
-the sledge.</p>
-
-<p id="p0153">When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel
-realized that he was alone upon the familiar road. “They still
-come?” he asked Peter.</p>
-
-<p id="p0154">“Yes.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0155">“How many?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0156">“Twenty, thirty—enough.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0157">Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the
-other two. Pavel gave Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the
-back of the sledge. He called to the groom that<pb n="067" /><anchor id="Pg067" />
-they must lighten—and pointed to the bride. The young man
-cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. In the
-struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the
-sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered
-exactly how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in
-the front seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed
-was a new sound that broke into the clear air, louder than they had
-ever heard it before—the bell of the monastery of their own
-village, ringing for early prayers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0158">Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and
-they had been alone ever since. They were run out of their village.
-Pavel’s own mother would not look at him. They went away to
-strange towns, but when people learned where they came from, they were
-always asked if they knew the two men who had fed the bride to the
-wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed them. It took them five
-years to save money enough to come to America. They worked in Chicago,
-Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always unfortunate. When
-Pavel’s health grew so bad, they decided to try farming.</p>
-
-<pb n="068" /><anchor id="Pg068" />
-
-<p id="p0159">Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda, and was buried in the Norwegian graveyard.
-Peter sold off everything, and left the country—went to be
-cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of Russians were
-employed.</p>
-
-<p id="p0160">At his sale we bought Peter’s wheelbarrow and
-some of his harness. During the auction he went about with his head
-down, and never lifted his eyes. He seemed not to care about anything.
-The Black Hawk money-lender who held mortgages on Peter’s
-live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes at about fifty
-cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow before she
-was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but this I
-know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans had
-been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and
-bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the
-melons that he had put away for winter. When <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda
-and Krajiek drove up in their wagon to take Peter to the train, they
-found him with a dripping beard, surrounded by heaps of melon
-rinds.</p>
-
-<p id="p0161">The loss of his two friends had a depressing<pb n="069" /><anchor id="Pg069" />
-effect upon old <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda. When he was out hunting, he
-used to go into the empty log house and sit there, brooding. This
-cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows penned him in his cave.
-For Ántonia and me, the story of the wedding party was never at
-an end. We did not tell Pavel’s secret to any one, but guarded
-it jealously—as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that
-night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a
-painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I
-often found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through
-a country that looked something like Nebraska and something like
-Virginia.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-09" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="070" /><anchor id="Pg070" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>IX</head>
-
-<p id="p0162"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">The</hi> first snowfall
-came early in December. I remember how the world looked from our
-sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: the
-low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out
-into ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff
-willow bushes. Big white flakes were whirling over everything and
-disappearing in the red grass.</p>
-
-<p id="p0163">Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the
-cornfield, there was, faintly marked in the grass, a great circle
-where the Indians used to ride. Jake and Otto were sure that when they
-galloped round that ring the Indians tortured prisoners, bound to a
-stake in the center; but grandfather thought they merely ran races or
-trained horses there. Whenever one looked at this slope against the
-setting sun, the circle showed like a pattern in the grass; and this
-morning, when the first light spray of snow lay over it, it came out
-with wonderful distinctness, like strokes of Chinese white on canvas.
-The old figure stirred me as it had<pb n="071" /><anchor id="Pg071" />
-never done before and seemed a good omen for the winter.</p>
-
-<p id="p0164">As soon as the snow had packed hard I began to drive
-about the country in a clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by
-fastening a wooden goods-box on bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a
-cabinet-maker in the old country and was very handy with tools. He
-would have done a better job if I had n’t hurried him. My first
-trip was to the post-office, and the next day I went over to take
-Yulka and Ántonia for a sleigh-ride.</p>
-
-<p id="p0165">It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo
-robes into the box, and took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets.
-When I got to the Shimerdas’ I did not go up to the house, but
-sat in my sleigh at the bottom of the draw and called. Ántonia
-and Yulka came running out, wearing little rabbit-skin hats their
-father had made for them. They had heard about my sledge from Ambrosch
-and knew why I had come. They tumbled in beside me and we set off
-toward the north, along a road that happened to be broken.</p>
-
-<p id="p0166">The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the
-glittering white stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As
-Ántonia said, the<pb n="072" /><anchor id="Pg072" />
-whole world was changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for
-familiar landmarks. The deep arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound
-was now only a cleft between snow-drifts—very blue when one
-looked down into it. The tree-tops that had been gold all the autumn
-were dwarfed and twisted, as if they would never have any life in them
-again. The few little cedars, which were so dull and dingy before, now
-stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind had the burning taste of
-fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if some one had opened a
-hartshorn bottle. The cold stung, and at the same time delighted one.
-My horse’s breath rose like steam, and whenever we stopped he
-smoked all over. The cornfields got back a little of their color under
-the dazzling light, and stood the palest possible gold in the sun and
-snow. All about us the snow was crusted in shallow terraces, with
-tracings like ripple-marks at the edges, curly waves that were the
-actual impression of the stinging lash in the wind.</p>
-
-<p id="p0167">The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls;
-they kept shivering beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other
-for warmth. But they were so glad to get away from their<pb n="073" /><anchor id="Pg073" />
-ugly cave and their mother’s scolding that they begged me to go
-on and on, as far as Russian Peter’s house. The great fresh
-open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like wild
-things. They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go
-home again. Could n’t we settle down and live in Russian
-Peter’s house, Yulka asked, and could n’t I go to town and
-buy things for us to keep house with?</p>
-
-<p id="p0168">All the way to Russian Peter’s we were
-extravagantly happy, but when we turned back,—it must have
-been about four o’clock,—the east wind grew stronger and
-began to howl; the sun lost its heartening power and the sky became
-gray and somber. I took off my long woolen comforter and wound it
-around Yulka’s throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her
-head under the buffalo robe. Ántonia and I sat erect, but I
-held the reins clumsily, and my eyes were blinded by the wind a good
-deal of the time. It was growing dark when we got to their house, but
-I refused to go in with them and get warm. I knew my hands would ache
-terribly if I went near a fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my
-comforter, and I had to drive home directly<pb n="074" /><anchor id="Pg074" />
-against the wind. The next day I came down with an attack of quinsy,
-which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks.</p>
-
-<p id="p0169">The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in
-those days—like a tight little boat in a winter sea. The men
-were out in the fields all day, husking corn, and when they came in at
-noon, with long caps pulled down over their ears and their feet in
-red-lined overshoes, I used to think they were like Arctic
-explorers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0170">In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs
-darning, or making husking-gloves, I read “The Swiss Family
-Robinson” aloud to her, and I felt that the Swiss family had no
-advantages over us in the way of an adventurous life. I was convinced
-that man’s strongest antagonist is the cold. I admired the
-cheerful zest with which grandmother went about keeping us warm and
-comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when she was
-preparing for the return of the hungry men, that this country was not
-like Virginia, and that here a cook had, as she said, “very
-little to do with.” On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as we
-could eat, and on other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat.<pb n="075" /><anchor id="Pg075" />
-She baked either pies or cake for us every day, unless, for a change,
-she made my favorite pudding, striped with currants and boiled in a
-bag.</p>
-
-<p id="p0171">Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and
-supper were the most interesting things we had to think about. Our
-lives centered around warmth and food and the return of the men at
-nightfall. I used to wonder, when they came in tired from the fields,
-their feet numb and their hands cracked and sore, how they could do
-all the chores so conscientiously: feed and water and bed the horses,
-milk the cows, and look after the pigs. When supper was over, it took
-them a long while to get the cold out of their bones. While
-grandmother and I washed the dishes and grandfather read his paper
-upstairs, Jake and Otto sat on the long bench behind the stove,
-“easing” their inside boots, or rubbing mutton tallow into
-their cracked hands.</p>
-
-<p id="p0172">Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy,
-and Otto Fuchs used to sing, “For I Am a Cowboy and Know
-I’ve Done Wrong,” or, “Bury Me Not on the Lone
-Prairee.” He had a good baritone voice and always led the
-singing when we went to church services at the sod schoolhouse.</p>
-
-<pb n="076" /><anchor id="Pg076" />
-
-<p id="p0173">I can still see those two men sitting on the bench;
-Otto’s close-clipped head and Jake’s shaggy hair slicked
-flat in front by a wet comb. I can see the sag of their tired
-shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good fellows they were,
-how much they knew, and how many things they had kept faith with!</p>
-
-<p id="p0174">Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a
-bar-tender, a miner; had wandered all over that great Western country
-and done hard work everywhere, though, as grandmother said, he had
-nothing to show for it. Jake was duller than Otto. He could scarcely
-read, wrote even his name with difficulty, and he had a violent temper
-which sometimes made him behave like a crazy man—tore him all
-to pieces and actually made him ill. But he was so soft-hearted that
-any one could impose upon him. If he, as he said, “forgot
-himself” and swore before grandmother, he went about depressed
-and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial about the cold
-in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime and to
-meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare
-themselves. Yet they were the sort<pb n="077" /><anchor id="Pg077" />
-of men who never get on, somehow, or do anything but work hard for a
-dollar or two a day.</p>
-
-<p id="p0175">On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the
-old stove that fed us and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could
-hear the coyotes howling down by the corrals, and their hungry, wintry
-cry used to remind the boys of wonderful animal stories; about gray
-wolves and bears in the Rockies, wildcats and panthers in the Virginia
-mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be persuaded to talk about the
-outlaws and desperate characters he had known. I remember one funny
-story about himself that made grandmother, who was working her bread
-on the bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with her bare arm,
-her hands being floury. It was like this:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0176">When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was
-asked by one of his relatives to look after a woman who was crossing
-on the same boat, to join her husband in Chicago. The woman started
-off with two children, but it was clear that her family might grow
-larger on the journey. Fuchs said he “got on fine with the
-kids,” and liked the mother, though she played a sorry trick on
-him. In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but three!<pb n="078" /><anchor id="Pg078" />
-This event made Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he was
-traveling with her. The steerage stewardess was indignant with him,
-the doctor regarded him with suspicion. The first-cabin passengers,
-who made up a purse for the woman, took an embarrassing interest in
-Otto, and often inquired of him about his charge. When the triplets
-were taken ashore at New York, he had, as he said, “to carry
-some of them.” The trip to Chicago was even worse than the ocean
-voyage. On the train it was very difficult to get milk for the babies
-and to keep their bottles clean. The mother did her best, but no
-woman, out of her natural resources, could feed three babies. The
-husband, in Chicago, was working in a furniture factory for modest
-wages, and when he met his family at the station he was rather crushed
-by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in some fashion
-to blame. “I was sure glad,” Otto concluded, “that
-he did n’t take his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he
-had a sullen eye for me, all right! Now, did you ever hear of a young
-feller’s having such hard luck, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Burden?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0177">Grandmother told him she was sure the<pb n="079" /><anchor id="Pg079" />
-Lord had remembered these things to his credit, and had helped him out
-of many a scrape when he did n’t realize that he was being
-protected by Providence.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-10" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="080" /><anchor id="Pg080" />
-<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
-<head>X</head>
-
-<p id="p0178"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">For</hi> several weeks
-after my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the Shimerdas. My sore
-throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold which made the
-housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to have a day
-of rest. One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda out hunting.</p>
-
-<p id="p0179">“He’s made himself a rabbit-skin cap,
-Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that he buttons on outside his coat.
-They ain’t got but one overcoat among ’em over there, and
-they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of cold, and stick
-in that hole in the bank like badgers.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0180">“All but the crazy boy,” Jake put in.
-“He never wears the coat. Krajiek says he’s turrible
-strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be getting scarce
-in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield yesterday where
-I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he’d shot. He
-asked me if they was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on,
-to scare him, but he just looked like<pb n="081" /><anchor id="Pg081" />
-he was smarter’n me and put ’em back in his sack and
-walked off.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0181">Grandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to
-grandfather. “Josiah, you don’t suppose Krajiek would let
-them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do you?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0182">“You had better go over and see our neighbors
-to-morrow, Emmaline,” he replied gravely.</p>
-
-<p id="p0183">Fuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs
-were clean beasts and ought to be good for food, but their family
-connections were against them. I asked what he meant, and he grinned
-and said they belonged to the rat family.</p>
-
-<p id="p0184">When I went downstairs in the morning, I found
-grandmother and Jake packing a hamper basket in the kitchen.</p>
-
-<p id="p0185">“Now, Jake,” grandmother was saying,
-“if you can find that old rooster that got his comb froze, just
-give his neck a twist, and we’ll take him along. There’s
-no good reason why <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda could n’t have got
-hens from her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I
-reckon she was confused and did n’t know where to begin.
-I’ve come strange to a new country myself, but I never forgot
-hens<pb n="082" /><anchor id="Pg082" />
-are a good thing to have, no matter what you don’t
-have.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0186">“Just as you say, mam,” said Jake,
-“but I hate to think of Krajiek getting a leg of that old
-rooster.” He tramped out through the long cellar and dropped the
-heavy door behind him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0187">After breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled
-ourselves up and climbed into the cold front wagon-seat. As we
-approached the Shimerdas’ we heard the frosty whine of the pump
-and saw Ántonia, her head tied up and her cotton dress blown
-about her, throwing all her weight on the pump-handle as it went up
-and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over her shoulder, and
-catching up her pail of water, started at a run for the hole in the
-bank.</p>
-
-<p id="p0188">Jake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he
-would bring the provisions after he had blanketed his horses. We went
-slowly up the icy path toward the door sunk in the
-drawside.
-Blue puffs of smoke came from the stovepipe that stuck out through the
-grass and snow, but the wind whisked them roughly away.</p>
-
-<p id="p0189"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda opened the door before we<pb n="083" /><anchor id="Pg083" />
-knocked and seized grandmother’s hand. She did not say
-“How do!” as usual, but at once began to cry, talking very
-fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were tied up in
-rags, and looking about accusingly at every one.</p>
-
-<p id="p0190">The old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove,
-crouching over as if he were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the
-floor at his feet, her kitten in her lap. She peeped out at me and
-smiled, but, glancing up at her mother, hid again. Ántonia was
-washing pans and dishes in a dark corner. The crazy boy lay under the
-only window, stretched on a gunnysack stuffed with straw. As soon as
-we entered he threw a
-grainsack
-over the crack at the bottom of the door. The air in the cave was
-stifling, and it was very dark, too. A lighted lantern, hung over the
-stove, threw out a feeble yellow glimmer.</p>
-
-<p id="p0191"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda snatched off the covers of
-two barrels behind the door, and made us look into them. In one there
-were some potatoes that had been frozen and were rotting, in the other
-was a little pile of flour. Grandmother murmured something in
-embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman laughed scornfully, a<pb n="084" /><anchor id="Pg084" />
-kind of whinny-laugh, and catching up an empty coffee-pot from the
-shelf, shook it at us with a look positively vindictive.</p>
-
-<p id="p0192">Grandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia
-way, not admitting their stark need or her own remissness, until Jake
-arrived with the hamper, as if in direct answer to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda’s reproaches. Then the poor woman broke down. She
-dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid her face on her knees,
-and sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed to her, but called
-Ántonia to come and help empty the basket. Tony left her corner
-reluctantly. I had never seen her crushed like this before.</p>
-
-<p id="p0193">“You not mind my poor
-<foreign lang="cs">mamenka</foreign>,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden. She is so sad,” she whispered, as she
-wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things grandmother
-handed her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0194">The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft,
-gurgling noises and stroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time
-with a sack of potatoes. Grandmother looked about in perplexity.</p>
-
-<p id="p0195">“Have n’t you got any sort of cave or
-cellar outside, Ántonia? This is no place to keep vegetables.
-How did your potatoes get frozen?”</p>
-
-<pb n="085" /><anchor id="Pg085" />
-
-<p id="p0196">“We get from <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bushy, at the
-post-office,—what he throw out. We got no potatoes,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden,” Tony admitted mournfully.</p>
-
-<p id="p0197">When Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and
-stuffed up the door-crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow,
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda came out from behind the stove. He stood
-brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as if he were trying to
-clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and neat as usual, with
-his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took grandmother’s arm
-and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room. In the rear
-wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger than an
-oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth. When I got up on one of
-the stools and peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw.
-The old man held the lantern. “Yulka,” he said in a low,
-despairing voice, “Yulka; my Ántonia!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0198">Grandmother drew back. “You mean they sleep in
-there,—your girls?” He bowed his head.</p>
-
-<p id="p0199">Tony slipped under his arm. “It is very cold on
-the floor, and this is warm like the badger hole. I like for sleep
-there,” she insisted eagerly. “My
-<foreign lang="cs">mamenka</foreign>
-have nice bed,<pb n="086" /><anchor id="Pg086" />
-with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie. See, Jim?” She
-pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against the wall
-for himself before the Shimerdas came.</p>
-
-<p id="p0200">Grandmother sighed. “Sure enough, where
-<emph>would</emph> you sleep, dear! I don’t doubt
-you’re warm there. You’ll have a better house after while,
-Ántonia, and then you’ll forget these hard
-times.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0201"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda made grandmother sit down
-on the only chair and pointed his wife to a stool beside her. Standing
-before them with his hand on Ántonia’s shoulder, he
-talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated. He wanted us to
-know that they were not beggars in the old country; he made good
-wages, and his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with more
-than a thousand dollars in savings, after their passage money was
-paid. He had in some way lost on exchange in New York, and the railway
-fare to Nebraska was more than they had expected. By the time they
-paid Krajiek for the land, and bought his horses and oxen and some old
-farm machinery, they had very little money left. He wished grandmother
-to know, however, that he still had some money. If they<pb n="087" /><anchor id="Pg087" />
-could get through until spring came, they would buy a cow and chickens
-and plant a garden, and would then do very well. Ambrosch and
-Ántonia were both old enough to work in the fields, and they
-were willing to work. But the snow and the bitter weather had
-disheartened them all.</p>
-
-<p id="p0202">Ántonia explained that her father meant to
-build a new house for them in the spring; he and Ambrosch had already
-split the logs for it, but the logs were all buried in the snow, along
-the creek where they had been felled.</p>
-
-<p id="p0203">While grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I
-sat down on the floor with Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek
-slid cautiously toward us and began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I
-knew he wanted to make his queer noises for me—to bark like a
-dog or whinny like a horse,—but he did not dare in the
-presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be agreeable, poor
-fellow, as if he had it on his mind that he must make up for his
-deficiencies.</p>
-
-<p id="p0204"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda grew more calm and
-reasonable before our visit was over, and, while Ántonia
-translated, put in a word now and then<pb n="088" /><anchor id="Pg088" />
-on her own account. The woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases
-whenever she heard English spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her
-wooden chest and brought out a bag made of bed-ticking, about as long
-as a flour sack and half as wide, stuffed full of something. At sight
-of it, the crazy boy began to smack his lips. When <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the contents with her hand, it
-gave out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent, even among the other
-odors of that cave. She measured a teacup full, tied it up in a bit of
-sacking, and presented it ceremoniously to grandmother.</p>
-
-<p id="p0205">“For cook,” she announced. “Little
-now; be very much when cook,” spreading out her hands as if to
-indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon. “Very good. You
-no have in this country. All things for eat better in my
-country.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0206">“Maybe so, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda,”
-grandmother said drily. “I can’t say but I prefer our
-bread to yours, myself.”</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image04.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<p id="p0207">Ántonia undertook to explain. “This very
-good, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden,”—she clasped her hands
-as if she could not express how good,—“it make very much
-when you cook, like what<pb n="089" /><anchor id="Pg089" />
-my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in the gravy,—oh, so good!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0208">All the way home grandmother and Jake talked about
-how easily good Christian people could forget they were their
-brothers’ keepers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0209">“I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and
-sisters are hard to keep. Where’s a body to begin, with these
-people? They’re wanting in everything, and most of all in
-horse-sense. Nobody can give ’em that, I guess. Jimmy, here, is
-about as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon that
-boy Ambrosch has any real push in him?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0210">“He’s a worker, all right, mam, and
-he’s got some ketch-on about him; but he’s a mean one.
-Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and then,
-ag’in, they can be too mean.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0211">That night, while grandmother was getting supper, we
-opened the package <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda had given her. It was
-full of little brown chips that looked like the shavings of some root.
-They were as light as feathers, and the most noticeable thing about
-them was their penetrating, earthy odor. We could not determine
-whether they were animal or vegetable.</p>
-
-<p id="p0212">“They might be dried meat from some<pb n="090" /><anchor id="Pg090" />
-queer beast, Jim. They ain’t dried fish, and they never grew on
-stalk or vine. I’m afraid of ’em. Anyhow, I should
-n’t want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with
-old clothes and goose pillows.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0213">She threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a
-corner of one of the chips I held in my hand, and chewed it
-tentatively. I never forgot the strange taste; though it was many
-years before I knew that those little brown shavings, which the
-Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so jealously, were dried
-mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some deep Bohemian
-forest …</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-11" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="091" /><anchor id="Pg091" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XI</head>
-
-<p id="p0214"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">During</hi> the week
-before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of our household,
-for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. But on the
-21st of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down so
-thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the
-windmill—its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a
-shadow. The snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night
-that followed. The cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and
-resistless. The men could not go farther than the barns and corral.
-They sat about the house most of the day as if it were Sunday;
-greasing their boots, mending their suspenders, plaiting
-whiplashes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0215">On the morning of the 22d, grandfather announced at
-breakfast that it would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for
-Christmas purchases. Jake was sure he could get through on horseback,
-and bring home our things in saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the
-roads would be obliterated, and a newcomer<pb n="092" /><anchor id="Pg092" />
-in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would never
-allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain.</p>
-
-<p id="p0216">We decided to have a country Christmas, without any
-help from town. I had wanted to get some picture-books for Yulka and
-Ántonia; even Yulka was able to read a little now. Grandmother
-took me into the ice-cold storeroom, where she had some bolts of
-gingham and sheeting. She cut squares of cotton cloth and we sewed
-them together into a book. We bound it between pasteboards, which I
-covered with brilliant calico, representing scenes from a circus. For
-two days I sat at the dining-room table, pasting this book full of
-pictures for Yulka. We had files of those good old family magazines
-which used to publish colored lithographs of popular paintings, and I
-was allowed to use some of these. I took “Napoleon Announcing
-the Divorce to Josephine” for my frontispiece. On the white
-pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I had
-brought from my “old country.” Fuchs got out the old
-candle-moulds and made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy
-cake-cutters and baked gingerbread men and roosters,<pb n="093" /><anchor id="Pg093" />
-which we decorated with burnt sugar and red cinnamon drops.</p>
-
-<p id="p0217">On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things
-we were sending to the Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on
-grandfather’s gray gelding. When he mounted his horse at the
-door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung to his belt, and he gave
-grandmother a meaning look which told me he was planning a surprise
-for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from the
-sitting-room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west
-hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a
-coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through. I put on
-my cap and ran out to meet Jake. When I got to the pond I could see
-that he was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel. He used
-to help my father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had
-not forgotten how much I liked them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0218">By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling
-little tree in a corner of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas
-Eve. After supper we all gathered there, and even grandfather, reading
-his paper by the table, looked up with friendly interest now and then.<pb n="094" /><anchor id="Pg094" />
-The cedar was about five feet high and very shapely. We hung it with
-the gingerbread animals, strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which
-Fuchs had fitted into pasteboard sockets. Its real splendors, however,
-came from the most unlikely place in the world—from
-Otto’s cowboy trunk. I had never seen anything in that trunk but
-old boots and spurs and pistols, and a fascinating mixture of yellow
-leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker’s wax. From under the
-lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly colored paper
-figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand alone. They had
-been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in Austria. There
-was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were the three
-kings, gorgeously appareled, and the ox and the ass and the shepherds;
-there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, singing;
-there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the three
-kings. Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and
-stories nestled like birds in its branches. Grandmother said it
-reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool
-under it for a snow-field, and Jake’s pocket-mirror for a frozen
-lake.</p>
-
-<pb n="095" /><anchor id="Pg095" />
-
-<p id="p0219">I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working
-about the table in the lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so
-rudely moulded that his face seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with
-his half-ear and the savage scar that made his upper lip curl so
-ferociously under his twisted mustache. As I remember them, what
-unprotected faces they were; their very roughness and violence made
-them defenseless. These boys had no practiced manner behind which they
-could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had only their hard
-fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of those
-drifting, case-hardened laborers who never marry or have children of
-their own. Yet he was so fond of children!</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-12" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="096" /><anchor id="Pg096" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XII</head>
-
-<p id="p0220"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">On</hi> Christmas
-morning, when I got down to the kitchen, the men were just coming in
-from their morning chores—the horses and pigs always had their
-breakfast before we did. Jake and Otto shouted
-“Merry Christmas”! to me, and winked at each other when they saw the waffle-irons on the
-stove. Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday
-coat. Morning prayers were longer than usual. He read the chapters
-from <abbr>St.</abbr> Matthew about the birth of Christ, and as we
-listened it all seemed like something that had happened lately, and
-near at hand. In his prayer he thanked the Lord for the first
-Christmas, and for all that it had meant to the world ever since. He
-gave thanks for our food and comfort, and prayed for the poor and
-destitute in great cities, where the struggle for life was harder than
-it was here with us. Grandfather’s prayers were often very
-interesting. He had the gift of simple and moving expression. Because
-he talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not<pb n="097" /><anchor id="Pg097" />
-worn dull from constant use. His prayers reflected what he was
-thinking about at the time, and it was chiefly through them that we
-got to know his feelings and his views about things.</p>
-
-<p id="p0221">After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake
-told us how pleased the Shimerdas had been with their presents; even
-Ambrosch was friendly and went to the creek with him to cut the
-Christmas tree. It was a soft gray day outside, with heavy clouds
-working across the sky, and occasional squalls of snow. There were
-always odd jobs to be done about the barn on holidays, and the men
-were busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played dominoes, while Otto
-wrote a long letter home to his mother. He always wrote to her on
-Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he was, and no matter how long
-it had been since his last letter. All afternoon he sat in the
-dining-room. He would write for a while, then sit idle, his clenched
-fist lying on the table, his eyes following the pattern of the
-oilcloth. He spoke and wrote his own language so seldom that it came
-to him awkwardly. His effort to remember entirely absorbed him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0222">At about four o’clock a visitor appeared:<pb n="098" /><anchor id="Pg098" />
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda, wearing his rabbit-skin cap and collar, and
-new mittens his wife had knitted. He had come to thank us for the
-presents, and for all grandmother’s kindness to his family. Jake
-and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat about the stove,
-enjoying the deepening gray of the winter afternoon and the atmosphere
-of comfort and security in my grandfather’s house. This feeling
-seemed completely to take possession of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda. I
-suppose, in the crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to
-believe that peace and order had vanished from the earth, or existed
-only in the old world he had left so far behind. He sat still and
-passive, his head resting against the back of the wooden
-rocking-chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms. His face had a look of
-weariness and pleasure, like that of sick people when they feel relief
-from pain. Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass of Virginia
-apple-brandy after his long walk in the cold, and when a faint flush
-came up in his cheeks, his features might have been cut out of a
-shell, they were so transparent. He said almost nothing, and smiled
-rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense of his utter
-content.</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image05.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<pb n="099" /><anchor id="Pg099" />
-
-<p id="p0223">As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the
-Christmas tree before the lamp was brought. When the candle ends sent
-up their conical yellow flames, all the colored figures from Austria
-stood out clear and full of meaning against the green boughs.
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda rose, crossed himself, and quietly knelt
-down before the tree, his head sunk forward. His long body formed a
-letter “<abbr>S.</abbr>” I saw grandmother look
-apprehensively at grandfather. He was rather narrow in religious
-matters, and sometimes spoke out and hurt people’s feelings.
-There had been nothing strange about the tree before, but now, with
-some one kneeling before it,—images, candles, …
-Grandfather merely put his finger-tips to his brow and bowed his
-venerable head, thus Protestantizing the atmosphere.</p>
-
-<p id="p0224">We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He
-needed little urging. As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me
-that he liked to look at us, and that our faces were open books to
-him. When his deep-seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were
-looking far ahead into the future for me, down the road I would have
-to travel.</p>
-
-<p id="p0225">At nine o’clock <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda
-lighted one<pb n="100" /><anchor id="Pg100" />
-of our lanterns and put on his overcoat and fur collar. He stood in
-the little entry hall, the lantern and his fur cap under his arm,
-shaking hands with us. When he took grandmother’s hand, he bent
-over it as he always did, and said slowly, “Good wo-man!”
-He made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap and went off in
-the dark. As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfather looked at
-me searchingly. “The prayers of all good people are good,”
-he said quietly.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-13" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="101" /><anchor id="Pg101" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XIII</head>
-
-<p id="p0226"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">The</hi> week following
-Christmas brought in a thaw, and by New Year’s Day all the world
-about us was a broth of gray slush, and the guttered slope between the
-windmill and the barn was running black water. The soft black earth
-stood out in patches along the roadsides. I resumed all my chores,
-carried in the cobs and wood and water, and spent the afternoons at
-the barn, watching Jake shell corn with a hand-sheller.</p>
-
-<p id="p0227">One morning, during this interval of fine weather,
-Ántonia and her mother rode over on one of their shaggy old
-horses to pay us a visit. It was the first time <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda had been to our house, and she ran about examining our
-carpets and curtains and furniture, all the while commenting upon them
-to her daughter in an envious, complaining tone. In the kitchen she
-caught up an iron pot that stood on the back of the stove and said:
-“You got many, Shimerdas no got.” I thought it weak-minded
-of grandmother to give the pot to her.</p>
-
-<pb n="102" /><anchor id="Pg102" />
-
-<p id="p0228">After dinner, when she was helping to wash the
-dishes, she said, tossing her head: “You got many things for
-cook. If I got all things like you, I make much better.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0229">She was a conceited, boastful old thing, and even
-misfortune could not humble her. I was so annoyed that I felt coldly
-even toward Ántonia and listened unsympathetically when she
-told me her father was not well.</p>
-
-<p id="p0230">“My papa sad for the old country. He not look
-good. He never make music any more. At home he play violin all the
-time; for weddings and for dance. Here never. When I beg him for play,
-he shake his head no. Some days he take his violin out of his box and
-make with his fingers on the strings, like this, but never he make the
-music. He don’t like this kawn-tree.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0231">“People who don’t like this country ought
-to stay at home,” I said severely. “We don’t make
-them come here.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0232">“He not want to come, nev-er!” she burst
-out. “My
-<foreign lang="cs">mamenka</foreign>
-make him come. All the time she say: ‘America big country; much
-money, much land for my boys, much husband for my girls.’ My
-papa, he cry for leave his old friends what make music with him. He<pb n="103" /><anchor id="Pg103" />
-love very much the man what play the long horn like this”—she indicated a slide trombone. “They go to school
-together and are friends from boys. But my mama, she want Ambrosch for
-be rich, with many cattle.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0233">“Your mama,” I said angrily, “wants
-other people’s things.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0234">“Your grandfather is rich,” she retorted
-fiercely. “Why he not help my papa? Ambrosch be rich, too, after
-while, and he pay back. He is very smart boy. For Ambrosch my mama
-come here.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0235">Ambrosch was considered the important person in the
-family. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda and Ántonia always deferred
-to him, though he was often surly with them and contemptuous toward
-his father. Ambrosch and his mother had everything their own way.
-Though Ántonia loved her father more than she did any one else,
-she stood in awe of her elder brother.</p>
-
-<p id="p0236">After I watched Ántonia and her mother go over
-the hill on their miserable horse, carrying our iron pot with them, I
-turned to grandmother, who had taken up her darning, and said I hoped
-that snooping old woman would n’t come to see us any more.</p>
-
-<p id="p0237">Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright<pb n="104" /><anchor id="Pg104" />
-needle across a hole in Otto’s sock. “She’s not old,
-Jim, though I expect she seems old to you. No, I would n’t mourn
-if she never came again. But, you see, a body never knows what traits
-poverty might bring out in ’em. It makes a woman grasping to see
-her children want for things. Now read me a chapter in ‘The
-Prince of the House of David.’ Let’s forget the
-Bohemians.”</p>
- <p id="p0238">We had three weeks of this mild, open weather. The
-cattle in the corral ate corn almost as fast as the men could shell it
-for them, and we hoped they would be ready for an early market. One
-morning the two big bulls, Gladstone and Brigham Young, thought spring
-had come, and they began to tease and butt at each other across the
-barbed wire that separated them. Soon they got angry. They bellowed
-and pawed up the soft earth with their hoofs, rolling their eyes and
-tossing their heads. Each withdrew to a far corner of his own corral,
-and then they made for each other at a gallop. Thud, thud, we could
-hear the impact of their great heads, and their bellowing shook the
-pans on the kitchen shelves. Had they not been dehorned, they would
-have torn each other to pieces. Pretty<pb n="105" /><anchor id="Pg105" />
-soon the fat steers took it up and began butting and horning each
-other. Clearly, the affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and
-watched admiringly while Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork
-and prodded the bulls again and again, finally driving them apart.</p>
-
-<p id="p0239">The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh
-birthday, the 20th of January. When I went down to breakfast that
-morning, Jake and Otto came in white as snow-men, beating their hands
-and stamping their feet. They began to laugh boisterously when they
-saw me, calling:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0240">“You’ve got a birthday present this time,
-Jim, and no mistake. They was a full-grown blizzard ordered for
-you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0241">All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this
-time, it simply spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds
-being emptied. That afternoon the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the
-men brought in their tools and made two great wooden shovels with long
-handles. Neither grandmother nor I could go out in the storm, so Jake
-fed the chickens and brought in a pitiful contribution of eggs.</p>
-
-<p id="p0242">Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach
-the barn—and the snow was still<pb n="106" /><anchor id="Pg106" />
-falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my
-grandfather had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not
-try to reach the cattle—they were fat enough to go without
-their corn for a day or two; but to-morrow we must feed them and thaw
-out their water-tap so that they could drink. We could not so much as
-see the corrals, but we knew the steers were over there, huddled
-together under the north bank. Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by
-this time, were probably warming each other’s backs.
-“This’ll take the bile out of ’em!” Fuchs
-remarked gleefully.</p>
-
-<p id="p0243">At noon that day the hens had not been heard from.
-After dinner Jake and Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them,
-stretched their stiff arms and plunged again into the drifts. They
-made a tunnel under the snow to the henhouse, with walls so solid that
-grandmother and I could walk back and forth in it. We found the
-chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had come to stay. One old
-rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid lump of ice in their
-water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, the hens set up
-a great cackling and flew about clumsily,<pb n="107" /><anchor id="Pg107" />
-scattering down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always
-resentful of captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried
-to poke their ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five
-o’clock the chores were done—just when it was time to
-begin them all over again! That was a strange, unnatural sort of
-day.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-14" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="108" /><anchor id="Pg108" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XIV</head>
-
-<p id="p0244"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">On</hi> the morning of
-the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, I seemed to
-know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in the
-kitchen—grandmother’s was so shrill that I knew she must
-be almost beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with
-delight. What could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes.
-Perhaps the barn had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death;
-perhaps a neighbor was lost in the storm.</p>
-
-<p id="p0245">Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before
-the stove with his hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their
-boots and were rubbing their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots
-were steaming, and they both looked exhausted. On the bench behind the
-stove lay a man, covered up with a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to
-the dining-room. I obeyed reluctantly. I watched her as she came and
-went, carrying dishes. Her lips were tightly compressed and she kept
-whispering to herself: “Oh, dear Saviour!” “Lord,
-Thou knowest!”</p>
-
-<pb n="109" /><anchor id="Pg109" />
-
-<p id="p0246">Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me:
-“Jimmy, we will not have prayers this morning, because we have a
-great deal to do. Old <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda is dead, and his
-family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in the middle of
-the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys have had a
-hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That is
-Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0247">After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of
-coffee, they began to talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother’s
-warning glances. I held my tongue, but I listened with all my ears.</p>
-
-<p id="p0248">“No, sir,” Fuchs said in answer to a
-question from grandfather, “nobody heard the gun go off.
-Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a road, and the
-women folks
-was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch come in it was dark and
-he did n’t see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of queer. One of
-’em ripped around and got away from him—bolted clean out
-of the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He
-got a lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen
-him.”</p>
-
-<pb n="110" /><anchor id="Pg110" />
-
-<p id="p0249">“Poor soul, poor soul!” grandmother
-groaned. “I’d like to think he never done it. He was
-always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How could he forget
-himself and bring this on us!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0250">“I don’t think he was out of his head for
-a minute, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden,” Fuchs declared. “He
-done everything natural. You know he was always sort of fixy, and fixy
-he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed hisself all
-over after the girls was done the dishes. Ántonia heated the
-water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after
-he was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and
-said he was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to
-the barn and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to
-the ox stalls, where he always slept. When we found him, everything
-was decent except,”—Fuchs wrinkled his brow and
-hesitated,—“except what he could n’t nowise
-foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the bed.
-He’d took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it
-smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the
-neck and rolled up his sleeves.”</p>
-
-<pb n="111" /><anchor id="Pg111" />
-
-<p id="p0251">“I don’t see how he could do it!”
-grandmother kept saying.</p>
-
-<p id="p0252">Otto misunderstood her. “Why, mam, it was
-simple enough; he pulled the trigger with his big toe. He layed over
-on his side and put the end of the barrel in his mouth, then he drew
-up one foot and felt for the trigger. He found it all right!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0253">“Maybe he did,” said Jake grimly.
-“There’s something mighty queer about it.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0254">“Now what do you mean, Jake?” grandmother
-asked sharply.</p>
-
-<p id="p0255">“Well, mam, I found Krajiek’s axe under
-the manger, and I picks it up and carries it over to the corpse, and I
-take my oath it just fit the gash in the front of the old man’s
-face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin’ round, pale and
-quiet, and when he seen me examinin’ the axe, he begun
-whimperin’, ‘My God, man, don’t do that!’
-‘I reckon I’m a-goin’ to look into this,’ says
-I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about wringin’ his
-hands. ‘They’ll hang me!’ says he. ‘My God,
-they’ll hang me sure!’”</p>
-
-<p id="p0256">Fuchs spoke up impatiently. “Krajiek’s
-gone silly, Jake, and so have you. The old man would n’t have
-made all them<pb n="112" /><anchor id="Pg112" />
-preparations for Krajiek to murder him, would he? It don’t hang
-together. The gun was right beside him when Ambrosch found
-him.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0257">“Krajiek could ’a’ put it there,
-could n’t he?” Jake demanded.</p>
-
-<p id="p0258">Grandmother broke in excitedly: “See here, Jake
-Marpole, don’t you go trying to add murder to suicide.
-We’re deep enough in trouble. Otto reads you too many of them
-detective stories.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0259">“It will be easy to decide all that,
-Emmaline,” said grandfather quietly. “If he shot himself
-in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the inside
-outward.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0260">“Just so it is, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden,”
-Otto affirmed. “I seen bunches of hair and stuff sticking to the
-poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up there by gunshot, no
-question.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0261">Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the
-Shimerdas
-with him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0262">“There is nothing you can do,” he said
-doubtfully. “The body can’t be touched until we get the
-coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a matter of several
-days, this weather.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0263">“Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway,
-and say a word of comfort to them poor<pb n="113" /><anchor id="Pg113" />
-little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a right
-hand to him. He might have thought of her. He’s left her alone
-in a hard world.” She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was
-now eating his breakfast at the kitchen table.</p>
-
-<p id="p0264">Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all
-night, was going to make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the
-priest and the coroner. On the gray gelding, our best horse, he would
-try to pick his way across the country with no roads to guide him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0265">“Don’t you worry about me,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden,” he said cheerfully, as he put on a
-second pair of socks. “I’ve got a good nose for
-directions, and I never did need much sleep. It’s the gray
-I’m worried about. I’ll save him what I can, but
-it’ll strain him, as sure as I’m telling you!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0266">“This is no time to be over-considerate of
-animals, Otto; do the best you can for yourself. Stop at the Widow
-Steavens’s for dinner. She’s a good woman, and
-she’ll do well by you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0267">After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I
-saw a side of him I had not seen before. He was deeply, even
-slavishly, devout.<pb n="114" /><anchor id="Pg114" />
-He did not say a word all morning, but sat with his rosary in his
-hands, praying, now silently, now aloud. He never looked away from his
-beads, nor lifted his hands except to cross himself. Several times the
-poor boy fell asleep where he sat, wakened with a start, and began to
-pray again.</p>
-
-<p id="p0268">No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas’ until a
-road was broken, and that would be a day’s job. Grandfather came
-from the barn on one of our big black horses, and Jake lifted
-grandmother up behind him. She wore her black hood and was bundled up
-in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy white beard inside his
-overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set off, I thought. Jake
-and Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black and my pony,
-carrying bundles of clothes that we had got together for
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda. I watched them go past the pond and over
-the hill by the drifted cornfield. Then, for the first time, I
-realized that I was alone in the house.</p>
-
-<p id="p0269">I felt a considerable extension of power and
-authority, and was anxious to acquit myself creditably. I carried in
-cobs and wood from the long cellar, and filled both the stoves. I
-remembered that in the hurry and excitement<pb n="115" /><anchor id="Pg115" />
-of the morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had
-not been gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their
-corn, emptied the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with
-water. After the cat had had his milk, I could think of nothing else
-to do, and I sat down to get warm. The quiet was delightful, and the
-ticking clock was the most pleasant of companions. I got
-“Robinson Crusoe” and tried to read, but his life on the
-island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I looked with
-satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed upon me
-that if <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s soul were lingering about in
-this world at all, it would be here, in our house, which had been more
-to his liking than any other in the neighborhood. I remembered his
-contented face when he was with us on Christmas Day. If he could have
-lived with us, this terrible thing would never have happened.</p>
-
-<p id="p0270">I knew it was homesickness that had killed
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda, and I wondered whether his released spirit
-would not eventually find its way back to his own country. I thought
-of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, to Baltimore,—and then the great<pb n="116" /><anchor id="Pg116" />
-wintry ocean. No, he would not at once set out upon that long journey.
-Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of cold and crowding and the
-struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting now in this quiet
-house.</p>
-
-<p id="p0271">I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not
-wish to disturb him. I went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked
-away so snugly underground, always seemed to me the heart and center
-of the house. There, on the bench behind the stove, I thought and
-thought about <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda. Outside I could hear the wind
-singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It was as if I had let the old
-man in out of the tormenting winter, and were sitting there with him.
-I went over all that Ántonia had ever told me about his life
-before he came to this country; how he used to play the fiddle at
-weddings and dances. I thought about the friends he had mourned to
-leave, the trombone-player, the great forest full of game,—belonging, as Ántonia said, to the “nobles,”—from which she and her mother used to steal wood on moonlight
-nights. There was a white hart that lived in that forest, and if any
-one killed it, he would be hanged, she said. Such vivid pictures came
-to me that they might<pb n="117" /><anchor id="Pg117" />
-have been <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s memories, not yet faded
-out from the air in which they had haunted him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0272">It had begun to grow dark when my household returned,
-and grandmother was so tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I
-got supper, and while we were washing the dishes he told me in loud
-whispers about the state of things over at the Shimerdas’.
-Nobody could touch the body until the coroner came. If any one did,
-something terrible would happen, apparently. The dead man was frozen
-through, “just as stiff as a dressed turkey you hang out to
-freeze,” Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the
-barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of
-blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there
-was no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging
-over <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s head. Ántonia and
-Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down to pray beside him. The
-crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel the cold. I believed
-he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to be thought
-insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor Marek!</p>
-
-<pb n="118" /><anchor id="Pg118" />
-
-<p id="p0273">Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than
-he would have supposed him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned
-about getting a priest, and about his father’s soul, which he
-believed was in a place of torment and would remain there until his
-family and the priest had prayed a great deal for him. “As I
-understand it,” Jake concluded, “it will be a matter of
-years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he’s in
-torment.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0274">“I don’t believe it,” I said
-stoutly. “I almost know it is n’t true.” I did not,
-of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all
-afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I
-went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me
-crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and
-shuddered. But <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda had not been rich and
-selfish; he had only been so unhappy that he could not live any
-longer.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-15" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="119" /><anchor id="Pg119" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XV</head>
-
-<p id="p0275"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Otto Fuchs</hi> got
-back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that the
-coroner would reach the Shimerdas’ sometime that afternoon, but
-the missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred
-miles away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few
-hours’ sleep at the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the
-gray gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse
-afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had taken all the
-endurance out of him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0276">Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young
-Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on
-his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That
-was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young
-fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of
-life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim
-business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his
-felt boots and long<pb n="120" /><anchor id="Pg120" />
-wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of
-grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep,
-rolling voice which seemed older than he.</p>
-
-<p id="p0277">“I want to thank you very much,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers
-from my kawn-tree.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0278">He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one
-eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and
-spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before,
-but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began
-he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along
-with the little children. He told me he had a nice
-“lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school.</p>
-
-<p id="p0279">At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he
-usually did to strangers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0280">“Will they be much disappointed because we
-cannot get a priest?” he asked.</p>
-
-<p id="p0281">Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very
-bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked
-straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0282">Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We
-believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe<pb n="121" /><anchor id="Pg121" />
-that <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator
-as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only
-intercessor.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0283">The young man shook his head. “I know how you
-think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much.
-I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0284">We asked him what he meant.</p>
-
-<p id="p0285">He glanced around the table. “You want I shall
-tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the
-priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the
-Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come,
-when the Austrians
-fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the
-cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day
-long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and
-I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody
-that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But
-we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and
-that body of Christ, and it preserve us.” He paused, looking at
-grandfather. “That I know, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden, for it
-happened to myself. All the soldiers know,<pb n="122" /><anchor id="Pg122" />
-too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all
-the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers,
-when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and
-kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad
-for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad
-way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0286">We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to
-admire his frank, manly faith.</p>
-
-<p id="p0287">“I am always glad to meet a young man who
-thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather,
-“and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s
-care when you were among the soldiers.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0288">After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should
-hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road
-through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was
-necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood,
-was set to work on a coffin.</p>
-
-<p id="p0289">Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we
-admired it, he told us that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and
-the young man who “batched” with him, Jan Bouska,<pb n="123" /><anchor id="Pg123" />
-who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the windmill
-I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his
-way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely
-hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the
-horses would emerge black and shining.</p>
-
-<p id="p0290">Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought
-from the barn and carried down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards
-from a pile of planks grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall
-to make a new floor for the oats bin. When at last the lumber and
-tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and the cold
-drafts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the
-Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to
-work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did not touch his
-tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of paper, and
-measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus engaged,
-he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his half-ear.
-Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At last he
-folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us.</p>
-
-<pb n="124" /><anchor id="Pg124" />
-
-<p id="p0291">“The hardest part of my job’s
-done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of it that
-comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The
-last time I made one of these, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden,” he
-continued, as he sorted and tried his chisels, “was for a fellow
-in the Black Tiger mine, up above Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of
-that mine goes right into the face of the cliff, and they used to put
-us in a bucket and run us over on a trolley and shoot us into the
-shaft. The bucket traveled across a box cañon three hundred
-feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes had fell out of
-that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll
-believe it, they went to work the next day. You can’t kill a
-Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it
-turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now,
-and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for
-him. It’s a handy thing to know, when you knock about like
-I’ve done.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0292">“We’d be hard put to it now, if you did
-n’t know, Otto,” grandmother said.</p>
-
-<p id="p0293">“Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with
-modest pride. “So few folks does know how to make<pb n="125" /><anchor id="Pg125" />
-a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if
-there’ll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m
-not at all particular that way.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0294">All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one
-could hear the panting wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of
-the plane. They were such cheerful noises, seeming to promise new
-things for living people: it was a pity that those freshly planed pine
-boards were to be put underground so soon. The lumber was hard to work
-because it was full of frost, and the boards gave off a sweet smell of
-pine woods, as the heap of yellow shavings grew higher and higher. I
-wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to cabinet-work, he settled down to
-it with such ease and content. He handled the tools as if he liked the
-feel of them; and when he planed, his hands went back and forth over
-the boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he were blessing them. He
-broke out now and then into German hymns, as if this occupation
-brought back old times to him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0295">At four o’clock <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bushy, the
-postmaster, with another neighbor who lived east of us, stopped in to
-get warm. They were on their<pb n="126" /><anchor id="Pg126" />
-way to the Shimerdas’. The news of what had happened over there
-had somehow got abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother
-gave the visitors sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers
-were gone, the brother of the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black
-Hawk road, drew up at our door, and after him came the father of the
-German family, our nearest neighbors on the south. They dismounted and
-joined us in the dining-room. They were all eager for any details
-about the suicide, and they were greatly concerned as to where
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic
-cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could
-get so far. Besides, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bushy and grandmother were sure
-that a man who had killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic
-graveyard. There was a burying-ground over by the Norwegian church,
-west of Squaw Creek; perhaps the Norwegians would take
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda in.</p>
-
-<p id="p0296">After our visitors rode away in single file over the
-hill, we returned to the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing
-for a chocolate cake, and Otto again filled the house with the
-exciting, expectant song of the plane.<pb n="127" /><anchor id="Pg127" />
-One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more than
-usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but “Only
-papers, to-day,” or, “I’ve got a sackful of mail for
-ye,” until this afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear
-woman; to herself or to the Lord, if there was no one else to listen;
-but grandfather was naturally taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often
-so tired after supper that I used to feel as if I were surrounded by a
-wall of silence. Now every one seemed eager to talk. That afternoon
-Fuchs told me story after story; about the Black Tiger mine, and about
-violent deaths and casual buryings, and the queer fancies of dying
-men. You never really knew a man, he said, until you saw him die. Most
-men were game, and went without a grudge.</p>
-
-<p id="p0297">The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that
-grandfather would bring the coroner back with him to spend the night.
-The officers of the Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting
-and decided that the Norwegian graveyard could not extend its
-hospitality to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda.</p>
-
-<p id="p0298">Grandmother was indignant. “If these foreigners
-are so clannish, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bushy, we’ll have<pb n="128" /><anchor id="Pg128" />
-to have an American graveyard that will be more liberal-minded.
-I’ll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If
-anything was to happen to me, I don’t want the Norwegians
-holding inquisitions over me to see whether I’m good enough to
-be laid amongst ’em.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0299">Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton
-Jelinek, and that important person, the coroner. He was a mild,
-flurried old man, a Civil War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty.
-He seemed to find this case very perplexing, and said if it had not
-been for grandfather he would have sworn out a warrant against
-Krajiek. “The way he acted, and the way his axe fit the wound,
-was enough to convict any man.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0300">Although it was perfectly clear that <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda had killed himself, Jake and the coroner thought something
-ought to be done to Krajiek because he behaved like a guilty man. He
-was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps he even felt some
-stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old man’s
-misery and loneliness.</p>
-
-<p id="p0301">At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate
-cake, which I had hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated<pb n="129" /><anchor id="Pg129" />
-condition, disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly
-about where they should bury <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda; I gathered
-that the neighbors were all disturbed and shocked about something. It
-developed that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda and Ambrosch wanted the old
-man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; indeed, under
-the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had explained to
-Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence and the
-roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross exactly on
-that corner. But Ambrosch only said, “It makes no
-matter.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0302">Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country
-there was some superstition to the effect that a suicide must be
-buried at the cross-roads.</p>
-
-<p id="p0303">Jelinek said he did n’t know; he seemed to
-remember hearing there had once been such a custom in Bohemia.
-“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda is made up her mind,” he
-added. “I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to
-all the neighbors; but she say so it must be. ‘There I will bury
-him, if I dig the grave myself,’ she say. I have to promise her
-I help Ambrosch make the grave to-morrow.”</p>
-
-<pb n="130" /><anchor id="Pg130" />
-
-<p id="p0304">Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial.
-“I don’t know whose wish should decide the matter, if not
-hers. But if she thinks she will live to see the people of this
-country ride over that old man’s head, she is
-mistaken.”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-16" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="131" /><anchor id="Pg131" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XVI</head>
-
-<p id="p0305"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps"><abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda</hi> lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they
-buried him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the
-grave, chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we
-breakfasted before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin.
-Jake and Jelinek went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from
-the pool of blood in which it was frozen fast to the ground.</p>
-
-<p id="p0306">When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas’
-house, we found the women-folk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the
-barn. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda sat crouching by the stove,
-Ántonia was washing dishes. When she saw me she ran out of her
-dark corner and threw her arms around me. “Oh, Jimmy,” she
-sobbed, “what you tink for my lovely papa!” It seemed to
-me that I could feel her heart breaking as she clung to me.</p>
-
-<p id="p0307"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda, sitting on the stump by
-the stove, kept looking over her shoulder toward the door while the
-neighbors were arriving. They came on horseback, all except the<pb n="132" /><anchor id="Pg132" />
-postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon over the only broken
-wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm eight miles down
-the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the cave-house, and
-it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to fall, and
-every one was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the burial
-over with.</p>
-
-<p id="p0308">Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda that it was time to start. After bundling
-her mother up in clothes the neighbors had brought, Ántonia put
-on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her father had
-made for her. Four men carried <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s box
-up the hill; Krajiek slunk along behind them. The coffin was too wide
-for the door, so it was put down on the slope outside. I slipped out
-from the cave and looked at <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda. He was lying on
-his side, with his knees drawn up. His body was draped in a black
-shawl, and his head was bandaged in white muslin, like a
-mummy’s; one of his long, shapely hands lay out on the black
-cloth; that was all one could see of him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0309"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda came out and placed an open<pb n="133" /><anchor id="Pg133" />
-prayer-book against the body, making the sign of the cross on the
-bandaged head with her fingers. Ambrosch knelt down and made the same
-gesture, and after him Ántonia and Marek. Yulka hung back. Her
-mother pushed her forward, and kept saying something to her over and
-over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put out her hand a little
-way, but she drew it back and began to cry wildly. She was afraid to
-touch the bandage. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda caught her by the
-shoulders and pushed her toward the coffin, but grandmother
-interfered.</p>
-
-<p id="p0310">“No, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda,” she
-said firmly, “I won’t stand by and see that child
-frightened into spasms. She is too little to understand what you want
-of her. Let her alone.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0311">At a look from grandfather, Fuchs and Jelinek placed
-the lid on the box, and began to nail it down over <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda. I was afraid to look at Ántonia. She put her arms
-round Yulka and held the little girl close to her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0312">The coffin was put into the wagon. We drove slowly
-away, against the fine, icy snow which cut our faces like a
-sand-blast. When we reached the grave, it looked a very little spot in
-that snow-covered waste. The men<pb n="134" /><anchor id="Pg134" />
-took the coffin to the edge of the hole and lowered it with ropes. We
-stood about watching them, and the powdery snow lay without melting on
-the caps and shoulders of the men and the shawls of the women. Jelinek
-spoke in a persuasive tone to <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda, and then
-turned to grandfather.</p>
-
-<p id="p0313">“She says, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden, she is very
-glad if you can make some prayer for him here in English, for the
-neighbors to understand.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0314">Grandmother looked anxiously at grandfather. He took
-off his hat, and the other men did likewise. I thought his prayer
-remarkable. I still remember it. He began, “Oh, great and just
-God, no man among us knows what the sleeper knows, nor is it for us to
-judge what lies between him and Thee.” He prayed that if any man
-there had been remiss toward the stranger come to a far country, God
-would forgive him and soften his heart. He recalled the promises to
-the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the way before
-this widow and her children, and to “incline the hearts of men
-to deal justly with her.” In closing, he said we were leaving
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda at “Thy judgment seat, which is also
-Thy mercy seat.”</p>
-
-<pb n="135" /><anchor id="Pg135" />
-
-<p id="p0315">All the time he was praying, grandmother watched him
-through the black fingers of her glove, and when he said
-“Amen,” I thought she looked satisfied with him. She
-turned to Otto and whispered, “Can’t you start a hymn,
-Fuchs? It would seem less heathenish.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0316">Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general
-approval of her suggestion, then began, “Jesus, Lover of my
-Soul,” and all the men and women took it up after him. Whenever
-I have heard the hymn since, it has made me remember that white waste
-and the little group of people; and the bluish air, full of fine,
-eddying snow, like long veils flying:—</p>
-
-<lg>
-<l rend="margin-left: 2" id="p0317">“While the nearer waters roll,</l>
-<l rend="margin-left: 2" id="p0318">While the tempest still is high.”</l>
-</lg>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p0319">Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were
-over, and the red grass had been ploughed under and under until it had
-almost disappeared from the prairie; when all the fields were under
-fence, and the roads no longer ran about like wild things, but
-followed the surveyed section-lines, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s
-grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and an
-unpainted wooden cross.<pb n="136" /><anchor id="Pg136" />
-As grandfather had predicted, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda never saw the
-roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a little to
-the east just there, and the road from the west swung out a little to
-the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was never
-mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moon or
-the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft gray
-rivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion,
-and in all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the
-dim superstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave
-there; and still more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the
-sentence—the error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of
-the soft earth roads along which the home-coming wagons rattled after
-sunset. Never a tired driver passed the wooden cross, I am sure,
-without wishing well to the sleeper.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-17" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="137" /><anchor id="Pg137" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XVII</head>
-
-<p id="p0320"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">When</hi> spring came,
-after that hard winter, one could not get enough of the nimble air.
-Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was
-over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch
-in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only—spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the
-vital essence of it everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in
-the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind—rising suddenly,
-sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed
-you and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down
-blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known that it was
-spring.</p>
-
-<p id="p0321">Everywhere now there was the smell of burning grass.
-Our neighbors burned off their pasture before the new grass made a
-start, so that the fresh growth would not be mixed with the dead stand
-of last year. Those light, swift fires, running about the country,
-seemed a part of the same kindling that was in the air.</p>
-
-<pb n="138" /><anchor id="Pg138" />
-
-<p id="p0322">The Shimerdas were in their new log house by then.
-The neighbors had helped them to build it in March. It stood directly
-in front of their old cave, which they used as a cellar. The family
-were now fairly equipped to begin their struggle with the soil. They
-had four comfortable rooms to live in, a new windmill,—bought
-on credit,—a chicken-house and poultry. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda had paid grandfather ten dollars for a milk cow, and was to
-give him fifteen more as soon as they harvested their first crop.</p>
-
-<p id="p0323">When I rode up to the Shimerdas’ one bright
-windy afternoon in April, Yulka ran out to meet me. It was to her,
-now, that I gave reading lessons; Ántonia was busy with other
-things. I tied my pony and went into the kitchen where
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda was baking bread, chewing poppy seeds as
-she worked. By this time she could speak enough English to ask me a
-great many questions about what our men were doing in the fields. She
-seemed to think that my elders withheld helpful information, and that
-from me she might get valuable secrets. On this occasion she asked me
-very craftily when grandfather expected to begin planting corn. I told
-her,<pb n="139" /><anchor id="Pg139" />
-adding that he thought we should have a dry spring and that the corn
-would not be held back by too much rain, as it had been last year.</p>
-
-<p id="p0324">She gave me a shrewd glance. “He not
-Jesus,” she blustered; “he not know about the wet and the
-dry.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0325">I did not answer her; what was the use? As I sat
-waiting for the hour when Ambrosch and Ántonia would return
-from the fields, I watched <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda at her work. She
-took from the oven a coffee-cake which she wanted to keep warm for
-supper, and wrapped it in a quilt stuffed with feathers. I have seen
-her put even a roast goose in this quilt to keep it hot. When the
-neighbors were there building the new house they saw her do this, and
-the story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their food in their
-feather beds.</p>
-
-<p id="p0326">When the sun was dropping low, Ántonia came up
-the big south draw with her team. How much older she had grown in
-eight months! She had come to us a child, and now she was a tall,
-strong young girl, although her fifteenth birthday had just slipped
-by. I ran out and met her as she brought her horses up to the windmill
-to water them. She<pb n="140" /><anchor id="Pg140" />
-wore the boots her father had so thoughtfully taken off before he shot
-himself, and his old fur cap. Her outgrown cotton dress switched about
-her calves, over the boot-tops. She kept her sleeves rolled up all
-day, and her arms and throat were burned as brown as a sailor’s.
-Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like the bole of a
-tree out of the turf. One sees that draft-horse neck among the peasant
-women in all old countries.</p>
-
-<p id="p0327">She greeted me gayly, and began at once to tell me
-how much ploughing she had done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on
-the north quarter, breaking sod with the oxen.</p>
-
-<p id="p0328">“Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day.
-I don’t want that Jake get more done in one day than me. I want
-we have very much corn this fall.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0329">While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each
-other, and then drank again, Ántonia sat down on the windmill
-step and rested her head on her hand. “You see the big prairie
-fire from your place last night? I hope your grandpa ain’t lose
-no stacks?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0330">“No, we did n’t. I came to ask you
-something, Tony. Grandmother wants to know if you can’t go to
-the term of school that begins<pb n="141" /><anchor id="Pg141" />
-next week over at the sod schoolhouse. She says there’s a good
-teacher, and you’d learn a lot.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0331">Ántonia stood up, lifting and dropping her
-shoulders as if they were stiff. “I ain’t got time to
-learn. I can work like mans now. My mother can’t say no more how
-Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work as much as him.
-School is all right for little boys. I help make this land one good
-farm.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0332">She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I
-walked beside her, feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful
-like her mother, I wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt
-something tense in her silence, and glancing up I saw that she was
-crying. She turned her face from me and looked off at the red streak
-of dying light, over the dark prairie.</p>
-
-<p id="p0333">I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for
-her, while she unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the
-house. Ambrosch had come in from the north quarter, and was watering
-his oxen at the tank.</p>
-
-<p id="p0334">Ántonia took my hand. “Sometime you will
-tell me all those nice things you learn at the<pb n="142" /><anchor id="Pg142" />
-school, won’t you, Jimmy?” she asked with a sudden rush of
-feeling in her voice. “My father, he went much to school. He
-know a great deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got
-here. He play horn and violin, and he read so many books that the
-priests in Bohemie come to talk to him. You won’t forget my
-father, Jim?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0335">“No,” I said, “I will never forget
-him.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0336"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda asked me to stay for
-supper. After Ambrosch and Ántonia had washed the field dust
-from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we
-sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda
-ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the
-mush we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake
-that had been kept warm in the feathers. Ántonia and Ambrosch
-were talking in Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more
-ploughing that day. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda egged them on,
-chuckling while she gobbled her food.</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image06.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Ántonia ploughing in the field</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<p id="p0337">Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English:
-“You take them ox to-morrow and try the sod plough. Then you not
-be so smart.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0338">His sister laughed. “Don’t be mad. I know<pb n="143" /><anchor id="Pg143" />
-it’s awful hard work for break sod. I milk the cow for you
-to-morrow, if you want.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0339"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda turned quickly to me.
-“That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say. If
-he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0340">“He does n’t talk about the fifteen
-dollars,” I exclaimed indignantly. “He does n’t find
-fault with people.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0341">“He say I break his saw when we build, and I
-never,” grumbled Ambrosch.</p>
-
-<p id="p0342">I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and
-lied about it. I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything
-was disagreeable to me. Ántonia ate so noisily now, like a man,
-and she yawned often at the table and kept stretching her arms over
-her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said, “Heavy field
-work’ll spoil that girl. She’ll lose all her nice ways and
-get rough ones.” She had lost them already.</p>
-
-<p id="p0343">After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring
-twilight. Since winter I had seen very little of Ántonia. She
-was out in the fields from sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to
-see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at the end of a row to
-chat for a<pb n="144" /><anchor id="Pg144" />
-moment, then gripped her plough-handles, clucked to her team, and
-waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she was now grown up and
-had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother make garden or
-sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Ántonia. When we
-complained of her, he only smiled and said, “She will help some
-fellow get ahead in the world.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0344">Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of
-things, or how much she could lift and endure. She was too proud of
-her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a
-girl ought not to do, and that the farmhands around the country joked
-in a nasty way about it. Whenever I saw her come up the furrow,
-shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her dress open at the neck,
-and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to think of the tone
-in which poor <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda, who could say so little, yet
-managed to say so much when he exclaimed, “My
-Án-tonia!”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-18" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="145" /><anchor id="Pg145" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XVIII</head>
-
-<p id="p0345"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">After</hi> I began to
-go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We were sixteen
-pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback and
-brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting,
-but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even
-with Ántonia for her indifference. Since the father’s
-death, Ambrosch was more than ever the head of the house and he seemed
-to direct the feelings as well as the fortunes of his women-folk.
-Ántonia often quoted his opinions to me, and she let me see
-that she admired him, while she thought of me only as a little boy.
-Before the spring was over, there was a distinct coldness between us
-and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way.</p>
-
-<p id="p0346">One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a
-horse-collar which Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not
-returned. It was a beautiful blue morning. The buffalo-peas were
-blooming in pink and purple masses along the roadside, and the larks,
-perched on<pb n="146" /><anchor id="Pg146" />
-last year’s dried sunflower stalks, were singing straight at the
-sun, their heads thrown back and their yellow breasts a-quiver. The
-wind blew about us in warm, sweet gusts. We rode slowly, with a
-pleasant sense of Sunday indolence.</p>
-
-<p id="p0347">We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a
-week-day. Marek was cleaning out the stable, and Ántonia and
-her mother were making garden, off across the pond in the draw-head.
-Ambrosch was up on the windmill tower, oiling the wheel. He came down,
-not very cordially. When Jake asked for the collar, he grunted and
-scratched his head. The collar belonged to grandfather, of course, and
-Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up.</p>
-
-<p id="p0348">“Now, don’t you say you have n’t
-got it, Ambrosch, because I know you have, and if you ain’t
-a-going to look for it, I will.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0349">Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the
-hill toward the stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days.
-Presently he returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used—trampled in the dirt and gnawed by rats until the hair was
-sticking out of it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0350">“This what you want?” he asked
-surlily.</p>
-
-<pb n="147" /><anchor id="Pg147" />
-
-<p id="p0351">Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come
-up under the rough stubble on his face. “That ain’t the
-piece of harness I loaned you, Ambrosch; or if it is, you’ve
-used it shameful. I ain’t a-going to carry such a looking thing
-back to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0352">Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. “All
-right,” he said coolly, took up his oil-can, and began to climb
-the mill. Jake caught him by the belt of his trousers and yanked him
-back. Ambrosch’s feet had scarcely touched the ground when he
-lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake’s stomach. Fortunately
-Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. This was not the
-sort of thing country boys did when they played at fisticuffs, and
-Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head—it
-sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped
-over, stunned.</p>
-
-<p id="p0353">We heard squeals, and looking up saw Ántonia
-and her mother coming on the run. They did not take the path around
-the pond, but plunged through the muddy water, without even lifting
-their skirts. They came on, screaming and clawing the air. By this
-time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was<pb n="148" /><anchor id="Pg148" />
-sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle.
-“Let’s get out of this, Jim,” he called.</p>
-
-<p id="p0354"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda threw her hands over her
-head and clutched as if she were going to pull down lightning.
-“Law, law!” she shrieked after us. “Law for knock my
-Ambrosch down!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0355">“I never like you no more, Jake and Jim
-Burden,” Ántonia panted. “No friends any
-more!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0356">Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second.
-“Well, you’re a damned ungrateful lot, the whole pack of
-you,” he shouted back. “I guess the Burdens can get along
-without you. You’ve been a sight of trouble to them,
-anyhow!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0357">We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine
-morning was spoiled for us. I had n’t a word to say, and poor
-Jake was white as paper and trembling all over. It made him sick to
-get so angry. “They ain’t the same, Jimmy,” he kept
-saying in a hurt tone. “These foreigners ain’t the same.
-You can’t trust ’em to be fair. It’s dirty to kick a
-feller. You heard how the women turned on you—and after all we
-went through on account of ’em last<pb n="149" /><anchor id="Pg149" />
-winter! They ain’t to be trusted. I don’t want to see you
-get too thick with any of ’em.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0358">“I’ll never be friends with them again,
-Jake,” I declared hotly. “I believe they are all like
-Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0359">Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his
-eye. He advised Jake to ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the
-peace, tell him he had knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine.
-Then if <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda was inclined to make trouble—her son was still under age—she would be forestalled.
-Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market the pig
-he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had
-started, we saw <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly
-driving by, looking neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out
-of sight down the Black Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had
-rather expected she would follow the matter up.</p>
-
-<p id="p0360">Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather
-had given him for that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake
-sold his pig in town that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd
-head that Jake had to sell his pig to pay his fine. This theory<pb n="150" /><anchor id="Pg150" />
-afforded the Shimerdas great satisfaction, apparently. For weeks
-afterward, whenever Jake and I met Ántonia on her way to the
-post-office, or going along the road with her work-team, she would
-clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing voice:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0361">“Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the
-slap!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0362">Otto pretended not to be surprised at
-Ántonia’s behavior. He only lifted his brows and said,
-“You can’t tell me anything new about a Czech; I’m
-an Austrian.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0363">Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our
-feud with the Shimerdas. Ambrosch and Ántonia always greeted
-him respectfully, and he asked them about their affairs and gave them
-advice as usual. He thought the future looked hopeful for them.
-Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he soon realized that his oxen were
-too heavy for any work except breaking sod, and he succeeded in
-selling them to a newly arrived German. With the money he bought
-another team of horses, which grandfather selected for him. Marek was
-strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never teach him to
-cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got<pb n="151" /><anchor id="Pg151" />
-through poor Marek’s thick head was that all exertion was
-meritorious. He always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and
-drove the blades so deep into the earth that the horses were soon
-exhausted.</p>
-
-<p id="p0364">In June Ambrosch went to work at <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Bushy’s for a week, and took Marek with him at full wages.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; she and
-Ántonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at
-night. While the two women were running the place alone, one of the
-new horses got colic and gave them a terrible fright.</p>
-
-<p id="p0365">Ántonia had gone down to the barn one night to
-see that all was well before she went to bed, and she noticed that one
-of the roans was swollen about the middle and stood with its head
-hanging. She mounted another horse, without waiting to saddle him, and
-hammered on our door just as we were going to bed. Grandfather
-answered her knock. He did not send one of his men, but rode back with
-her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece of carpet he kept for
-hot applications when our horses were sick. He found <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing
-her hands. It took but a few<pb n="152" /><anchor id="Pg152" />
-moments to release the gases pent up in the poor beast, and the two
-women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan visibly diminish in
-girth.</p>
-
-<p id="p0366">“If I lose that horse, <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Burden,” Ántonia exclaimed, “I never stay here till
-Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before
-morning.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0367">When Ambrosch came back from <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Bushy’s, we learned that he had given Marek’s wages to the
-priest at Black Hawk, for masses for their father’s soul.
-Grandmother thought Ántonia needed shoes more than
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda needed prayers, but grandfather said
-tolerantly, “If he can spare six dollars, pinched as he is, it
-shows he believes what he professes.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0368">It was grandfather who brought about a
-reconciliation with the Shimerdas. One morning he told us that the
-small grain was coming on so well, he thought he would begin to cut
-his wheat on the first of July. He would need more men, and if it were
-agreeable to every one he would engage Ambrosch for the reaping and
-thrashing, as the Shimerdas had no small grain of their own.</p>
-
-<p id="p0369">“I think, Emmaline,” he concluded,
-“I will<pb n="153" /><anchor id="Pg153" />
-ask Ántonia to come over and help you in the kitchen. She will
-be glad to earn something, and it will be a good time to end
-misunderstandings. I may as well ride over this morning and make
-arrangements. Do you want to go with me, Jim?” His tone told me
-that he had already decided for me.</p>
-
-<p id="p0370">After breakfast we set off together. When
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda saw us coming, she ran from her door down
-into the draw behind the stable, as if she did not want to meet us.
-Grandfather smiled to himself while he tied his horse, and we followed
-her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0371">Behind the barn we came upon a funny sight. The cow
-had evidently been grazing somewhere in the draw. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda had run to the animal, pulled up the lariat pin, and, when we
-came upon her, she was trying to hide the cow in an old cave in the
-bank. As the hole was narrow and dark, the cow held back, and the old
-woman was slapping and pushing at her hind quarters, trying to spank
-her into the draw-side.</p>
-
-<p id="p0372">Grandfather ignored her singular occupation and
-greeted her politely. “Good-morning, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda.
-Can you tell me where I will find Ambrosch? Which field?”</p>
-
-<pb n="154" /><anchor id="Pg154" />
-
-<p id="p0373">“He with the sod corn.” She pointed
-toward the north, still standing in front of the cow as if she hoped
-to conceal it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0374">“His sod corn will be good for fodder this
-winter,” said grandfather encouragingly. “And where is
-Ántonia?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0375">“She go with.” <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda
-kept wiggling her bare feet about nervously in the dust.</p>
-
-<p id="p0376">“Very well. I will ride up there. I want them
-to come over and help me cut my oats and wheat next month. I will pay
-them wages. Good-morning. By the way, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda,” he said as he turned up the path, “I think we
-may as well call it square about the cow.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0377">She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing
-that she did not understand, grandfather turned back. “You need
-not pay me anything more; no more money. The cow is yours.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0378">“Pay no more, keep cow?” she asked in a
-bewildered tone, her narrow eyes snapping at us in the sunlight.</p>
-
-<p id="p0379">“Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow.” He
-nodded.</p>
-
-<p id="p0380"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda dropped the rope, ran
-after us, and crouching down beside grandfather,<pb n="155" /><anchor id="Pg155" />
-she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been so much
-embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that seemed
-to bring the Old World very close.</p>
-
-<p id="p0381">We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: “I
-expect she thought we had come to take the cow away for certain, Jim.
-I wonder if she would n’t have scratched a little if we’d
-laid hold of that lariat rope!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0382">Our neighbors seemed glad to make peace with us. The
-next Sunday <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda came over and brought Jake a
-pair of socks she had knitted. She presented them with an air of great
-magnanimity, saying, “Now you not come any more for knock my
-Ambrosch down?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0383">Jake laughed sheepishly. “I don’t want to
-have no trouble with Ambrosch. If he’ll let me alone, I’ll
-let him alone.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0384">“If he slap you, we ain’t got no pig for
-pay the fine,” she said insinuatingly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0385">Jake was not at all disconcerted. “Have the
-last word, mam,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a
-lady’s privilege.”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap1-19" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="156" /><anchor id="Pg156" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XIX</head>
-
-<p id="p0386"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">July</hi> came on with
-that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains of Kansas and
-Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if we could
-hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a faint
-crackling in the dewy, heavy-odored cornfields where the feathered
-stalks stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the
-Missouri to the Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat
-regulated by a thermometer, it could not have been better for the
-yellow tassels that were ripening and fertilizing
-each other day by day. The cornfields were far apart in those times, with miles
-of wild grazing land between. It took a clear, meditative eye like my
-grandfather’s to foresee that they would enlarge and multiply
-until they would be, not the Shimerdas’ cornfields, or
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Bushy’s, but the world’s cornfields; that
-their yield would be one of the great economic facts, like the wheat
-crop of Russia, which underlie all the activities of men, in peace or
-war.</p>
-
-<pb n="157" /><anchor id="Pg157" />
-
-<p id="p0387">The burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional
-rains at night, secured the corn. After the milky ears were once
-formed, we had little to fear from dry weather. The men were working
-so hard in the wheatfields that they did not notice the heat,—though I was kept busy carrying water for them,—and
-grandmother and Ántonia had so much to do in the kitchen that
-they could not have told whether one day was hotter than another. Each
-morning, while the dew was still on the grass, Ántonia went
-with me up to the garden to get early vegetables for dinner.
-Grandmother made her wear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached the
-garden she threw it on the grass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I
-remember how, as we bent over the pea-vines, beads of perspiration
-used to gather on her upper lip like a little mustache.</p>
-
-<p id="p0388">“Oh, better I like to work out of doors than in
-a house!” she used to sing joyfully. “I not care that your
-grandmother say it makes me like a man. I like to be like a
-man.” She would toss her head and ask me to feel the muscles
-swell in her brown arm.</p>
-
-<p id="p0389">We were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay
-and responsive that one did not<pb n="158" /><anchor id="Pg158" />
-mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans.
-Grandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that Ántonia
-worked for us.</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image07.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Jim and Ántonia in the garden</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<p id="p0390">All the nights were close and hot during that harvest
-season. The harvesters slept in the hayloft because it was cooler
-there than in the house. I used to lie in my bed by the open window,
-watching the heat lightning play softly along the horizon, or looking
-up at the gaunt frame of the windmill against the blue night sky. One
-night there was a beautiful electric storm, though not enough rain
-fell to damage the cut grain. The men went down to the barn
-immediately after supper, and when the dishes were washed
-Ántonia and I climbed up on the slanting roof of the
-chicken-house to watch the clouds. The thunder was loud and metallic,
-like the rattle of sheet iron, and the lightning broke in great
-zigzags across the heavens, making everything stand out and come close
-to us for a moment. Half the sky was checkered with black
-thunderheads, but all the west was luminous and clear: in the
-lightning-flashes it looked like deep blue water, with the sheen of
-moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the sky was like marble<pb n="159" /><anchor id="Pg159" />
-pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast city, doomed to
-destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our upturned faces.
-One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out into the
-clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we
-could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the
-farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we
-would get wet out there.</p>
-
-<p id="p0391">“In a minute we come,” Ántonia
-called back to her. “I like your grandmother, and all things
-here,” she sighed. “I wish my papa live to see this
-summer. I wish no winter ever come again.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0392">“It will be summer a long while yet,” I
-reassured her. “Why are n’t you always nice like this,
-Tony?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0393">“How nice?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0394">“Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you
-all the time try to be like Ambrosch?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0395">She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking
-up at the sky. “If I live here, like you, that is different.
-Things will be easy for you. But they will be hard for us.”</p>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div id="book2" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="161" /><anchor id="Pg161" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>Book II—The Hired Girls</head>
-<p></p>
-
-<div id="chap2-01" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="163" /><anchor id="Pg163" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>I</head>
-
-<p id="p0396"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">I had</hi> been living
-with my grandfather for nearly three years when he decided to move to
-Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the heavy work of
-a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be going to
-school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to “that good
-woman, the Widow Steavens,” and her bachelor brother, and we
-bought Preacher White’s house, at the north end of Black Hawk.
-This was the first town house one passed driving in from the farm, a
-landmark which told country people their long ride was over.</p>
-
-<p id="p0397">We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon
-as grandfather had fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his
-intention. Otto said he would not be likely to find another place that
-suited him so well; that he was tired of farming and thought he would
-go back to what he called the “wild<pb n="164" /><anchor id="Pg164" />
-West.” Jake Marpole, lured by Otto’s stories of adventure,
-decided to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so
-handicapped by illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he
-would be an easy prey to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay
-among kindly, Christian people, where he was known; but there was no
-reasoning with him. He wanted to be a prospector. He thought a silver
-mine was waiting for him in Colorado.</p>
-
-<p id="p0398">Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us
-into town, put down the carpets in our new house, made shelves and
-cupboards for grandmother’s kitchen, and seemed loath to leave
-us. But at last they went, without warning. Those two fellows had been
-faithful to us through sun and storm, had given us things that cannot
-be bought in any market in the world. With me they had been like older
-brothers; had restrained their speech and manners out of care for me,
-and given me so much good comradeship. Now they got on the west-bound
-train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, with their oilcloth
-valises—and I never saw them again. Months afterward we got a
-card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain fever,<pb n="165" /><anchor id="Pg165" />
-but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were doing
-well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to
-me, “unclaimed.” After that we never heard from them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0399">Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to
-live, was a clean, well-planted little prairie town, with white fences
-and good green yards about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and
-shapely little trees growing along the wooden sidewalks. In the center
-of the town there were two rows of new brick “store”
-buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and four white
-churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our
-upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs,
-two miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the
-lost freedom of the farming country.</p>
-
-<p id="p0400">We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of
-April we felt like town people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new
-Baptist Church, grandmother was busy with church suppers and
-missionary societies, and I was quite another boy, or thought I was.
-Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, I found I had a great deal
-to learn. Before<pb n="166" /><anchor id="Pg166" />
-the spring term of school was over I could fight, play
-“keeps,” tease the little girls, and use forbidden words
-as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from utter savagery
-only by the fact that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling, our nearest neighbor,
-kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was
-not permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly
-children.</p>
-
-<p id="p0401">We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we
-lived on the farm. Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them.
-We had a big barn where the farmers could put up their teams, and
-their women-folk more often accompanied them, now that they could stay
-with us for dinner, and rest and set their bonnets right before they
-went shopping. The more our house was like a country hotel, the better
-I liked it. I was glad, when I came home from school at noon, to see a
-farm wagon standing in the back yard, and I was always ready to run
-downtown to get beefsteak or baker’s bread for unexpected
-company. All through that first spring and summer I kept hoping that
-Ambrosch would bring Ántonia and Yulka to see our new house. I
-wanted to show them our red plush<pb n="167" /><anchor id="Pg167" />
-furniture, and the trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had
-put on our parlor ceiling.</p>
-
-<p id="p0402">When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone,
-and though he put his horses in our barn, he would never stay for
-dinner, or tell us anything about his mother and sisters. If we ran
-out and questioned him as he was slipping through the yard, he would
-merely work his shoulders about in his coat and say, “They all
-right, I guess.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0403"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens, who now lived on our
-farm, grew as fond of Ántonia as we had been, and always
-brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, she told us,
-Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from farm to
-farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers liked
-her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand
-than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors
-until Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother
-saved her from this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors,
-the Harlings.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-02" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="168" /><anchor id="Pg168" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>II</head>
-
-<p id="p0404"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Grandmother</hi> often
-said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God she lived next
-the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, and their
-place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and an
-orchard and grazing lots,—even a windmill. The Harlings were
-Norwegians, and <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling had lived in Christiania
-until she was ten years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was
-a grain merchant and cattle buyer, and was generally considered the
-most enterprising business man in our county. He controlled a line of
-grain elevators in the little towns along the railroad to the west of
-us, and was away from home a great deal. In his absence his wife was
-the head of the household.</p>
-
-<p id="p0405"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling was short and square and
-sturdy-looking, like her house. Every inch of her was charged with an
-energy that made itself felt the moment she entered a room. Her face
-was rosy and solid, with bright, twinkling eyes and a stubborn little
-chin. She<pb n="169" /><anchor id="Pg169" />
-was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and jolly from the depths of
-her soul. How well I remember her laugh; it had in it the same sudden
-recognition that flashed into her eyes, was a burst of humor, short
-and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps shook her own floors, and she
-routed lassitude and indifference wherever she came. She could not be
-negative or perfunctory about anything. Her enthusiasm, and her
-violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all the every-day
-occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, at the
-Harlings’. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and
-house-cleaning was like a revolution. When <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling
-made garden that spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking
-through the willow hedge that separated our place from hers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0406">Three of the Harling children were near me in age.
-Charley, the only son,—they had lost an older boy,—was
-sixteen; Julia, who was known as the musical one, was fourteen when I
-was; and Sally, the tomboy with short hair, was a year younger. She
-was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily clever at all boys’
-sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow hair, bobbed
-about her ears,<pb n="170" /><anchor id="Pg170" />
-and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. She raced all over town on
-one roller skate, often cheated at “keeps,” but was such a
-quick shot one could n’t catch her at it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0407">The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important
-person in our world. She was her father’s chief clerk, and
-virtually managed his Black Hawk office during his frequent absences.
-Because of her unusual business ability, he was stern and exacting
-with her. He paid her a good salary, but she had few holidays and
-never got away from her responsibilities. Even on Sundays she went to
-the office to open the mail and read the markets. With Charley, who
-was not interested in business, but was already preparing for
-Annapolis, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling was very indulgent; bought him
-guns and tools and electric batteries, and never asked what he did
-with them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0408">Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall.
-In winter she wore a sealskin coat and cap, and she and
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling used to walk home together in the evening,
-talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two men. Sometimes she came
-over to see grandfather after supper, and her visits flattered him.
-More than once they put their wits together to<pb n="171" /><anchor id="Pg171" />
-rescue some unfortunate farmer from the clutches of Wick Cutter, the
-Black Hawk money-lender. Grandfather said Frances Harling was as good
-a judge of credits as any banker in the county. The two or three men
-who had tried to take advantage of her in a deal acquired celebrity by
-their defeat. She knew every farmer for miles about; how much land he
-had under cultivation, how many cattle he was feeding, what his
-liabilities were. Her interest in these people was more than a
-business interest. She carried them all in her mind as if they were
-characters in a book or a play.</p>
-
-<p id="p0409">When Frances drove out into the country on business,
-she would go miles out of her way to call on some of the old people,
-or to see the women who seldom got to town. She was quick at
-understanding the grandmothers who spoke no English, and the most
-reticent and distrustful of them would tell her their story without
-realizing they were doing so. She went to country funerals and
-weddings in all weathers. A farmer’s daughter who was to be
-married could count on a wedding present from Frances Harling.</p>
-
-<p id="p0410">In August the Harlings’ Danish cook had<pb n="172" /><anchor id="Pg172" />
-to leave them. Grandmother entreated them to try Ántonia. She
-cornered Ambrosch the next time he came to town, and pointed out to
-him that any connection with Christian Harling would strengthen his
-credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas’ with Frances.
-She said she wanted to see “what the girl came from” and
-to have a clear understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when
-they came driving home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to
-me as they passed, and I could see they were in great good humor.
-After supper, when grandfather set off to church, grandmother and I
-took my short cut through the willow hedge and went over to hear about
-the visit to the Shimerdas.</p>
-
-<p id="p0411">We found <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling with Charley and
-Sally on the front porch, resting after her hard drive. Julia was in
-the hammock—she was fond of repose—and Frances was at
-the piano, playing without a light and talking to her mother through
-the open window.</p>
-
-<p id="p0412"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling laughed when she saw us
-coming. “I expect you left your dishes on the table to-night,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden,” she called.<pb n="173" /><anchor id="Pg173" />
-Frances shut the piano and came out to join us.</p>
-
-<p id="p0413">They had liked Ántonia from their first
-glimpse of her; felt they knew exactly what kind of girl she was. As
-for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda, they found her very amusing.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. “I
-expect I am more at home with that sort of bird than you are,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden. They’re a pair, Ambrosch and that old
-woman!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0414">They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about
-Ántonia’s allowance for clothes and pocket-money. It was
-his plan that every cent of his sister’s wages should be paid
-over to him each month, and he would provide her with such clothing as
-he thought necessary. When <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling told him firmly
-that she would keep fifty dollars a year for Ántonia’s
-own use, he declared they wanted to take his sister to town and dress
-her up and make a fool of her. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling gave us a
-lively account of Ambrosch’s behavior throughout the interview;
-how he kept jumping up and putting on his cap as if he were through
-with the whole business, and how his mother tweaked his coat-tail and
-prompted him in Bohemian. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling finally agreed<pb n="174" /><anchor id="Pg174" />
-to pay three dollars a week for Ántonia’s services—good wages in those days—and to keep her in shoes.
-There had been hot dispute about the shoes, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda
-finally saying persuasively that she would send <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling three fat geese every year to “make even.”
-Ambrosch was to bring his sister to town next Saturday.</p>
-
-<p id="p0415">“She’ll be awkward and rough at first,
-like enough,” grandmother said anxiously, “but unless
-she’s been spoiled by the hard life she’s led, she has it
-in her to be a real helpful girl.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0416"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling laughed her quick, decided
-laugh. “Oh, I’m not worrying, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden! I
-can bring something out of that girl. She’s barely seventeen,
-not too old to learn new ways. She’s good-looking, too!”
-she added warmly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0417">Frances turned to grandmother. “Oh, yes,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden, you did n’t tell us that! She was
-working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and ragged. But she
-has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in her cheeks—like those big dark red plums.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0418">We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke
-feelingly. “When she first came to this country, Frances, and
-had that<pb n="175" /><anchor id="Pg175" />
-genteel old man to watch over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I
-saw. But, dear me, what a life she’s led, out in the fields with
-those rough thrashers! Things would have been very different with poor
-Ántonia if her father had lived.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0419">The Harlings begged us to tell them about
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s death and the big snowstorm. By the
-time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had told them
-pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas.</p>
-
-<p id="p0420">“The girl will be happy here, and she’ll
-forget those things,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling
-confidently, as we rose to take our leave.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-03" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="176" /><anchor id="Pg176" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>III</head>
-
-<p id="p0421"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">On</hi> Saturday
-Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Ántonia jumped down
-from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She
-was wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She
-gave me a playful shake by the shoulders. “You ain’t
-forget about me, Jim?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0422">Grandmother kissed her. “God bless you, child!
-Now you’ve come, you must try to do right and be a credit to
-us.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0423">Ántonia looked eagerly about the house and
-admired everything. “Maybe I be the kind of girl you like
-better, now I come to town,” she suggested hopefully.</p>
-
-<p id="p0424">How good it was to have Ántonia near us again;
-to see her every day and almost every night! Her greatest fault,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling found, was that she so often stopped her
-work and fell to playing with the children. She would race about the
-orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the barn, or be
-the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off Nina.
-Tony learned English<pb n="177" /><anchor id="Pg177" />
-so quickly that by the time school began she could speak as well as
-any of us.</p>
-
-<p id="p0425">I was jealous of Tony’s admiration for Charley
-Harling. Because he was always first in his classes at school, and
-could mend the water-pipes or the door-bell and take the clock to
-pieces, she seemed to think him a sort of prince. Nothing that Charley
-wanted was too much trouble for her. She loved to put up lunches for
-him when he went hunting, to mend his ball-gloves and sew buttons on
-his shooting-coat, baked the kind of nut-cake he liked, and fed his
-setter dog when he was away on trips with his father. Ántonia
-had made herself cloth working-slippers out of <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Harling’s old coats, and in these she went padding about after
-Charley, fairly panting with eagerness to please him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0426">Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina
-was only six, and she was rather more complex than the other children.
-She was fanciful, had all sorts of unspoken preferences, and was
-easily offended. At the slightest disappointment or displeasure her
-velvety brown eyes filled with tears, and she would lift her chin and
-walk silently away. If we ran after her and tried to appease her, it<pb n="178" /><anchor id="Pg178" />
-did no good. She walked on unmollified. I used to think that no eyes
-in the world could grow so large or hold so many tears as
-Nina’s. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling and Ántonia invariably
-took her part. We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was
-simply: “You have made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and
-Sally must get her arithmetic.” I liked Nina, too; she was so
-quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were lovely; but I often wanted to
-shake her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0427">We had jolly evenings at the
-Harlings
-when the father was away. If he was at home, the children had to go to
-bed early, or they came over to my house to play. <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded all his
-wife’s attention. He used to take her away to their room in the
-west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we
-did not realize it then, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling was our audience
-when we played, and we always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing
-flattered one like her quick laugh.</p>
-
-<p id="p0428"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling had a desk in his bedroom,
-and his own easy-chair by the window, in which no one else ever sat.
-On the nights when he was at home, I could see his shadow on the blind,<pb n="179" /><anchor id="Pg179" />
-and it seemed to me an arrogant shadow. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling paid
-no heed to any one else if he was there. Before he went to bed she
-always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies and beer. He kept
-an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, and his wife
-made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to want
-it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0429">Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits
-outside their domestic ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby
-carriage after office hours, moved the sprinkler about over the lawn,
-and took the family driving on Sunday. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling,
-therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in his ways. He
-walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man who felt
-that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so
-haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something
-daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the
-“nobles” of whom Ántonia was always talking
-probably looked very much like Christian Harling, wore caped overcoats
-like his, and just such a glittering diamond upon the little
-finger.</p>
-
-<p id="p0430">Except when the father was at home, the Harling house
-was never quiet. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling<pb n="180" /><anchor id="Pg180" />
-and Nina and Ántonia made as much noise as a houseful of
-children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the
-only one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they
-all played. When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner
-was ready. When Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat
-and coat and drummed the plantation melodies that negro minstrel
-troupes brought to town. Even Nina played the Swedish Wedding
-March.</p>
-
-<p id="p0431"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling had studied the piano under
-a good teacher, and somehow she managed to practice every day. I soon
-learned that if I were sent over on an errand and found
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait
-quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her
-short, square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands
-moving quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music
-with intelligent concentration.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-04" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="181" /><anchor id="Pg181" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>IV</head>
-
-<lg>
-<l rend="margin-left: 2" id="p0432">“I won’t have none of your weevily wheat, and I won’t have none of your barley,</l>
-<l rend="margin-left: 2" id="p0433">But I’ll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for Charley.”</l>
-</lg>
-
-<p id="p0434"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">We</hi> were singing
-rhymes to tease Ántonia while she was beating up one of
-Charley’s favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp
-autumn evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag
-in the yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll
-popcorn balls with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and
-Tony dropped her spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl
-was standing in the doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a
-graceful picture in her blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with
-a plaid shawl drawn neatly about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook
-in her hand.</p>
-
-<p id="p0435">“Hello, Tony. Don’t you know me?”
-she asked in a smooth, low voice, looking in at us archly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0436">Ántonia gasped and stepped back. “Why,<pb n="182" /><anchor id="Pg182" />
-it’s Lena! Of course I did n’t know you, so dressed
-up!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0437">Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had
-not recognized her for a moment, either. I had never seen her before
-with a hat on her head—or with shoes and stockings on her
-feet, for that matter. And here she was, brushed and smoothed and
-dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with perfect composure.</p>
-
-<p id="p0438">“Hello, Jim,” she said carelessly as she
-walked into the kitchen and looked about her. “I’ve come
-to town to work, too, Tony.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0439">“Have you, now? Well, ain’t that
-funny!” Ántonia stood ill at ease, and did n’t seem
-to know just what to do with her visitor.</p>
-
-<p id="p0440">The door was open into the dining-room, where
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling sat crocheting and Frances was reading.
-Frances asked Lena to come in and join them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0441">“You are Lena Lingard, are n’t you?
-I’ve been to see your mother, but you were off herding cattle
-that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard’s oldest girl.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0442"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling dropped her worsted and
-examined the visitor with quick, keen eyes. Lena was not at all
-disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances pointed out,<pb n="183" /><anchor id="Pg183" />
-carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on her lap.
-We followed with our popcorn, but Ántonia hung back—said she had to get her cake into the oven.</p>
-
-<p id="p0443">“So you have come to town,” said
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling, her eyes still fixed on Lena. “Where
-are you working?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0444">“For <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas, the dressmaker.
-She is going to teach me to sew. She says I have quite a knack.
-I’m through with the farm. There ain’t any end to the work
-on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I’m going to be a
-dressmaker.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0445">“Well, there have to be dressmakers. It’s
-a good trade. But I would n’t run down the farm, if I were
-you,” said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling rather severely. “How
-is your mother?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0446">“Oh, mother’s never very well; she has
-too much to do. She’d get away from the farm, too, if she could.
-She was willing for me to come. After I learn to do sewing, I can make
-money and help her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0447">“See that you don’t forget to,”
-said <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling skeptically, as she took up her
-crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0448">“No, ’m, I won’t,” said Lena
-blandly. She<pb n="184" /><anchor id="Pg184" />
-took a few grains of the popcorn we pressed upon her, eating them
-discreetly and taking care not to get her fingers sticky.</p>
-
-<p id="p0449">Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor.
-“I thought you were going to be married, Lena,” she said
-teasingly. “Did n’t I hear that Nick Svendsen was rushing
-you pretty hard?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0450">Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile.
-“He did go with me quite a while. But his father made a fuss
-about it and said he would n’t give Nick any land if he married
-me, so he’s going to marry Annie Iverson. I would n’t like
-to be her; Nick’s awful sullen, and he’ll take it out on
-her. He ain’t spoke to his father since he promised.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0451">Frances laughed. “And how do you feel about
-it?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0452">“I don’t want to marry Nick, or any other
-man,” Lena murmured. “I’ve seen a good deal of
-married life, and I don’t care for it. I want to be so I can
-help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of
-anybody.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0453">“That’s right,” said Frances.
-“And <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas thinks you can learn
-dressmaking?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0454">“Yes, ’m. I’ve always liked to sew,
-but I<pb n="185" /><anchor id="Pg185" />
-never had much to do with. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas makes lovely
-things for all the town ladies. Did you know <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha.
-My, but it’s lovely!” Lena sighed softly and stroked her
-cashmere folds. “Tony knows I never did like out-of-door
-work,” she added.</p>
-
-<p id="p0455"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling glanced at her. “I
-expect you’ll learn to sew all right, Lena, if you’ll only
-keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all the time and
-neglect your work, the way some country girls do.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0456">“Yes, ’m. Tiny Soderball is coming to
-town, too. She’s going to work at the Boys’ Home Hotel.
-She’ll see lots of strangers,” Lena added wistfully.</p>
-
-<p id="p0457">“Too many, like enough,” said
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling. “I don’t think a hotel is a
-good place for a girl; though I guess <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener keeps
-an eye on her waitresses.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0458">Lena’s candid eyes, that always looked a little
-sleepy under their long lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms
-with naïve admiration. Presently she drew on her cotton gloves.
-“I guess I must be leaving,” she said irresolutely.</p>
-
-<pb n="186" /><anchor id="Pg186" />
-
-<p id="p0459">Frances told her to come again, whenever she was
-lonesome or wanted advice about anything. Lena replied that she did
-n’t believe she would ever get lonesome in Black Hawk.</p>
-
-<p id="p0460">She lingered at the kitchen door and begged
-Ántonia to come and see her often. “I’ve got a room
-of my own at <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas’s, with a
-carpet.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0461">Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers.
-“I’ll come sometime, but <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling
-don’t like to have me run much,” she said evasively.</p>
-
-<p id="p0462">“You can do what you please when you go out,
-can’t you?” Lena asked in a guarded whisper.
-“Ain’t you crazy about town, Tony? I don’t care what
-anybody says, I’m done with the farm!” She glanced back
-over her shoulder toward the dining-room, where <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling sat.</p>
-
-<p id="p0463">When Lena was gone, Frances asked Ántonia why
-she had n’t been a little more cordial to her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0464">“I did n’t know if your mother would like
-her coming here,” said Ántonia, looking troubled.
-“She was kind of talked about, out there.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0465">“Yes, I know. But mother won’t hold it
-against her if she behaves well here. You<pb n="187" /><anchor id="Pg187" />
-need n’t say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim
-has heard all that gossip?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0466">When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew
-too much, anyhow. We were good friends, Frances and I.</p>
-
-<p id="p0467">I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had
-come to town. We were glad of it, for she had a hard life on the
-farm.</p>
-
-<p id="p0468">Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw
-Creek, and she used to herd her father’s cattle in the open
-country between his place and the Shimerdas’. Whenever we rode
-over in that direction we saw her out among her cattle, bareheaded and
-barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered clothing, always knitting as
-she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I thought of her as
-something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because I had never
-seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy thatch on
-her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of
-constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which
-somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went
-scantily clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was
-astonished at her soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out
-<pb n="188" /><anchor id="Pg188" />
-there usually got rough and mannish after they went to herding. But
-Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and stay awhile, and
-behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were accustomed to
-having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged clothes, and
-treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I noticed the
-unusual color of her eyes—a shade of deep violet—and
-their soft, confiding expression.</p>
-
-<p id="p0469">Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and
-he had a large family. Lena was always knitting stockings for little
-brothers and sisters, and even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of
-her, admitted that she was a good daughter to her mother. As Tony
-said, she had been talked about. She was accused of making Ole Benson
-lose the little sense he had—and that at an age when she
-should still have been in pinafores.</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image08.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<p id="p0470">Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of
-the settlement. He was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had
-become a habit with him. After he had had every other kind of
-misfortune, his wife, “Crazy Mary,” tried to set a
-neighbor’s barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum at Lincoln.
-She was kept<pb n="189" /><anchor id="Pg189" />
-there for a few months, then escaped and walked all the way home,
-nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding in barns and
-haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian settlement, her
-poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, and was
-allowed to stay at home—though every one realized she was as
-crazy as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow,
-telling her domestic troubles to her neighbors.</p>
-
-<p id="p0471">Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I
-heard a young Dane, who was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto
-that Chris Lingard’s oldest girl had put Ole Benson out of his
-head, until he had no more sense than his crazy wife. When Ole was
-cultivating his corn that summer, he used to get discouraged in the
-field, tie up his team, and wander off to wherever Lena Lingard was
-herding. There he would sit down on the draw-side and help her watch
-her cattle. All the settlement was talking about it. The Norwegian
-preacher’s wife went to Lena and told her she ought not to allow
-this; she begged Lena to come to church on Sundays. Lena said she had
-n’t a dress in the world any less ragged than the one on her
-back. Then the minister’s wife went<pb n="190" /><anchor id="Pg190" />
-through her old trunks and found some things she had worn before her
-marriage.</p>
-
-<p id="p0472">The next Sunday Lena appeared at church, a little
-late, with her hair done up neatly on her head, like a young woman,
-wearing shoes and stockings, and the new dress, which she had made
-over for herself very becomingly. The congregation stared at her.
-Until that morning no one—unless it were Ole—had
-realized how pretty she was, or that she was growing up. The swelling
-lines of her figure had been hidden under the shapeless rags she wore
-in the fields. After the last hymn had been sung, and the congregation
-was dismissed, Ole slipped out to the hitch-bar and lifted Lena on her
-horse. That, in itself, was shocking; a married man was not expected
-to do such things. But it was nothing to the scene that followed.
-Crazy Mary darted out from the group of women at the church door, and
-ran down the road after Lena, shouting horrible threats.</p>
-
-<p id="p0473">“Look out, you Lena Lingard, look out!
-I’ll come over with a corn-knife one day and trim some of that
-shape off you. Then you won’t sail round so fine, making eyes at
-the men! …”</p>
-
-<pb n="191" /><anchor id="Pg191" />
-
-<p id="p0474">The Norwegian women did n’t know where to look.
-They were formal housewives, most of them, with a severe sense of
-decorum. But Lena Lingard only laughed her lazy, good-natured laugh
-and rode on, gazing back over her shoulder at Ole’s infuriated
-wife.</p>
-
-<p id="p0475">The time came, however, when Lena did n’t
-laugh. More than once Crazy Mary chased her across the prairie and
-round and round the Shimerdas’ cornfield. Lena never told her
-father; perhaps she was ashamed; perhaps she was more afraid of his
-anger than of the corn-knife. I was at the Shimerdas’ one
-afternoon when Lena came bounding through the red grass as fast as her
-white legs could carry her. She ran straight into the house and hid in
-Ántonia’s feather-bed. Mary was not far behind; she came
-right up to the door and made us feel how sharp her blade was, showing
-us very graphically just what she meant to do to Lena.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda, leaning out of the window, enjoyed the
-situation keenly, and was sorry when Ántonia sent Mary away,
-mollified by an apronful of bottle-tomatoes. Lena came out from
-Tony’s room behind the kitchen, very pink from the heat of the
-feathers, but otherwise calm. She begged<pb n="192" /><anchor id="Pg192" />
-Ántonia and me to go with her, and help get her cattle
-together; they were scattered and might be gorging themselves in
-somebody’s cornfield.</p>
-
-<p id="p0476">“Maybe you lose a steer and learn not to make
-somethings with your eyes at married men,” <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Shimerda told her hectoringly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0477">Lena only smiled her sleepy smile. “I never
-made anything to him with my eyes. I can’t help it if he hangs
-around, and I can’t order him off. It ain’t my
-prairie.”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-05" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="193" /><anchor id="Pg193" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>V</head>
-
-<p id="p0478"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">After</hi> Lena came to
-Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be matching
-sewing silk or buying “findings” for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Thomas. If I happened to walk home with her, she told me all about the
-dresses she was helping to make, or about what she saw and heard when
-she was with Tiny Soderball at the hotel on Saturday nights.</p>
-
-<p id="p0479">The Boys’ Home was the best hotel on our branch
-of the Burlington, and all the commercial travelers in that territory
-tried to get into Black Hawk for Sunday. They used to assemble in the
-parlor after supper on Saturday nights. Marshall Field’s man,
-Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang all the latest
-sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the dishes, she
-and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the parlor
-and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the jokes
-and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man when
-I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on
-trains all<pb n="194" /><anchor id="Pg194" />
-day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the hotel
-there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big
-trunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk
-merchants went to look at these things and order goods, and
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas, though she was “retail trade,”
-was permitted to see them and to “get ideas.” They were
-all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny Soderball
-handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and so
-many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed
-some of them on Lena.</p>
-
-<p id="p0480">One afternoon in the week before Christmas I came
-upon Lena and her funny, square-headed little brother Chris, standing
-before the drug-store, gazing in at the wax dolls and blocks and
-Noah’s arks arranged in the frosty show window. The boy had come
-to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas shopping, for he had money
-of his own this year. He was only twelve, but that winter he had got
-the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and making the fire in it
-every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, too!</p>
-
-<pb n="195" /><anchor id="Pg195" />
-
-<p id="p0481">We went into Duckford’s dry-goods store, and
-Chris unwrapped all his presents and showed them to me—something for each of the six younger than himself, even a rubber pig
-for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny Soderball’s bottles
-of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get some
-handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n’t
-much money left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for
-view at Duckford’s. Chris wanted those with initial letters in
-the corner, because he had never seen any before. He studied them
-seriously, while Lena looked over his shoulder, telling him she
-thought the red letters would hold their color best. He seemed so
-perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n’t enough money, after
-all. Presently he said gravely,—</p>
-
-<p id="p0482">“Sister, you know mother’s name is
-Berthe. I don’t know if I ought to get B for Berthe, or M for
-Mother.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0483">Lena patted his bristly head. “I’d get
-the B, Chrissy. It will please her for you to think about her name.
-Nobody ever calls her by it now.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0484">That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he
-took three reds and three blues. When<pb n="196" /><anchor id="Pg196" />
-the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start, Lena wound
-Chris’s comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket collar—he had no overcoat—and we watched him climb into the
-wagon and start on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the
-windy street, Lena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove.
-“I get awful homesick for them, all the same,” she
-murmured, as if she were answering some remembered reproach.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-06" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="197" /><anchor id="Pg197" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>VI</head>
-
-<p id="p0485"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Winter</hi> comes down
-savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind that sweeps in
-from the open country strips away all the leafy screens that hide one
-yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw closer
-together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the green
-tree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier than
-when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs.</p>
-
-<p id="p0486">In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school
-against the wind, I could n’t see anything but the road in front
-of me; but in the late afternoon, when I was coming home, the town
-looked bleak and desolate to me. The pale, cold light of the winter
-sunset did not beautify—it was like the light of truth itself.
-When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and the red sun went down
-behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs and the blue
-drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter song, as
-if it said: “This is reality, whether you like it or not. All
-those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow,<pb n="198" /><anchor id="Pg198" />
-the living mask of green that trembled over everything, they were
-lies, and this is what was underneath. This is the truth.” It
-was as if we were being punished for loving the loveliness of
-summer.</p>
-
-<p id="p0487">If I loitered on the playground after school, or went
-to the post-office for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about
-the cigar-stand, it would be growing dark by the time I came home. The
-sun was gone; the frozen streets stretched long and blue before me;
-the lights were shining pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the
-suppers cooking as I passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of
-them was hurrying toward a fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were
-like magnets. When one passed an old man, one could see nothing of his
-face but a red nose sticking out between a frosted beard and a long
-plush cap. The young men capered along with their hands in their
-pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icy sidewalk. The
-children, in their bright hoods and comforters, never walked, but
-always ran from the moment they left their door, beating their mittens
-against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, I was
-about halfway home. I can remember how<pb n="199" /><anchor id="Pg199" />
-glad I was when there happened to be a light in the church, and the
-painted glass window shone out at us as we came along the frozen
-street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for color came over people,
-like the Laplander’s craving for fats and sugar. Without knowing
-why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the church when the
-lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting,
-shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude
-reds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there.</p>
-
-<p id="p0488">On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings’
-windows drew me like the painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house
-there was color, too. After supper I used to catch up my cap, stick my
-hands in my pockets, and dive through the willow hedge as if witches
-were after me. Of course, if <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling was at home, if
-his shadow stood out on the blind of the west room, I did not go in,
-but turned and walked home by the long way, through the street,
-wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two old
-people.</p>
-
-<p id="p0489">Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the
-nights when we acted charades, or had a costume ball in the back
-parlor, with<pb n="200" /><anchor id="Pg200" />
-Sally always dressed like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that
-winter, and she said, from the first lesson, that Ántonia would
-make the best dancer among us. On Saturday nights, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling used to play the old operas for us,—“Martha,” “Norma,” “Rigoletto,”—telling us the story while she played. Every Saturday night
-was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, and the dining-room
-were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs and sofas, and
-gay pictures on the walls. One always felt at ease there.
-Ántonia brought her sewing and sat with us—she was
-already beginning to make pretty clothes for herself. After the long
-winter evenings on the prairie, with Ambrosch’s sullen silences
-and her mother’s complaints, the Harlings’ house seemed,
-as she said, “like Heaven” to her. She was never too tired
-to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in her
-ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchen
-and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three
-meals that day.</p>
-
-<p id="p0490">While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies
-to bake or the taffy to cool, Nina used to coax Ántonia to tell
-her stories—about the<pb n="201" /><anchor id="Pg201" />
-calf that broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from
-drowning in the freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in
-Bohemia. Nina interpreted the stories about the crêche
-fancifully, and in spite of our derision she cherished a belief that
-Christ was born in Bohemia a short time before the Shimerdas left that
-country. We all liked Tony’s stories. Her voice had a peculiarly
-engaging quality; it was deep, a little husky, and one always heard
-the breath vibrating behind it. Everything she said seemed to come
-right out of her heart.</p>
-
-<p id="p0491">One evening when we were picking out kernels for
-walnut taffy, Tony told us a new story.</p>
-
-<p id="p0492">“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling, did you ever hear
-about what happened up in the Norwegian settlement last summer, when I
-was thrashing there? We were at Iversons’, and I was driving one
-of the grain wagons.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0493"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling came out and sat down among
-us. “Could you throw the wheat into the bin yourself,
-Tony?” She knew what heavy work it was.</p>
-
-<p id="p0494">“Yes, mam, I did. I could shovel just as fast
-as that fat Andern boy that drove the other<pb n="202" /><anchor id="Pg202" />
-wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to the field
-from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the horses
-and got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on the deck, cutting
-bands. I was sitting against a
-straw stack,
-trying to get some shade. My wagon was n’t going out first, and
-somehow I felt the heat awful that day. The sun was so hot like it was
-going to burn the world up. After a while I see a man coming across
-the stubble, and when he got close I see it was a tramp. His toes
-stuck out of his shoes, and he had n’t shaved for a long while,
-and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had some sickness. He
-comes right up and begins to talk like he knows me already. He says:
-‘The ponds in this country is done got so low a man could
-n’t drownd himself in one of ’em.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0495">“I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves,
-but if we did n’t have rain soon we’d have to pump water
-for the cattle.</p>
-
-<p id="p0496">“‘Oh, cattle,’ he says,
-‘you’ll all take care of your cattle! Ain’t you got
-no beer here?’ I told him he’d have to go to the Bohemians
-for beer; the Norwegians did n’t have none when they thrashed.
-‘My God!’ he says, ‘so<pb n="203" /><anchor id="Pg203" />
-it’s Norwegians now, is it? I thought this was
-Americy.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0497">“Then he goes up to the machine and yells out
-to Ole Iverson, ‘Hello, partner, let me up there. I can cut
-bands, and I’m tired of trampin’. I won’t go no
-farther.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0498">“I tried to make signs to Ole, ’cause I
-thought that man was crazy and might get the machine stopped up. But
-Ole, he was glad to get down out of the sun and chaff—it gets
-down your neck and sticks to you something awful when it’s hot
-like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the wagons for
-shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right for a
-few minutes, and then, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling, he waved his hand to
-me and jumped head-first right into the thrashing machine after the
-wheat.</p>
-
-<p id="p0499">“I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the
-horses, but the belt had sucked him down, and by the time they got her
-stopped he was all beat and cut to pieces. He was wedged in so tight
-it was a hard job to get him out, and the machine ain’t never
-worked right since.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0500">“Was he clear dead, Tony?” we cried.</p>
-
-<p id="p0501">“Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There,<pb n="204" /><anchor id="Pg204" />
-now, Nina’s all upset. We won’t talk about it. Don’t
-you cry, Nina. No old tramp won’t get you while Tony’s
-here.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0502"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling spoke up sternly.
-“Stop crying, Nina, or I’ll always send you upstairs when
-Ántonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out
-where he came from, Ántonia?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0503">“Never, mam. He had n’t been seen nowhere
-except in a little town they call Conway. He tried to get beer there,
-but there was n’t any saloon. Maybe he came in on a freight, but
-the brakeman had n’t seen him. They could n’t find no
-letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife in his pocket
-and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of paper, and some
-poetry.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0504">“Some poetry?” we exclaimed.</p>
-
-<p id="p0505">“I remember,” said Frances. “It was
-‘The Old Oaken Bucket,’ cut out of a newspaper and nearly
-worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and showed it to
-me.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0506">“Now, was n’t that strange, Miss
-Frances?” Tony asked thoughtfully. “What would anybody
-want to kill themselves in summer for? In thrashing time, too!
-It’s nice everywhere then.”</p>
-
-<pb n="205" /><anchor id="Pg205" />
-
-<p id="p0507">“So it is, Ántonia,” said
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling heartily. “Maybe I’ll go home
-and help you thrash next summer. Is n’t that taffy nearly ready
-to eat? I’ve been smelling it a long while.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0508">There was a basic harmony between Ántonia and
-her mistress. They had strong, independent natures, both of them. They
-knew what they liked, and were not always trying to imitate other
-people. They loved children and animals and music, and rough play and
-digging in the earth. They liked to prepare rich, hearty food and to
-see people eat it; to make up soft white beds and to see youngsters
-asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people and were quick to help
-unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there was a kind of hearty
-joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but very invigorating.
-I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly conscious of it. I
-could not imagine Ántonia’s living for a week in any
-other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings’.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-07" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="206" /><anchor id="Pg206" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>VII</head>
-
-<p id="p0509"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Winter</hi> lies too
-long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and
-sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and men’s
-affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice. But
-in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and
-pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk.</p>
-
-<p id="p0510">Through January and February I went to the river with
-the Harlings on clear nights, and we skated up to the big island and
-made bonfires on the frozen sand. But by March the ice was rough and
-choppy, and the snow on the river bluffs was gray and
-mournful-looking. I was tired of school, tired of winter clothes, of
-the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and the piles of cinders that
-had lain in the yards so long. There was only one break in the dreary
-monotony of that month; when Blind d’Arnault, the negro pianist,
-came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on Monday night,
-and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our comfortable
-hotel. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr><pb n="207" /><anchor id="Pg207" />
-Harling had known d’Arnault for years. She told Ántonia
-she had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there would
-certainly be music at the Boys’ Home.</p>
-
-<p id="p0511">Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the
-hotel and slipped quietly into the parlor. The chairs and sofas were
-already occupied, and the air smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The
-parlor had once been two rooms, and the floor was sway-backed where
-the partition had been cut away. The wind from without made waves in
-the long carpet. A coal stove glowed at either end of the room, and
-the grand piano in the middle stood open.</p>
-
-<p id="p0512">There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the
-house that night, for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener had gone to Omaha for
-a week. Johnnie had been having drinks with the guests until he was
-rather absent-minded. It was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener who ran the
-business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the desk
-and welcomed incoming travelers. He was a popular fellow, but no
-manager.</p>
-
-<p id="p0513"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener was admittedly the
-best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove the best horse, and had a
-smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh. She seemed indifferent
-to her<pb n="208" /><anchor id="Pg208" />
-possessions, was not half so solicitous about them as her friends
-were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something Indian-like in the
-rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and she talked
-little. Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a favor
-when they stayed at her house. Even the smartest traveling men were
-flattered when <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener stopped to chat with them
-for a moment. The patrons of the hotel were divided into two classes;
-those who had seen <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s diamonds, and
-those who had not.</p>
-
-<p id="p0514">When I stole into the parlor Anson Kirkpatrick,
-Marshall Field’s man, was at the piano, playing airs from a
-musical comedy then running in Chicago. He was a dapper little
-Irishman, very vain, homely as a monkey, with friends everywhere, and
-a sweetheart in every port, like a sailor. I did not know all the men
-who were sitting about, but I recognized a furniture salesman from
-Kansas City, a drug man, and Willy O’Reilly, who traveled for a
-jewelry house and sold musical instruments. The talk was all about
-good and bad hotels, actors and actresses and musical prodigies. I
-learned that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear
-Booth and Barrett, who<pb n="209" /><anchor id="Pg209" />
-were to play there next week, and that Mary Anderson was having a
-great success in “A Winter’s Tale,” in London.</p>
-
-<p id="p0515">The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener
-came in, directing Blind d’Arnault,—he would never
-consent to be led. He was a heavy, bulky mulatto, on short legs, and
-he came tapping the floor in front of him with his gold-headed cane.
-His yellow face was lifted in the light, with a show of white teeth,
-all grinning, and his shrunken, papery eyelids lay motionless over his
-blind eyes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0516">“Good evening,
-gentlemen. No ladies here? Good-evening, gentlemen. We going to have a
-little music? Some of you gentlemen going to play for me this
-evening?” It was the soft, amiable negro voice, like those I
-remembered from early childhood, with the note of docile subservience
-in it. He had the negro head, too; almost no head at all; nothing
-behind the ears but folds of neck under close-clipped wool. He would
-have been repulsive if his face had not been so kindly and happy. It
-was the happiest face I had seen since I left Virginia.</p>
-
-<p id="p0517">He felt his way directly to the piano. The moment he
-sat down, I noticed the nervous infirmity of which <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling had told me.<pb n="210" /><anchor id="Pg210" />
-When he was sitting, or standing still, he swayed back and forth
-incessantly, like a rocking toy. At the piano, he swayed in time to
-the music, and when he was not playing, his body kept up this motion,
-like an empty mill grinding on. He found the pedals and tried them,
-ran his yellow hands up and down the keys a few times, tinkling off
-scales, then turned to the company.</p>
-
-<p id="p0518">“She seems all right, gentlemen. Nothing
-happened to her since the last time I was here. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Gardener, she always has this piano tuned up before I come. Now,
-gentlemen, I expect you’ve all got grand voices. Seems like we
-might have some good old plantation songs to-night.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0519">The men gathered round him, as he began to play
-“My Old Kentucky Home.” They sang one negro melody after
-another, while the mulatto sat rocking himself, his head thrown back,
-his yellow face lifted, its shriveled eyelids never fluttering.</p>
-
-<p id="p0520">He was born in the Far South, on the d’Arnault
-plantation, where the spirit if not the fact of slavery persisted.
-When he was three weeks old he had an illness which left him totally
-blind. As soon as he was old enough<pb n="211" /><anchor id="Pg211" />
-to sit up alone and toddle about, another affliction, the nervous
-motion of his body, became apparent. His mother, a buxom young negro
-wench who was laundress for the d’Arnaults, concluded that her
-blind baby was “not right” in his head, and she was
-ashamed of him. She loved him devotedly, but he was so ugly, with his
-sunken eyes and his “fidgets,” that she hid him away from
-people. All the dainties she brought down from the “Big
-House” were for the blind child, and she beat and cuffed her
-other children whenever she found them teasing him or trying to get
-his chicken-bone away from him. He began to talk early, remembered
-everything he heard, and his mammy said he “was n’t all
-wrong.” She named him Samson, because he was blind, but on the
-plantation he was known as “yellow Martha’s simple
-child.” He was docile and obedient, but when he was six years
-old he began to run away from home, always taking the same direction.
-He felt his way through the lilacs, along the boxwood hedge, up to the
-south wing of the “Big House,” where Miss Nellie
-d’Arnault practiced the piano every morning. This angered his
-mother more than anything else he could have done; she was so<pb n="212" /><anchor id="Pg212" />
-ashamed of his ugliness that she could n’t bear to have white
-folks see him. Whenever she caught him slipping away from the cabin,
-she whipped him unmercifully, and told him what dreadful things old
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> d’Arnault would do to him if he ever found him
-near the “Big House.” But the next time Samson had a
-chance, he ran away again. If Miss d’Arnault stopped practicing
-for a moment and went toward the window, she saw this hideous little
-pickaninny, dressed in an old piece of sacking, standing in the open
-space between the hollyhock rows, his body rocking automatically, his
-blind face lifted to the sun and wearing an expression of idiotic
-rapture. Often she was tempted to tell Martha that the child must be
-kept at home, but somehow the memory of his foolish, happy face
-deterred her. She remembered that his sense of hearing was nearly all
-he had,—though it did not occur to her that he might have more
-of it than other children.</p>
-
-<p id="p0521">One day Samson was standing thus while Miss Nellie
-was playing her lesson to her music-master. The windows were open. He
-heard them get up from the piano, talk a little while, and then leave
-the room. He heard the<pb n="213" /><anchor id="Pg213" />
-door close after them. He crept up to the front windows and stuck his
-head in: there was no one there. He could always detect the presence
-of any one in a room. He put one foot over the window sill and
-straddled it. His mother had told him over and over how his master
-would give him to the big mastiff if he ever found him
-“meddling.” Samson had got too near the mastiff’s
-kennel once, and had felt his terrible breath in his face. He thought
-about that, but he pulled in his other foot.</p>
-
-<p id="p0522">Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to
-its mouth. He touched it softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He
-shivered and stood still. Then he began to feel it all over, ran his
-finger tips
-along the slippery sides, embraced the carved legs, tried to get some
-conception of its shape and size, of the space it occupied in primeval
-night. It was cold and hard, and like nothing else in his black
-universe. He went back to its mouth, began at one end of the keyboard
-and felt his way down into the mellow thunder, as far as he could go.
-He seemed to know that it must be done with the fingers, not with the
-fists or the feet. He approached this highly artificial instrument<pb n="214" /><anchor id="Pg214" />
-through a mere instinct, and coupled himself to it, as if he knew it
-was to piece him out and make a whole creature of him. After he had
-tried over all the sounds, he began to finger out passages from things
-Miss Nellie had been practicing, passages that were already his, that
-lay under the bones of his pinched, conical little skull, definite as
-animal desires. The door opened; Miss Nellie and her music-master
-stood behind it, but blind Samson, who was so sensitive to presences,
-did not know they were there. He was feeling out the pattern that lay
-all ready-made on the big and little keys. When he paused for a
-moment, because the sound was wrong and he wanted another, Miss Nellie
-spoke softly. He whirled about in a spasm of terror, leaped forward in
-the dark, struck his head on the open window, and fell screaming and
-bleeding to the floor. He had what his mother called a fit. The doctor
-came and gave him opium.</p>
-
-<p id="p0523">When Samson was well again, his young mistress led
-him back to the piano. Several teachers experimented with him. They
-found he had absolute pitch, and a remarkable memory. As a very young
-child he could repeat, after a fashion, any composition that<pb n="215" /><anchor id="Pg215" />
-was played for him. No matter how many wrong notes he struck, he never
-lost the intention of a passage, he brought the substance of it across
-by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his teachers out. He could
-never learn like other people, never acquired any finish. He was
-always a negro prodigy who played barbarously and wonderfully. As
-piano playing, it was perhaps abominable, but as music it was
-something real, vitalized by a sense of rhythm that was stronger than
-his other physical senses,—that not only filled his dark mind,
-but worried his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch him, was to
-see a negro enjoying himself as only a negro can. It was as if all the
-agreeable sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were
-heaped up on those black and white keys, and he were gloating over
-them and trickling them through his yellow fingers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0524">In the middle of a crashing waltz d’Arnault
-suddenly began to play softly, and, turning to one of the men who
-stood behind him, whispered, “Somebody dancing in there.”
-He jerked his bullet head toward the dining-room. “I hear little
-feet,—girls, I ’spect.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0525">Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and<pb n="216" /><anchor id="Pg216" />
-peeped over the transom. Springing down, he wrenched open the doors
-and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny and Lena, Ántonia and
-Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the floor. They separated
-and fled toward the kitchen, giggling.</p>
-
-<p id="p0526">Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows.
-“What’s the matter with you girls? Dancing out here by
-yourselves, when there’s a roomful of lonesome men on the other
-side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0527">The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape.
-Tiny looked alarmed. “<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener would n’t
-like it,” she protested. “She’d be awful mad if you
-was to come out here and dance with us.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0528">“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s in Omaha,
-girl. Now, you’re Lena, are you?—and you’re Tony
-and you’re Mary. Have I got you all straight?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0529">O’Reilly and the others began to pile the
-chairs on the tables. Johnnie Gardener ran in from the office.</p>
-
-<p id="p0530">“Easy, boys, easy!” he entreated them.
-“You’ll wake the cook, and there’ll be the devil to
-pay for me. She won’t hear the music, but she’ll be down
-the minute anything’s moved in the dining-room.”</p>
-
-<pb n="217" /><anchor id="Pg217" />
-
-<p id="p0531">“Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook
-and wire Molly to bring another. Come along, nobody’ll tell
-tales.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0532">Johnnie shook his head. “’S a fact,
-boys,” he said confidentially. “If I take a drink in Black
-Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0533">His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.
-“Oh, we’ll make it all right with Molly. Get your back up,
-Johnnie.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0534">Molly was <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s name, of
-course. “Molly Bawn” was painted in large blue letters on
-the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and “Molly” was
-engraved inside Johnnie’s ring and on his watch-case—doubtless on his heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he
-thought his wife a wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would
-hardly be more than a clerk in some other man’s hotel.</p>
-
-<p id="p0535">At a word from Kirkpatrick, d’Arnault spread
-himself out over the piano, and began to draw the dance music out of
-it, while the perspiration shone on his short wool and on his uplifted
-face. He looked like some glistening African god of pleasure, full of
-strong, savage blood. Whenever the dancers paused to change partners
-or to catch breath, he would boom out softly, “Who’s that
-goin’<pb n="218" /><anchor id="Pg218" />
-back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! Now, you girls, you
-ain’t goin’ to let that floor get cold?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0536">Ántonia seemed frightened at first, and kept
-looking questioningly at Lena and Tiny over Willy
-O’Reilly’s shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and slender,
-with lively little feet and pretty ankles—she wore her dresses
-very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner
-than the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance,
-slightly marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had
-beautiful chestnut hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth,
-and her commanding dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and
-fearlessly. She looked bold and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she
-was all of these. They were handsome girls, had the fresh color of
-their country up-bringing, and in their eyes that brilliancy which is
-called,—by no metaphor, alas!—“the light of
-youth.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0537">D’Arnault played until his manager came and
-shut the piano. Before he left us, he showed us his gold watch which
-struck the hours, and a topaz ring, given him by some Russian nobleman
-who delighted in negro<pb n="219" /><anchor id="Pg219" />
-melodies, and had heard d’Arnault play in New Orleans. At last
-he tapped his way upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and
-happy. I walked home with Ántonia. We were so excited that we
-dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a long while at the Harlings’
-gate, whispering in the cold until the restlessness was slowly chilled
-out of us.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-08" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="220" /><anchor id="Pg220" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>VIII</head>
-
-<p id="p0538"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">The</hi> Harling
-children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and
-secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We
-were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the
-orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before
-I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows. After the
-apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them,
-hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at
-each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina. Yet the summer which
-was to change everything was coming nearer every day. When boys and
-girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the
-quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will
-or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting.</p>
-
-<p id="p0539">It must have been in June, for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling and Ántonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped
-one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town. I
-had seen<pb n="221" /><anchor id="Pg221" />
-two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot.</p>
-
-<p id="p0540">That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians
-strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a
-dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch chain about her neck and
-carried a black lace parasol. They seemed especially interested in
-children and vacant lots. When I overtook them and stopped to say a
-word, I found them affable and confiding. They told me they worked in
-Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the
-farming towns with their tent and taught dancing. When business fell
-off in one place, they moved on to another.</p>
-
-<p id="p0541">The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish
-laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees.
-It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay
-flags flying from the poles. Before the week was over, all the
-ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing
-class. At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses
-and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying
-along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vanni
-received them at the<pb n="222" /><anchor id="Pg222" />
-entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace,
-her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore her hair on the
-top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs. When
-she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth. She
-taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist,
-taught the older ones.</p>
-
-<p id="p0542">Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on
-the shady side of the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled
-his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in
-the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over.
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair
-from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged little boys
-from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at
-the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance.
-That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. Even on
-the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the
-air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in
-the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the<pb n="223" /><anchor id="Pg223" />
-laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was
-pink with them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0543">The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every
-evening at the hour suggested by the City Council. When
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up
-“Home, Sweet Home,” all Black Hawk knew it was ten
-o’clock. You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as
-by the Round House whistle.</p>
-
-<p id="p0544">At last there was something to do in those long,
-empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on
-their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the
-board sidewalks—northward to the edge of the open prairie,
-south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream
-parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place where the girls could
-wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being
-reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed to ooze out of
-the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with
-the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted sounds. First
-the deep purring of <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Vanni’s harp came in
-silvery ripples through the blackness of the<pb n="224" /><anchor id="Pg224" />
-dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—one of them was
-almost like a flute. They called so archly, so seductively, that our
-feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had n’t we had a
-tent before?</p>
-
-<p id="p0545">Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating
-had been the summer before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with
-the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday
-nights. At other times any one could dance who paid his money and was
-orderly; the railroad men, the Round House mechanics, the delivery
-boys, the iceman, the farmhands who lived near enough to ride into
-town after their day’s work was over.</p>
-
-<p id="p0546">I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was
-open until midnight then. The country boys came in from farms eight
-and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor,—Ántonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls
-and their friends. I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer
-than the others. The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre
-Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and
-general condemnation for a waltz with “the hired
-girls.”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-09" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="225" /><anchor id="Pg225" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>IX</head>
-
-<p id="p0547"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">There</hi> was a
-curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt the
-attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town
-to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father
-struggle out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children
-of the family to go to school.</p>
-
-<p id="p0548">Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard
-times, and had got little schooling themselves. But the younger
-brothers and sisters, for whom they made such sacrifices and who have
-had “advantages,” never seem to me, when I meet them now,
-half as interesting or as well educated. The older girls, who helped
-to break up the wild sod, learned so much from life, from poverty,
-from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, like
-Ántonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a
-tender age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of
-these country girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few
-years I lived there, and<pb n="226" /><anchor id="Pg226" />
-I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of them.
-Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had
-given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on
-coming to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of
-movement, and made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women.</p>
-
-<p id="p0549">That was before the day of High-School athletics.
-Girls who had to walk more than half a mile to school were pitied.
-There was not a tennis court in the town; physical exercise was
-thought rather inelegant for the daughters of well-to-do families.
-Some of the High-School girls were jolly and pretty, but they stayed
-indoors in winter because of the cold, and in summer because of the
-heat. When one danced with them their bodies never moved inside their
-clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing—not to be
-disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom,
-gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like
-cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely
-put there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested.</p>
-
-<p id="p0550">The daughters of Black Hawk merchants<pb n="227" /><anchor id="Pg227" />
-had a confident, uninquiring belief that they were
-“refined,” and that the country girls, who “worked
-out,” were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as
-hard-pressed as their neighbors from other countries. All alike had
-come to Nebraska with little capital and no knowledge of the soil they
-must subdue. All had borrowed money on their land. But no matter in
-what straits the Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would
-not let his daughters go out into service. Unless his girls could
-teach a country school, they sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and
-Scandinavian girls could not get positions as teachers, because they
-had had no opportunity to learn the language. Determined to help in
-the struggle to clear the homestead from debt, they had no alternative
-but to go into service. Some of them, after they came to town,
-remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they had been when
-they ploughed and herded on their father’s farm. Others, like
-the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth they
-had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and
-sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always<pb n="228" /><anchor id="Pg228" />
-helping to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to
-fatten.</p>
-
-<p id="p0551">One result of this family solidarity was that the
-foreign farmers in our county were the first to become prosperous.
-After the fathers were out of debt, the daughters married the sons of
-neighbors,—usually of like nationality,—and the girls
-who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are to-day managing big farms
-and fine families of their own; their children are better off than the
-children of the town women they used to serve.</p>
-
-<p id="p0552">I thought the attitude of the town people toward
-these girls very stupid. If I told my schoolmates that Lena
-Lingard’s grandfather was a clergyman, and much respected in
-Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it matter? All foreigners
-were ignorant people who could n’t speak English. There was not
-a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, much less
-the personal distinction, of Ántonia’s father. Yet people
-saw no difference between her and the three Marys; they were all
-Bohemians, all “hired girls.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0553">I always knew I should live long enough to see my
-country girls come into their own, and I have. To-day the best that a
-harassed Black<pb n="229" /><anchor id="Pg229" />
-Hawk merchant can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery
-and automobiles to the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart
-Bohemian and Scandinavian girls are now the mistresses.</p>
-
-<p id="p0554">The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black
-Hawk girls, and living in a brand-new little house with best chairs
-that must not be sat upon, and hand-painted china that must not be
-used. But sometimes a young fellow would look up from his ledger, or
-out through the grating of his father’s bank, and let his eyes
-follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the window with her slow,
-undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in her short skirt and
-striped stockings.</p>
-
-<p id="p0555">The country girls were considered a menace to the
-social order. Their beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional
-background. But anxious mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook
-the mettle of their sons. The respect for respectability was stronger
-than any desire in Black Hawk youth.</p>
-
-<p id="p0556">Our young man of position was like the son of a royal
-house; the boy who swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon
-might frolic with the jolly country girls, but he himself<pb n="230" /><anchor id="Pg230" />
-must sit all evening in a plush parlor where conversation dragged so
-perceptibly that the father often came in and made blundering efforts
-to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home from his dull call, he
-would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the sidewalk whispering
-to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their long plush coats
-and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only made their
-eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to see a
-traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at
-him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars,
-there were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their
-ironing-boards, with their white throats and their pink cheeks.</p>
-
-<p id="p0557">The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of
-scandalous stories, which the old men were fond of relating as they
-sat about the cigar-stand in the drug-store. Mary Dusak had been
-housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from Boston, and after several
-years in his service she was forced to retire from the world for a
-short time. Later she came back to town to take the place of her
-friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The three Marys<pb n="231" /><anchor id="Pg231" />
-were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about the
-kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers
-that they never had to look for a place.</p>
-
-<p id="p0558">The Vannis’ tent brought the town boys and the
-country girls together on neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was
-cashier in his father’s bank, always found his way to the tent
-on Saturday night. He took all the dances Lena Lingard would give him,
-and even grew bold enough to walk home with her. If his sisters or
-their friends happened to be among the onlookers on “popular
-nights,” Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood
-trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several
-times I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry
-for him. He reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the
-draw-side and watch Lena herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when
-Lena went home for a week to visit her mother, I heard from
-Ántonia that young Lovett drove all the way out there to see
-her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I hoped that
-Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls a
-better position in the town.</p>
-
-<pb n="232" /><anchor id="Pg232" />
-
-<p id="p0559">Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make
-mistakes in his work; had to stay at the bank until after dark to make
-his books balance. He was daft about her, and every one knew it. To
-escape from his predicament he ran away with a widow six years older
-than himself, who owned a half-section. This remedy worked,
-apparently. He never looked at Lena again, nor lifted his eyes as he
-ceremoniously tipped his hat when he happened to meet her on the
-sidewalk.</p>
-
-<p id="p0560">So that was what they were like, I thought, these
-white-handed, high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at
-young Lovett from a distance and only wished I had some way of showing
-my contempt for him.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-10" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="233" /><anchor id="Pg233" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>X</head>
-
-<p id="p0561"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">It</hi> was at the
-Vannis’ tent that Ántonia was discovered. Hitherto she
-had been looked upon more as a ward of the Harlings than as one of the
-“hired girls.” She had lived in their house and yard and
-garden; her thoughts never seemed to stray outside that little
-kingdom. But after the tent came to town she began to go about with
-Tiny and Lena and their friends. The Vannis often said that
-Ántonia was the best dancer of them all. I sometimes heard
-murmurs in the crowd outside the pavilion that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling would soon have her hands full with that girl. The young men
-began to joke with each other about “the Harlings’
-Tony” as they did about “the Marshalls’ Anna”
-or “the Gardeners’ Tiny.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0562">Ántonia talked and thought of nothing but the
-tent. She hummed the dance tunes all day. When supper was late, she
-hurried with her dishes, dropped and smashed them in her excitement.
-At the first call of the music, she became irresponsible. If she had
-n’t time to dress, she merely flung off her apron and shot<pb n="234" /><anchor id="Pg234" />
-out of the kitchen door. Sometimes I went with her; the moment the
-lighted tent came into view she would break into a run, like a boy.
-There were always partners waiting for her; she began to dance before
-she got her breath.</p>
-
-<p id="p0563">Ántonia’s success at the tent had its
-consequences. The iceman lingered too long now, when he came into the
-covered porch to fill the refrigerator. The delivery boys hung about
-the kitchen when they brought the groceries. Young farmers who were in
-town for Saturday came tramping through the yard to the back door to
-engage dances, or to invite Tony to parties and picnics. Lena and
-Norwegian Anna dropped in to help her with her work, so that she could
-get away early. The boys who brought her home after the dances
-sometimes laughed at the back gate and wakened <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Harling from his first sleep. A crisis was inevitable.</p>
-
-<p id="p0564">One Saturday night <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling had gone
-down to the cellar for beer. As he came up the stairs in the dark, he
-heard scuffling on the back porch, and then the sound of a vigorous
-slap. He looked out through the side door in time to see a pair of
-long legs vaulting over<pb n="235" /><anchor id="Pg235" />
-the picket fence. Ántonia was standing there, angry and
-excited. Young Harry Paine, who was to marry his employer’s
-daughter on Monday, had come to the tent with a crowd of friends and
-danced all evening. Afterward, he begged Ántonia to let him
-walk home with her. She said she supposed he was a nice young man, as
-he was one of Miss Frances’s friends, and she did n’t
-mind. On the back porch he tried to kiss her, and when she protested,—because he was going to be married on Monday,—he
-caught her and kissed her until she got one hand free and slapped
-him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0565"><abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling put his beer bottles down on
-the table. “This is what I’ve been expecting,
-Ántonia. You’ve been going with girls who have a
-reputation for being free and easy, and now you’ve got the same
-reputation. I won’t have this and that fellow tramping about my
-back yard all the time. This is the end of it, to-night. It stops,
-short. You can quit going to these dances, or you can hunt another
-place. Think it over.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0566">The next morning when <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling and
-Frances tried to reason with Ántonia, they found her agitated
-but determined. “Stop going to the tent?” she panted.
-“I would n’t<pb n="236" /><anchor id="Pg236" />
-think of it for a minute! My own father could n’t make me stop!
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling ain’t my boss outside my work. I
-won’t give up my friends, either. The boys I go with are nice
-fellows. I thought <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Paine was all right, too, because
-he used to come here. I guess I gave him a red face for his wedding,
-all right!” she blazed out indignantly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0567">“You’ll have to do one thing or the
-other, Ántonia,” <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling told her
-decidedly. “I can’t go back on what <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Harling has said. This is his house.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0568">“Then I’ll just leave, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling. Lena’s been wanting me to get a place closer to her for
-a long while. Mary Svoboda’s going away from the Cutters’
-to work at the hotel, and I can have her place.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0569"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling rose from her chair.
-“Ántonia, if you go to the
-Cutters
-to work, you cannot come back to this house again. You know what that
-man is. It will be the ruin of you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0570">Tony snatched up the tea-kettle and began to pour
-boiling water over the glasses, laughing excitedly. “Oh, I can
-take care of myself! I’m a lot stronger than Cutter is. They pay
-four dollars there, and there’s no children.<pb n="237" /><anchor id="Pg237" />
-The work’s nothing; I can have every evening, and be out a lot
-in the afternoons.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0571">“I thought you liked children. Tony,
-what’s come over you?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0572">“I don’t know, something has.”
-Ántonia tossed her head and set her jaw. “A girl like me
-has got to take her good times when she can. Maybe there won’t
-be any tent next year. I guess I want to have my fling, like the other
-girls.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0573"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling gave a short, harsh laugh.
-“If you go to work for the Cutters, you’re likely to have
-a fling that you won’t get up from in a hurry.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0574">Frances said, when she told grandmother and me about
-this scene, that every pan and plate and cup on the shelves trembled
-when her mother walked out of the kitchen. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling
-declared bitterly that she wished she had never let herself get fond
-of Ántonia.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-11" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="238" /><anchor id="Pg238" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XI</head>
-
-<p id="p0575"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Wick Cutter</hi> was
-the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When a farmer
-once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling or
-the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back.</p>
-
-<p id="p0576">Cutter’s first name was Wycliffe, and he liked
-to talk about his pious bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the
-Protestant churches, “for sentiment’s sake,” as he
-said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a town in Iowa where
-there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a little Swedish,
-which gave him a great advantage with the early Scandinavian
-settlers.</p>
-
-<p id="p0577">In every frontier settlement there are men who have
-come there to escape restraint. Cutter was one of the “fast
-set” of Black Hawk business men. He was an inveterate gambler,
-though a poor loser. When we saw a light burning in his office late at
-night, we knew that a game of poker was going on. Cutter boasted that
-he never drank anything stronger than sherry, and he said he got his
-start in life<pb n="239" /><anchor id="Pg239" />
-by saving the money that other young men spent for cigars. He was full
-of moral maxims for boys. When he came to our house on business, he
-quoted “Poor Richard’s Almanack” to me, and told me
-he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a cow. He was
-particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he would
-begin at once to talk about “the good old times” and
-simple living. I detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow
-whiskers, always soft and glistening. It was said he brushed them
-every night, as a woman does her hair. His white teeth looked
-factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as if from perpetual
-sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud baths. He was
-notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had lived in
-his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had taken
-to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted her.
-He still visited her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0578">Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his
-wife, and yet, apparently, they never thought of separating. They
-dwelt in a fussy, scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick
-evergreens, with a fussy white fence and<pb n="240" /><anchor id="Pg240" />
-barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about horses, and usually
-had a colt which he was training for the track. On Sunday mornings one
-could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around the race-course
-in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a
-black-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the
-breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a
-quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no
-change and would “fix it up next time.” No one could cut
-his lawn or wash his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim
-about his place that a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw
-a dead cat into his back yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his
-alley. It was a peculiar combination of old-maidishness and
-licentiousness that made Cutter seem so despicable.</p>
-
-<p id="p0579">He had certainly met his match when he married
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter. She was a terrifying-looking person; almost
-a giantess in height, raw-boned, with iron-gray hair, a face always
-flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. When she meant to be
-entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head incessantly and
-snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and<pb n="241" /><anchor id="Pg241" />
-curved, like a horse’s; people said babies always cried if she
-smiled at them. Her face had a kind of fascination for me; it was the
-very color and shape of anger. There was a gleam of something akin to
-insanity in her full, intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made
-calls in rustling, steel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with
-bristling aigrettes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0580"><abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter painted china so assiduously
-that even her washbowls and pitchers, and her husband’s
-shaving-mug, were covered with violets and lilies. Once when Cutter
-was exhibiting some of his wife’s china to a caller, he dropped
-a piece. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips as
-if she were going to faint and said grandly: “<abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Cutter, you have broken all the Commandments—spare the
-finger-bowls!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0581">They quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the
-house until they went to bed at night, and their hired girls reported
-these scenes to the town at large. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter had
-several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful husbands out of the
-newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised handwriting.
-Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in the
-paper-rack, and<pb n="242" /><anchor id="Pg242" />
-triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from which it had been
-cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether he ought to put
-on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about whether he
-had taken cold or not.</p>
-
-<p id="p0582">The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for
-dispute. The chief of these was the question of inheritance:
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter told her husband it was plainly his fault
-they had no children. He insisted that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter had
-purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him
-and to share his property with her “people,” whom he
-detested. To this she would reply that unless he changed his mode of
-life, she would certainly outlive him. After listening to her
-insinuations about his physical soundness, Cutter would resume his
-dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at the hour when his
-wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out to the track
-with his trotting-horse.</p>
-
-<p id="p0583">Once when they had quarreled about household
-expenses, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter put on her brocade and went among
-their friends soliciting orders for painted china, saying that
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cutter had compelled her “to live by her
-brush.” Cutter<pb n="243" /><anchor id="Pg243" />
-was n’t shamed as she had expected; he was delighted!</p>
-
-<p id="p0584">Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees
-which half-buried the house. His wife declared she would leave him if
-she were stripped of the “privacy” which she felt these
-trees afforded her. That was his opportunity, surely; but he never cut
-down the trees. The Cutters seemed to find their relations to each
-other interesting and stimulating, and certainly the rest of us found
-them so. Wick Cutter was different from any other rascal I have ever
-known, but I have found <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutters all over the world;
-sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly fed—easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-12" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="244" /><anchor id="Pg244" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XII</head>
-
-<p id="p0585"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">After</hi>
-Ántonia went to live with the Cutters, she seemed to care about
-nothing but picnics and parties and having a good time. When she was
-not going to a dance, she sewed until midnight. Her new clothes were
-the subject of caustic comment. Under Lena’s direction she
-copied <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s new party dress and
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Smith’s street costume so ingeniously in cheap
-materials that those ladies were greatly annoyed, and
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter, who was jealous of them, was secretly
-pleased.</p>
-
-<p id="p0586">Tony wore gloves now, and high-heeled shoes and
-feathered bonnets, and she went downtown nearly every afternoon with
-Tiny and Lena and the Marshalls’ Norwegian Anna. We High-School
-boys used to linger on the playground at the afternoon recess to watch
-them as they came tripping down the hill along the board sidewalk, two
-and two. They were growing prettier every day, but as they passed us,
-I used to think with pride that Ántonia, like Snow-White in the
-fairy tale, was still “fairest of them all.”</p>
-
-<pb n="245" /><anchor id="Pg245" />
-
-<p id="p0587">Being a Senior now, I got away from school early.
-Sometimes I overtook the girls downtown and coaxed them into the
-ice-cream parlor, where they would sit chattering and laughing,
-telling me all the news from the country. I remember how angry Tiny
-Soderball made me one afternoon. She declared she had heard
-grandmother was going to make a Baptist preacher of me. “I guess
-you’ll have to stop dancing and wear a white necktie then.
-Won’t he look funny, girls?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0588">Lena laughed. “You’ll have to hurry up,
-Jim. If you’re going to be a preacher, I want you to marry me.
-You must promise to marry us all, and then baptize the
-babies.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0589">Norwegian Anna, always dignified, looked at her
-reprovingly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0590">“Baptists don’t believe in christening
-babies, do they, Jim?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0591">I told her I did n’t know what they believed,
-and did n’t care, and that I certainly was n’t going to be
-a preacher.</p>
-
-<p id="p0592">“That’s too bad,” Tiny simpered.
-She was in a teasing mood. “You’d make such a good one.
-You’re so studious. Maybe you’d like to be a professor.
-You used to teach Tony, did n’t you?”</p>
-
-<pb n="246" /><anchor id="Pg246" />
-
-<p id="p0593">Ántonia broke in. “I’ve set my
-heart on Jim being a doctor. You’d be good with sick people,
-Jim. Your grandmother’s trained you up so nice. My papa always
-said you were an awful smart boy.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0594">I said I was going to be whatever I pleased.
-“Won’t you be surprised, Miss Tiny, if I turn out to be a
-regular devil of a fellow?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0595">They laughed until a glance from Norwegian Anna
-checked them; the High-School Principal had just come into the front
-part of the shop to buy bread for supper. Anna knew the whisper was
-going about that I was a sly one. People said there must be something
-queer about a boy who showed no interest in girls of his own age, but
-who could be lively enough when he was with Tony and Lena or the three
-Marys.</p>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p0596">The enthusiasm for the dance, which the Vannis had
-kindled, did not at once die out. After the tent left town, the Euchre
-Club became the Owl Club, and gave dances in the Masonic Hall once a
-week. I was invited to join, but declined. I was moody and restless
-that winter, and tired of the people I saw every day. Charley Harling
-was already at<pb n="247" /><anchor id="Pg247" />
-Annapolis, while I was still sitting in Black Hawk, answering to my
-name at roll-call every morning, rising from my desk at the sound of a
-bell and marching out like the grammar-school children.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling was a little cool toward me, because I
-continued to champion Ántonia. What was there for me to do
-after supper? Usually I had learned next day’s lessons by the
-time I left the school building, and I could n’t sit still and
-read forever.</p>
-
-<p id="p0597">In the evening I used to prowl about, hunting for
-diversion. There lay the familiar streets, frozen with snow or liquid
-with mud. They led to the houses of good people who were putting the
-babies to bed, or simply sitting still before the parlor stove,
-digesting their supper. Black Hawk had two saloons. One of them was
-admitted, even by the church people, to be as respectable as a saloon
-could be. Handsome Anton Jelinek, who had rented his homestead and
-come to town, was the proprietor. In his saloon there were long tables
-where the Bohemian and German farmers could eat the lunches they
-brought from home while they drank their beer. Jelinek kept rye bread
-on hand, and smoked fish and strong imported cheeses to please the
-foreign<pb n="248" /><anchor id="Pg248" />
-palate. I liked to drop into his bar-room and listen to the talk. But
-one day he overtook me on the street and clapped me on the
-shoulder.</p>
-
-<p id="p0598">“Jim,” he said, “I am good friends
-with you and I always like to see you. But you know how the church
-people think about saloons. Your grandpa has always treated me fine,
-and I don’t like to have you come into my place, because I know
-he don’t like it, and it puts me in bad with him.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0599">So I was shut out of that.</p>
-
-<p id="p0600">One could hang about the drug-store, and listen to
-the old men who sat there every evening, talking politics and telling
-raw stories. One could go to the cigar factory and chat with the old
-German who raised canaries for sale, and look at his stuffed birds.
-But whatever you began with him, the talk went back to taxidermy.
-There was the depot, of course; I often went down to see the night
-train come in, and afterward sat awhile with the disconsolate
-telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to Omaha or
-Denver, “where there was some life.” He was sure to bring
-out his pictures of actresses and dancers. He got them with cigarette
-coupons,<pb n="249" /><anchor id="Pg249" />
-and nearly smoked himself to death to possess these desired forms and
-faces. For a change, one could talk to the station agent; but he was
-another malcontent; spent all his spare time writing letters to
-officials requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming
-where he could go trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say
-“there was nothing in life for him but trout streams, ever since
-he’d lost his twins.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0601">These were the distractions I had to choose from.
-There were no other lights burning downtown after nine o’clock.
-On starlight nights I used to pace up and down those long, cold
-streets, scowling at the little, sleeping houses on either side, with
-their storm-windows and covered back porches. They were flimsy
-shelters, most of them poorly built of light wood, with spindle
-porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. Yet for all their
-frailness, how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness some of them
-managed to contain! The life that went on in them seemed to me made up
-of evasions and negations; shifts to save cooking, to save washing and
-cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of gossip. This guarded
-mode of existence was<pb n="250" /><anchor id="Pg250" />
-like living under a tyranny. People’s speech, their voices,
-their very glances, became furtive and repressed. Every individual
-taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. The people
-asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice in
-their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over
-the surface of things in the dark. The growing piles of ashes and
-cinders in the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful,
-consuming process of life went on at all. On Tuesday nights the Owl
-Club danced; then there was a little stir in the streets, and here and
-there one could see a lighted window until midnight. But the next
-night all was dark again.</p>
-
-<p id="p0602">After I refused to join “the Owls,” as
-they were called, I made a bold resolve to go to the Saturday night
-dances at Firemen’s Hall. I knew it would be useless to acquaint
-my elders with any such plan. Grandfather did n’t approve of
-dancing anyway; he would only say that if I wanted to dance I could go
-to the Masonic Hall, among “the people we knew.” It was
-just my point that I saw altogether too much of the people we knew.</p>
-
-<p id="p0603">My bedroom was on the ground floor, and as<pb n="251" /><anchor id="Pg251" />
-I studied there, I had a stove in it. I used to retire to my room
-early on Saturday night, change my shirt and collar and put on my
-Sunday coat. I waited until all was quiet and the old people were
-asleep, then raised my window, climbed out, and went softly through
-the yard. The first time I deceived my grandparents I felt rather
-shabby, perhaps even the second time, but I soon ceased to think about
-it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0604">The dance at the Firemen’s Hall was the one
-thing I looked forward to all the week. There I met the same people I
-used to see at the Vannis’ tent. Sometimes there were Bohemians
-from Wilber, or German boys who came down on the afternoon freight
-from Bismarck. Tony and Lena and Tiny were always there, and the three
-Bohemian Marys, and the Danish laundry girls.</p>
-
-<p id="p0605">The four Danish girls lived with the laundryman and
-his wife in their house behind the laundry, with a big garden where
-the clothes were hung out to dry. The laundryman was a kind, wise old
-fellow, who paid his girls well, looked out for them, and gave them a
-good home. He told me once that his own daughter died just as she was
-getting old enough to<pb n="252" /><anchor id="Pg252" />
-help her mother, and that he had been “trying to make up for it
-ever since.” On summer afternoons he used to sit for hours on
-the sidewalk in front of his laundry, his newspaper lying on his knee,
-watching his girls through the big open window while they ironed and
-talked in Danish. The clouds of white dust that blew up the street,
-the gusts of hot wind that withered his vegetable garden, never
-disturbed his calm. His droll expression seemed to say that he had
-found the secret of contentment. Morning and evening he drove about in
-his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed clothes, and collecting
-bags of linen that cried out for his suds and sunny drying-lines. His
-girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they did standing by the
-ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine pieces, their white
-arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the brightest wild
-roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and curling in
-little damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much
-English, and were not so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were
-kind, simple girls and they were always happy. When one danced with
-them, one smelled their clean, freshly ironed clothes that<pb n="253" /><anchor id="Pg253" />
-had been put away with rosemary leaves from <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Jensen’s garden.</p>
-
-<p id="p0606">There were never girls enough to go round at those
-dances, but every one wanted a turn with Tony and Lena. Lena moved
-without exertion, rather indolently, and her hand often accented the
-rhythm softly on her partner’s shoulder. She smiled if one spoke
-to her, but seldom answered. The music seemed to put her into a soft,
-waking dream, and her violet-colored eyes looked sleepily and
-confidingly at one from under her long lashes. When she sighed she
-exhaled a heavy perfume of sachet powder. To dance “Home, Sweet
-Home,” with Lena was like coming in with the tide. She danced
-every dance like a waltz, and it was always the same waltz—the
-waltz of coming home to something, of inevitable, fated return. After
-a while one got restless under it, as one does under the heat of a
-soft, sultry summer day.</p>
-
-<p id="p0607">When you spun out into the floor with Tony, you did
-n’t return to anything. You set out every time upon a new
-adventure. I liked to schottische with her; she had so much spring and
-variety, and was always putting in new steps and slides. She taught me
-to<pb n="254" /><anchor id="Pg254" />
-dance against and around the hard-and-fast beat of the music. If,
-instead of going to the end of the railroad, old <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda had stayed in New York and picked up a living with his
-fiddle, how different Ántonia’s life might have been!</p>
-
-<p id="p0608">Ántonia often went to the dances with Larry
-Donovan, a passenger conductor who was a kind of professional
-ladies’ man, as we said. I remember how admiringly all the boys
-looked at her the night she first wore her velveteen dress, made like
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s black velvet. She was lovely to
-see, with her eyes shining, and her lips always a little parted when
-she danced. That constant, dark color in her cheeks never changed.</p>
-
-<p id="p0609">One evening when Donovan was out on his run,
-Ántonia came to the hall with Norwegian Anna and her young man,
-and that night I took her home. When we were in the
-Cutter’s
-yard, sheltered by the evergreens, I told her she must kiss me
-good-night.</p>
-
-<p id="p0610">“Why, sure, Jim.” A moment later she drew
-her face away and whispered indignantly, “Why, Jim! You know you
-ain’t right to kiss me like that. I’ll tell your
-grandmother on you!”</p>
-
-<pb n="255" /><anchor id="Pg255" />
-
-<p id="p0611">“Lena Lingard lets me kiss her,” I
-retorted, “and I’m not half as fond of her as I am of
-you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0612">“Lena does?” Tony gasped. “If
-she’s up to any of her nonsense with you, I’ll scratch her
-eyes out!” She took my arm again and we walked out of the gate
-and up and down the sidewalk. “Now, don’t you go and be a
-fool like some of these town boys. You’re not going to sit
-around here and whittle store-boxes and tell stories all your life.
-You are going away to school and make something of yourself. I’m
-just awful proud of you. You won’t go and get mixed up with the
-Swedes, will you?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0613">“I don’t care anything about any of them
-but you,” I said. “And you’ll always treat me like a
-kid, I suppose.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0614">She laughed and threw her arms around me. “I
-expect I will, but you’re a kid I’m awful fond of, anyhow!
-You can like me all you want to, but if I see you hanging round with
-Lena much, I’ll go to your grandmother, as sure as your
-name’s Jim Burden! Lena’s all right, only—well,
-you know yourself she’s soft that way. She can’t help it.
-It’s natural to her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0615">If she was proud of me, I was so proud of her<pb n="256" /><anchor id="Pg256" />
-that I carried my head high as I emerged from the dark cedars and shut
-the Cutters’ gate softly behind me. Her warm, sweet face, her
-kind arms, and the true heart in her; she was, oh, she was still my
-Ántonia! I looked with contempt at the dark, silent little
-houses about me as I walked home, and thought of the stupid young men
-who were asleep in some of them. I knew where the real women were,
-though I was only a boy; and I would not be afraid of them, either!</p>
-
-<p id="p0616">I hated to enter the still house when I went home
-from the dances, and it was long before I could get to sleep. Toward
-morning I used to have pleasant dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out
-in the country, sliding down straw-stacks as we used to do; climbing
-up the yellow mountains over and over, and slipping down the smooth
-sides into soft piles of chaff.</p>
-
-<p id="p0617">One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was
-always the same. I was in a harvest-field full of shocks, and I was
-lying against one of them. Lena Lingard came across the stubble
-barefoot, in a short skirt, with a curved reaping-hook in her hand,
-and she was flushed like the dawn, with a kind of luminous rosiness
-all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to<pb n="257" /><anchor id="Pg257" />
-me with a soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can
-kiss you as much as I like.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0618">I used to wish I could have this flattering dream
-about Ántonia, but I never did.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-13" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="258" /><anchor id="Pg258" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XIII</head>
-
-<p id="p0619"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">I noticed</hi> one
-afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed to drag as
-she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I was
-studying and went to her, asking if she did n’t feel well, and
-if I could n’t help her with her work.</p>
-
-<p id="p0620">“No, thank you, Jim. I’m troubled, but I
-guess I’m well enough. Getting a little rusty in the bones,
-maybe,” she added bitterly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0621">I stood hesitating. “What are you fretting
-about, grandmother? Has grandfather lost any money?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0622">“No, it ain’t money. I wish it was. But
-I’ve heard things. You must ’a’ known it would come
-back to me sometime.” She dropped into a chair, and covering her
-face with her apron, began to cry. “Jim,” she said,
-“I was never one that claimed old folks could bring up their
-grandchildren. But it came about so; there was n’t any other way
-for you, it seemed like.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0623">I put my arms around her. I could n’t bear to
-see her cry.</p>
-
-<pb n="259" /><anchor id="Pg259" />
-
-<p id="p0624">“What is it, grandmother? Is it the
-Firemen’s dances?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0625">She nodded.</p>
-
-<p id="p0626">“I’m sorry I sneaked off like that. But
-there’s nothing wrong about the dances, and I have n’t
-done anything wrong. I like all those country girls, and I like to
-dance with them. That’s all there is to it.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0627">“But it ain’t right to deceive us, son,
-and it brings blame on us. People say you are growing up to be a bad
-boy, and that ain’t just to us.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0628">“I don’t care what they say about me, but
-if it hurts you, that settles it. I won’t go to the
-Firemen’s Hall again.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0629">I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring
-months dull enough. I sat at home with the old people in the evenings
-now, reading Latin that was not in our High-School course. I had made
-up my mind to do a lot of college requirement work in the summer, and
-to enter the freshman class at the University without conditions in
-the fall. I wanted to get away as soon as possible.</p>
-
-<p id="p0630">Disapprobation hurt me, I found,—even that of
-people whom I did not admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and
-more lonely,<pb n="260" /><anchor id="Pg260" />
-and fell back on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries
-for companionship. I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging
-a May-basket for Nina Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from
-an old German woman who always had more window plants than any one
-else, and spent an afternoon trimming a little work-basket. When dusk
-came on, and the new moon hung in the sky, I went quietly to the
-Harlings’ front door with my offering, rang the bell, and then
-ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I could hear
-Nina’s cries of delight, and I felt comforted.</p>
-
-<p id="p0631">On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered
-downtown to walk home with Frances, and talked to her about my plans
-and about the reading I was doing. One evening she said she thought
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling was not seriously offended with me.</p>
-
-<p id="p0632">“Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I
-guess. But you know she was hurt about Ántonia, and she
-can’t understand why you like to be with Tiny and Lena better
-than with the girls of your own set.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0633">“Can you?” I asked bluntly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0634">Frances laughed. “Yes, I think I can. You<pb n="261" /><anchor id="Pg261" />
-knew them in the country, and you like to take sides. In some ways
-you’re older than boys of your age. It will be all right with
-mama after you pass your college examinations and she sees
-you’re in earnest.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0635">“If you were a boy,” I persisted,
-“you would n’t belong to the Owl Club, either. You’d
-be just like me.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0636">She shook her head. “I would and I would
-n’t. I expect I know the country girls better than you do. You
-always put a kind of glamour over them. The trouble with you, Jim, is
-that you’re romantic. Mama’s going to your Commencement.
-She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to be about.
-She wants you to do well.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0637">I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervor
-a great many things I had lately discovered. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling
-came to the Opera House to hear the Commencement exercises, and I
-looked at her most of the time while I made my speech. Her keen,
-intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she came back to the
-dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our hands, walked
-up to me, and said heartily: “You surprised me, Jim. I did
-n’t believe you could do as well as that.<pb n="262" /><anchor id="Pg262" />
-You did n’t get that speech out of books.” Among my
-graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Harling, with my name on the handle.</p>
-
-<p id="p0638">I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed
-the Methodist Church, I saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up
-and down under the arching maple trees, where the moonlight filtered
-through the lush June foliage. They hurried toward me; they were
-waiting for me—Lena and Tony and Anna Hansen.</p>
-
-<p id="p0639">“Oh, Jim, it was splendid!” Tony was
-breathing hard, as she always did when her feelings outran her
-language. “There ain’t a lawyer in Black Hawk could make a
-speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to him. He
-won’t tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself,
-did n’t he, girls?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0640">Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly: “What
-made you so solemn? I thought you were scared. I was sure you’d
-forget.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0641">Anna spoke wistfully. “It must make you happy,
-Jim, to have fine thoughts like that in your mind all the time, and to
-have words to put them in. I always wanted to go to school, you
-know.”</p>
-
-<pb n="263" /><anchor id="Pg263" />
-
-<p id="p0642">“Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could
-hear you! Jim,”—Ántonia took hold of my coat
-lapels,—“there was something in your speech that made me
-think so about my papa!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0643">“I thought about your papa when I wrote my
-speech, Tony,” I said. “I dedicated it to him.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0644">She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was
-all wet with tears.</p>
-
-<p id="p0645">I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller
-and smaller down the sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other
-success that pulled at my heartstrings like that one.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-14" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="264" /><anchor id="Pg264" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XIV</head>
-
-<p id="p0646"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">The</hi> day after
-Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty room
-where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I
-worked off a year’s trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil
-alone. Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny
-little room, looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of
-the blond pastures between, scanning the Æneid aloud and
-committing long passages to memory. Sometimes in the evening
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling called to me as I passed her gate, and asked
-me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for Charley, she
-said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents had
-misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off
-to college alone, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling took up my cause
-vigorously. Grandfather had such respect for her judgment that I knew
-he would not go against her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0647">I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I
-met Ántonia downtown on<pb n="265" /><anchor id="Pg265" />
-Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going
-to the river next day with Anna Hansen—the elder was all in
-bloom now, and Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine.</p>
-
-<p id="p0648">“Anna’s to drive us down in the
-Marshalls’ delivery wagon, and we’ll take a nice lunch and
-have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n’t you happen along,
-Jim? It would be like old times.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0649">I considered a moment. “Maybe I can, if I
-won’t be in the way.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0650">On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black
-Hawk while the dew was still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was
-the high season for summer flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along
-the sandy roadsides, and the cone-flowers and rose mallow grew
-everywhere. Across the wire fence, in the long grass, I saw a clump of
-flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in that part of the State. I
-left the road and went around through a stretch of pasture that was
-always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia came up year
-after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety red that
-is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except for
-the<pb n="266" /><anchor id="Pg266" />
-larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me and
-to come very close.</p>
-
-<p id="p0651">The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy
-rains to the west of us had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and
-went upstream along the wooded shore to a pleasant dressing-room I
-knew among the dogwood bushes, all overgrown with wild grapevines. I
-began to undress for a swim. The girls would not be along yet. For the
-first time it occurred to me that I would be homesick for that river
-after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean white beaches and
-their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, were a sort
-of No Man’s Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to
-the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these
-woods, fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the
-river shores and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow.</p>
-
-<p id="p0652">After my swim, while I was playing about indolently
-in the water, I heard the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I
-struck downstream and shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view
-on the middle span. They stopped the horse, and the two girls in the
-bottom of the cart stood up, steadying<pb n="267" /><anchor id="Pg267" />
-themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they could
-see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the
-cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of
-the thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up,
-waving to them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0653">“How pretty you look!” I called.</p>
-
-<p id="p0654">“So do you!” they shouted altogether, and
-broke into peals of laughter. Anna Hansen shook the reins and they
-drove on, while I zigzagged back to my inlet and clambered up behind
-an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the sun, and dressed slowly,
-reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the sunlight flickered
-so bright through the grapevine leaves and the woodpecker hammered
-away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the water. As I went
-along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off little pieces of
-scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking them up in my
-hands.</p>
-
-<p id="p0655">When I came upon the Marshalls’ delivery horse,
-tied in the shade, the girls had already taken their baskets and gone
-down the east road which wound through the sand and scrub. I could
-hear them calling to each other. The<pb n="268" /><anchor id="Pg268" />
-elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the
-bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their
-roots were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms
-were unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer.</p>
-
-<p id="p0656">I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush
-until I came to a slope that fell away abruptly to the water’s
-edge. A great chunk of the shore had been bitten out by some spring
-freshet, and the scar was masked by elder bushes, growing down to the
-water in flowery terraces. I did not touch them. I was overcome by
-content and drowsiness and by the warm silence about me. There was no
-sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild bees and the sunny gurgle
-of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge of the bank to see the
-little stream that made the noise; it flowed along perfectly clear
-over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main current by a
-long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I saw
-Ántonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked
-up when she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying.
-I slid down into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the
-matter.</p>
-
-<pb n="269" /><anchor id="Pg269" />
-
-<p id="p0657">“It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this
-smell,” she said softly. “We have this flower very much at
-home, in the old country. It always grew in our yard and my papa had a
-green bench and a table under the bushes. In summer, when they were in
-bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that played the trombone.
-When I was little I used to go down there to hear them talk—beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0658">“What did they talk about?” I asked
-her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0659">She sighed and shook her head. “Oh, I
-don’t know! About music, and the woods, and about God, and when
-they were young.” She turned to me suddenly and looked into my
-eyes. “You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father’s spirit can
-go back to those old places?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0660">I told her about the feeling of her father’s
-presence I had on that winter day when my grandparents had gone over
-to see his dead body and I was left alone in the house. I said I felt
-sure then that he was on his way back to his own country, and that
-even now, when I passed his grave, I always thought of him as being
-among the woods and fields that were so dear to him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0661">Ántonia had the most trusting, responsive<pb n="270" /><anchor id="Pg270" />
-eyes in the world; love and credulousness seemed to look out of them
-with open faces. “Why did n’t you ever tell me that
-before? It makes me feel more sure for him.” After a while she
-said: “You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He
-did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with
-him because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper
-about it. They said he could have paid my mother money, and not
-married her. But he was older than she was, and he was too kind to
-treat her like that. He lived in his mother’s house, and she was
-a poor girl come in to do the work. After my father married her, my
-grandmother never let my mother come into her house again. When I went
-to my grandmother’s funeral was the only time I was ever in my
-grandmother’s house. Don’t that seem strange?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0662">While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and
-looked up at the blue sky between the flat bouquets of elder. I could
-hear the bees humming and singing, but they stayed up in the sun above
-the flowers and did not come down into the shadow of the leaves.
-Ántonia seemed to me that day exactly like the<pb n="271" /><anchor id="Pg271" />
-little girl who used to come to our house with <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda.</p>
-
-<p id="p0663">“Some day, Tony, I am going over to your
-country, and I am going to the little town where you lived. Do you
-remember all about it?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0664">“Jim,” she said earnestly, “if I
-was put down there in the middle of the night, I could find my way all
-over that little town; and along the river to the next town, where my
-grandmother lived. My feet remember all the little paths through the
-woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip you. I ain’t
-never forgot my own country.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0665">There was a crackling in the branches above us, and
-Lena Lingard peered down over the edge of the bank.</p>
-
-<p id="p0666">“You lazy things!” she cried. “All
-this elder, and you two lying there! Did n’t you hear us calling
-you?” Almost as flushed as she had been in my dream, she leaned
-over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our flowery pagoda. I
-had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with zeal, and the
-perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper lip. I sprang
-to my feet and ran up the bank.</p>
-
-<pb n="272" /><anchor id="Pg272" />
-
-<p id="p0667">It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and
-scrub-oaks began to turn up the silvery under-side of their leaves,
-and all the foliage looked soft and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket
-to the top of one of the chalk bluffs, where even on the calmest days
-there was always a breeze. The flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw
-light shadows on the grass. Below us we could see the windings of the
-river, and Black Hawk, grouped among its trees, and, beyond, the
-rolling country, swelling gently until it met the sky. We could
-recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the girls pointed
-out to me the direction in which her father’s farm lay, and told
-me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn.</p>
-
-<p id="p0668">“My old folks,” said Tiny Soderball,
-“have put in twenty acres of rye. They get it ground at the
-mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my mother ain’t
-been so homesick, ever since father’s raised rye flour for
-her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0669">“It must have been a trial for our
-mothers,” said Lena, “coming out here and having to do
-everything different. My mother had always lived in town. She says she
-started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up.”</p>
-
-<pb n="273" /><anchor id="Pg273" />
-
-<p id="p0670">“Yes, a new country’s hard on the old
-ones, sometimes,” said Anna thoughtfully. “My
-grandmother’s getting feeble now, and her mind wanders.
-She’s forgot about this country, and thinks she’s at home
-in Norway. She keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside
-and the fish market. She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home
-I take her canned salmon and mackerel.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0671">“Mercy, it’s hot!” Lena yawned. She
-was supine under a little oak, resting after the fury of her
-elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled slippers she had been
-silly enough to wear. “Come here, Jim. You never got the sand
-out of your hair.” She began to draw her fingers slowly through
-my hair.</p>
-
-<p id="p0672">Ántonia pushed her away. “You’ll
-never get it out like that,” she said sharply. She gave my head
-a rough touzling and finished me off with something like a box on the
-ear. “Lena, you ought n’t to try to wear those slippers
-any more. They’re too small for your feet. You’d better
-give them to me for Yulka.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0673">“All right,” said Lena good-naturedly,
-tucking her white stockings under her skirt. “You get all
-Yulka’s things, don’t you? I<pb n="274" /><anchor id="Pg274" />
-wish father did n’t have such bad luck with his farm machinery;
-then I could buy more things for my sisters. I’m going to get
-Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky plough’s never paid
-for!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0674">Tiny asked her why she did n’t wait until after
-Christmas, when coats would be cheaper. “What do you think of
-poor me?” she added; “with six at home, younger than I am?
-And they all think I’m rich, because when I go back to the
-country I’m dressed so fine!” She shrugged her shoulders.
-“But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them
-playthings better than what they need.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0675">“I know how that is,” said Anna.
-“When we first came here, and I was little, we were too poor to
-buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll somebody gave me before
-we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I still hate him for
-it.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0676">“I guess after you got here you had plenty of
-live dolls to nurse, like me!” Lena remarked cynically.</p>
-
-<p id="p0677">“Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be
-sure. But I never minded. I was fond of them all. The youngest one,
-that we did n’t any of us want, is the one we love best
-now.”</p>
-
-<pb n="275" /><anchor id="Pg275" />
-
-<p id="p0678">Lena sighed. “Oh, the babies are all right; if
-only they don’t come in winter. Ours nearly always did. I
-don’t see how mother stood it. I tell you
-what
-girls,” she sat up with sudden energy; “I’m going to
-get my mother out of that old sod house where she’s lived so
-many years. The men will never do it. Johnnie, that’s my oldest
-brother, he’s wanting to get married now, and build a house for
-his girl instead of his mother. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas says she
-thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go into business
-for myself. If I don’t get into business, I’ll maybe marry
-a rich gambler.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0679">“That would be a poor way to get on,”
-said Anna sarcastically. “I wish I could teach school, like
-Selma Kronn. Just think! She’ll be the first Scandinavian girl
-to get a position in the High School. We ought to be proud of
-her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0680">Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance
-for giddy things like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with
-admiration.</p>
-
-<p id="p0681">Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her
-straw hat. “If I was smart like her, I’d be at my books
-day and night. But<pb n="276" /><anchor id="Pg276" />
-she was born smart—and look how her father’s trained
-her! He was something high up in the old country.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0682">“So was my mother’s father,”
-murmured Lena, “but that’s all the good it does us! My
-father’s father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a
-Lapp. I guess that’s what’s the matter with me; they say
-Lapp blood will out.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0683">“A real Lapp, Lena?” I exclaimed.
-“The kind that wear skins?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0684">“I don’t know if she wore skins, but she
-was a Lapp all right, and his folks felt dreadful about it. He was
-sent up north on some Government job he had, and fell in with her. He
-would marry her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0685">“But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly,
-and had squint eyes, like Chinese?” I objected.</p>
-
-<p id="p0686">“I don’t know, maybe. There must be
-something mighty taking about the Lapp girls, though; mother says the
-Norwegians up north are always afraid their boys will run after
-them.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0687">In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive,
-we had a lively game of “Pussy Wants a Corner,” on the
-flat bluff-top, with<pb n="277" /><anchor id="Pg277" />
-the little trees for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally
-said she would n’t play any more. We threw ourselves down on the
-grass, out of breath.</p>
-
-<p id="p0688">“Jim,” Ántonia said dreamily,
-“I want you to tell the girls about how the Spanish first came
-here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. I’ve
-tried to tell them, but I leave out so much.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0689">They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the
-trunk and the other girls leaning against her and each other, and
-listened to the little I was able to tell them about Coronado and his
-search for the Seven Golden Cities. At school we were taught that he
-had not got so far north as Nebraska, but had given up his quest and
-turned back somewhere in Kansas. But Charley Harling and I had a
-strong belief that he had been along this very river. A farmer in the
-county north of ours, when he was breaking sod, had turned up a metal
-stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a Spanish inscription on
-the blade. He lent these relics to <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling, who
-brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were
-on exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the<pb n="278" /><anchor id="Pg278" />
-priest, had found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an
-abbreviation that stood for the city of Cordova.</p>
-
-<p id="p0690">“And that I saw with my own eyes,”
-Ántonia put in triumphantly. “So Jim and Charley were
-right, and the teachers were wrong!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0691">The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had
-the Spaniards come so far? What must this country have been like,
-then? Why had Coronado never gone back to Spain, to his riches and his
-castles and his king? I could n’t tell them. I only knew the
-school books said he “died in the wilderness, of a broken
-heart.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0692">“More than him has done that,” said
-Ántonia sadly, and the girls murmured assent.</p>
-
-<p id="p0693">We sat looking off across the country, watching the
-sun go down. The curly grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the
-oaks turned red as copper. There was a shimmer of gold on the brown
-river. Out in the stream the sandbars glittered like glass, and the
-light trembled in the willow thickets as if little flames were leaping
-among them. The breeze sank to stillness. In the ravine a ringdove
-mourned plaintively, and somewhere<pb n="279" /><anchor id="Pg279" />
-off in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning
-against each other. The long fingers of the sun touched their
-foreheads.</p>
-
-<p id="p0694">Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no
-clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as
-the lower edge of the red disc rested on the high fields against the
-horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the
-sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment
-we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left
-standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified
-across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the
-sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disc; the handles,
-the tongue, the share—black against the molten red. There it
-was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.</p>
-
-<p id="p0695">Even while we whispered about it, our vision
-disappeared; the ball dropped and dropped until the red tip went
-beneath the earth. The fields below us were dark, the sky was growing
-pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk back to its own littleness
-somewhere on the prairie.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap2-15" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="280" /><anchor id="Pg280" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>XV</head>
-
-<p id="p0696"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Late</hi> in August the
-Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving Ántonia in charge
-of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick Cutter
-could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0697">The day after the Cutters left, Ántonia came
-over to see us. Grandmother noticed that she seemed troubled and
-distracted. “You’ve got something on your mind,
-Ántonia,” she said anxiously.</p>
-
-<p id="p0698">“Yes, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden. I could
-n’t sleep much last night.” She hesitated, and then told
-us how strangely <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cutter had behaved before he went
-away. He put all the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed,
-and with it a box of papers which he told her were valuable. He made
-her promise that she would not sleep away from the house, or be out
-late in the evening, while he was gone. He strictly forbade her to ask
-any of the girls she knew to stay with her at night. She would be
-perfectly safe, he said, as he had just put a new Yale lock on the
-front door.</p>
-
-<pb n="281" /><anchor id="Pg281" />
-
-<p id="p0699">Cutter had been so insistent in regard to these
-details that now she felt uncomfortable about staying there alone. She
-had n’t liked the way he kept coming into the kitchen to
-instruct her, or the way he looked at her. “I feel as if he is
-up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to scare me,
-somehow.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0700">Grandmother was apprehensive at once. “I
-don’t think it’s right for you to stay there, feeling that
-way. I suppose it would n’t be right for you to leave the place
-alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be willing to
-go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I’d
-feel safer, knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take
-care of their silver and old usury notes as well as you
-could.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0701">Ántonia turned to me eagerly. “Oh, would
-you, Jim? I’d make up my bed nice and fresh for you. It’s
-a real cool room, and the bed’s right next the window. I was
-afraid to leave the window open last night.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0702">I liked my own room, and I did n’t like the
-Cutters’ house under any circumstances; but Tony looked so
-troubled that I consented to try this arrangement. I found that I
-slept there as well as anywhere, and when I got<pb n="282" /><anchor id="Pg282" />
-home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After
-prayers she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times
-in the country.</p>
-
-<p id="p0703">The third night I spent at the Cutters’, I
-awoke suddenly with the impression that I had heard a door open and
-shut. Everything was still, however, and I must have gone to sleep
-again immediately.</p>
-
-<p id="p0704">The next thing I knew, I felt some one sit down on
-the edge of the bed. I was only half awake, but I decided that he
-might take the Cutters’ silver, whoever he was. Perhaps if I did
-not move, he would find it and get out without troubling me. I held my
-breath and lay absolutely still. A hand closed softly on my shoulder,
-and at the same moment I felt something hairy and cologne-scented
-brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been flooded with electric
-light, I could n’t have seen more clearly the detestable bearded
-countenance that I knew was bending over me. I caught a handful of
-whiskers and pulled, shouting something. The hand that held my
-shoulder was instantly at my throat. The man became insane; he stood
-over me, choking me with one fist and beating me in<pb n="283" /><anchor id="Pg283" />
-the face with the other, hissing and chuckling and letting out a flood
-of abuse.</p>
-
-<p id="p0705">“So this is what she’s up to when
-I’m away, is it? Where is she, you nasty whelp, where is she?
-Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks! Wait till I get at
-you! I’ll fix this rat you’ve got in here. He’s
-caught, all right!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0706">So long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no
-chance for me at all. I got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until
-he let go with a yell. In a bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent
-him sprawling to the floor. Then I made a dive for the open window,
-struck the wire screen, knocked it out, and tumbled after it into the
-yard.</p>
-
-<p id="p0707">Suddenly I found myself running across the north end
-of Black Hawk in my nightshirt, just as one sometimes finds
-one’s self behaving in bad dreams. When I got home I climbed in
-at the kitchen window. I was covered with blood from my nose and lip,
-but I was too sick to do anything about it. I found a shawl and an
-overcoat on the hatrack, lay down on the parlor sofa, and in spite of
-my hurts, went to sleep.</p>
-
-<p id="p0708">Grandmother found me there in the<pb n="284" /><anchor id="Pg284" />
-morning. Her cry of fright awakened me. Truly, I was a battered
-object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a glimpse of myself in
-the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a snout. My nose looked
-like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut and hideously
-discolored. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at once, but I
-implored her, as I had never begged for anything before, not to send
-for him. I could stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw me
-or knew what had happened to me. I entreated her not to let
-grandfather, even, come into my room. She seemed to understand, though
-I was too faint and miserable to go into explanations. When she took
-off my nightshirt, she found such bruises on my chest and shoulders
-that she began to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing and
-poulticing me, and rubbing me with arnica. I heard Ántonia
-sobbing outside my door, but I asked grandmother to send her away. I
-felt that I never wanted to see her again. I hated her almost as much
-as I hated Cutter. She had let me in for all this disgustingness.
-Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought to be that I had been
-there instead of Ántonia. But I lay with my<pb n="285" /><anchor id="Pg285" />
-disfigured face to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one
-concern was that grandmother should keep every one away from me. If
-the story once got abroad, I would never hear the last of it. I could
-well imagine what the old men down at the drug-store would do with
-such a theme.</p>
-
-<p id="p0709">While grandmother was trying to make me comfortable,
-grandfather went to the depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come
-home on the night express from the east, and had left again on the six
-o’clock train for Denver that morning. The agent said his face
-was striped with court-plaster, and he carried his left hand in a
-sling. He looked so used up, that the agent asked him what had
-happened to him since ten o’clock the night before; whereat
-Cutter began to swear at him and said he would have him discharged for
-incivility.</p>
-
-<p id="p0710">That afternoon, while I was asleep, Ántonia
-took grandmother with her, and went over to the Cutters’ to pack
-her trunk. They found the place locked up, and they had to break the
-window to get into Ántonia’s bedroom. There everything
-was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her
-closet, thrown into the middle of the room, and<pb n="286" /><anchor id="Pg286" />
-trampled and torn. My own garments had been treated so badly that I
-never saw them again; grandmother burned them in the Cutters’
-kitchen range.</p>
-
-<p id="p0711">While Ántonia was packing her trunk and
-putting her room in order, to leave it, the front-door bell rang
-violently. There stood <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter,—locked out,
-for she had no key to the new lock—her head trembling with
-rage. “I advised her to control herself, or she would have a
-stroke,” grandmother said afterwards.</p>
-
-<p id="p0712">Grandmother would not let her see Ántonia at
-all, but made her sit down in the parlor while she related to her just
-what had occurred the night before. Ántonia was frightened, and
-was going home to stay for a while, she told <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter;
-it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she knew nothing of
-what had happened.</p>
-
-<p id="p0713">Then <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter told her story. She and
-her husband had started home from Omaha together the morning before.
-They had to stop over several hours at Waymore Junction to catch the
-Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter left her at the depot and
-went to the Waymore bank to attend to some business. When he returned,
-he told her that he<pb n="287" /><anchor id="Pg287" />
-would have to stay overnight there, but she could go on home. He
-bought her ticket and put her on the train. She saw him slip a
-twenty-dollar bill into her handbag with her ticket. That bill, she
-said, should have aroused her suspicions at once—but did
-not.</p>
-
-<p id="p0714">The trains are never called at little junction towns;
-everybody knows when they come in. <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cutter showed his
-wife’s ticket to the conductor, and settled her in her seat
-before the train moved off. It was not until nearly nightfall that she
-discovered she was on the express bound for Kansas City, that her
-ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter must have planned
-it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was due at Waymore
-twelve minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at once that
-her husband had played this trick in order to get back to Black Hawk
-without her. She had no choice but to go on to Kansas City and take
-the first fast train for home.</p>
-
-<p id="p0715">Cutter could have got home a day earlier than his
-wife by any one of a dozen simpler devices; he could have left her in
-the Omaha hotel, and said he was going on to Chicago for<pb n="288" /><anchor id="Pg288" />
-a few days. But apparently it was part of his fun to outrage her
-feelings as much as possible.</p>
-
-<p id="p0716">“<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Cutter will pay for this,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden. He will pay!” <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter
-avouched, nodding her horselike head and rolling her eyes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0717">Grandmother said she had n’t a doubt of it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0718">Certainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a
-devil. In some way he depended upon the excitement he could arouse in
-her hysterical nature. Perhaps he got the feeling of being a rake more
-from his wife’s rage and amazement than from any experiences of
-his own. His zest in debauchery might wane, but never
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter’s belief in it. The reckoning with his
-wife at the end of an escapade was something he counted on—like the last powerful liqueur after a long dinner. The one excitement
-he really could n’t do without was quarreling with
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter!</p>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div id="book3" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="291" /><anchor id="Pg291" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>Book III—Lena Lingard</head>
-<p></p>
-
-<div id="chap3-01">
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>I</head>
-
-<p id="p0719"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">At</hi> the University
-I had the good fortune to come immediately under the influence of a
-brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had arrived in
-Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as head of
-the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his
-physicians, his health having been enfeebled by a long illness in
-Italy. When I took my entrance examinations he was my examiner, and my
-course was arranged under his supervision.</p>
-
-<p id="p0720">I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but
-stayed in Lincoln, working off a year’s Greek, which had been my
-only condition on entering the Freshman class. Cleric’s doctor
-advised against his going back to New England, and except for a few
-weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln all that summer. We played
-tennis, read, and took long walks together. I shall always look back
-on that<pb n="292" /><anchor id="Pg292" />
-time of mental awakening as one of the happiest in my life. Gaston
-Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas; when one first enters that
-world everything else fades for a time, and all that went before is as
-if it had not been. Yet I found curious survivals; some of the figures
-of my old life seemed to be waiting for me in the new.</p>
-
-<p id="p0721">In those days there were many serious young men among
-the students who had come up to the University from the farms and the
-little towns scattered over the thinly settled State. Some of those
-boys came straight from the cornfields with only a summer’s
-wages in their pockets, hung on through the four years, shabby and
-underfed, and completed the course by really heroic self-sacrifice.
-Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering pioneer
-school-teachers, stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few enthusiastic
-young men just out of graduate schools. There was an atmosphere of
-endeavor, of expectancy and bright hopefulness about the young college
-that had lifted its head from the prairie only a few years before.</p>
-
-<p id="p0722">Our personal life was as free as that of our
-instructors. There were no college dormitories;<pb n="293" /><anchor id="Pg293" />
-we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms with an old
-couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their children
-and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near the
-open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and
-on that account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom,
-originally a linen closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to
-contain my cot bed, but it enabled me to call the other room my study.
-The dresser, and the great walnut wardrobe which held all my clothes,
-even my hats and shoes, I had pushed out of the way, and I considered
-them non-existent, as children eliminate incongruous objects when they
-are playing house. I worked at a commodious green-topped table placed
-directly in front of the west window which looked out over the
-prairie. In the corner at my right were all my books, in shelves I had
-made and painted myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark,
-old-fashioned wall-paper was covered by a large map of ancient Rome,
-the work of some German scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he
-was sending for books from abroad. Over the bookcase hung a<pb n="294" /><anchor id="Pg294" />
-photograph of the Tragic Theater at Pompeii, which he had given me
-from his collection.</p>
-
-<p id="p0723">When I sat at work I half faced a deep, upholstered
-chair which stood at the end of my table, its high back against the
-wall. I had bought it with great care. My instructor sometimes looked
-in upon me when he was out for an evening tramp, and I noticed that he
-was more likely to linger and become talkative if I had a comfortable
-chair for him to sit in, and if he found a bottle of
-Bénédictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he
-liked, at his elbow. He was, I had discovered, parsimonious about
-small expenditures—a trait absolutely inconsistent with his
-general character. Sometimes when he came he was silent and moody, and
-after a few sarcastic remarks went away again, to tramp the streets of
-Lincoln, which were almost as quiet and oppressively domestic as those
-of Black Hawk. Again, he would sit until nearly midnight, talking
-about Latin and English poetry, or telling me about his long stay in
-Italy.</p>
-
-<p id="p0724">I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and
-vividness of his talk. In a crowd he was nearly always silent. Even
-for his classroom he had no platitudes, no stock of professorial<pb n="295" /><anchor id="Pg295" />
-anecdotes. When he was tired his lectures were clouded, obscure,
-elliptical; but when he was interested they were wonderful. I believe
-that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a great poet, and I have
-sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative talk were fatal to
-his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of personal
-communication. How often I have seen him draw his dark brows together,
-fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the carpet,
-and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his
-brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before one out of the
-shadows—white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never
-forget his face as it looked one night when he told me about the
-solitary day he spent among the sea temples at Paestum: the soft wind
-blowing through the roofless columns, the birds flying low over the
-flowering marsh grasses, the changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung
-mountains. He had willfully stayed the short summer night there,
-wrapped in his coat and rug, watching the constellations on their path
-down the sky until “the bride of old Tithonus” rose out of
-the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn. It<pb n="296" /><anchor id="Pg296" />
-was there he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his
-departure for Greece and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was
-still, indeed, doing penance for it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0725">I remember vividly another evening, when something
-led us to talk of Dante’s veneration for Virgil. Cleric went
-through canto after canto of the “Commedia,” repeating the
-discourse between Dante and his “sweet teacher,” while his
-cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long fingers. I can
-hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who spoke for
-Dante: “<emph>I was famous on earth with the name
-which endures longest and honors most. The seeds of my ardor were the
-sparks from that divine flame whereby more than a thousand have
-kindled; I speak of the Æneid, mother to me and nurse to me in
-poetry.</emph>”</p>
-
-<p id="p0726">Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I
-was not deceived about myself; I knew that I should never be a
-scholar. I could never lose myself for long among impersonal things.
-Mental excitement was apt to send me with a rush back to my own naked
-land and the figures scattered upon it. While I was in the very act of
-yearning toward the new forms that Cleric brought up before me, my<pb n="297" /><anchor id="Pg297" />
-mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found myself thinking of the
-places and people of my own infinitesimal past. They stood out
-strengthened and simplified now, like the image of the plough against
-the sun. They were all I had for an answer to the new appeal. I
-begrudged the room that Jake and Otto and Russian Peter took up in my
-memory, which I wanted to crowd with other things. But whenever my
-consciousness was quickened, all those early friends were quickened
-within it, and in some strange way they accompanied me through all my
-new experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely stopped
-to wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap3-02" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="298" /><anchor id="Pg298" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>II</head>
-
-<p id="p0727"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">One</hi> March evening
-in my Sophomore year I was sitting alone in my room after supper.
-There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards and little
-streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out of old
-snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing through
-made me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone
-down, the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light
-throbbing in it. Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope,
-the evening star hung like a lamp suspended by silver chains—like the lamp engraved upon the title-page of old Latin texts, which
-is always appearing in new heavens, and waking new desires in men. It
-reminded me, at any rate, to shut my window and light my wick in
-answer. I did so regretfully, and the dim objects in the room emerged
-from the shadows and took their place about me with the helpfulness
-which custom breeds.</p>
-
-<p id="p0728">I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the
-page of the Georgics where<pb n="299" /><anchor id="Pg299" />
-to-morrow’s lesson began. It opened with the melancholy
-reflection that, in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first
-to flee. “<foreign lang="la">Optima dies …
-prima fugit.</foreign>” I turned back to the beginning of the third
-book, which we had read in class that morning. “<foreign lang="la">Primus ego in patriam mecum …
-deducam Musas</foreign>”; “for I shall be the first, if I live,
-to bring the Muse into my country.” Cleric had explained to us
-that “<foreign lang="la">patria</foreign>”
-here meant, not a nation or even a province, but the little rural
-neighborhood on the Mincio where the poet was born. This was not a
-boast, but a hope, at once bold and devoutly humble, that he might
-bring the Muse (but lately come to Italy from her cloudy Grecian
-mountains), not to the capital, the
-<foreign lang="la">palatia Romana</foreign>, but to his own
-little “country”; to his father’s fields,
-“sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with
-broken tops.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0729">Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at
-Brindisi, must have remembered that passage. After he had faced the
-bitter fact that he was to leave the Æneid unfinished, and had
-decreed that the great canvas, crowded with figures of gods and men,
-should be burned rather than survive him unperfected, then his<pb n="300" /><anchor id="Pg300" />
-mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance of
-the Georgics, where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is
-to the furrow; and he must have said to himself with the thankfulness
-of a good man, “I was the first to bring the Muse into my
-country.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0730">We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had
-been brushed by the wing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone
-knew Cleric intimately enough to guess what that feeling was. In the
-evening, as I sat staring at my book, the fervor of his voice stirred
-through the quantities on the page before me. I was wondering whether
-that particular rocky strip of New England coast about which he had so
-often told me was Cleric’s
-<foreign lang="la">patria</foreign>. Before I had got far
-with my reading I was disturbed by a knock. I hurried to the door and
-when I opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall.</p>
-
-<p id="p0731">“I expect you hardly know me, Jim.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0732">The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize
-her until she stepped into the light of my doorway and I beheld—Lena Lingard! She was so quietly conventionalized by city
-clothes that I might have passed her on the street without seeing her.
-Her black suit fitted<pb n="301" /><anchor id="Pg301" />
-her figure smoothly, and a black lace hat, with pale-blue
-forget-me-nots, sat demurely on her yellow hair.</p>
-
-<p id="p0733">I led her toward Cleric’s chair, the only
-comfortable one I had, questioning her confusedly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0734">She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She
-looked about her with the naïve curiosity I remembered so well.
-“You are quite comfortable here, are n’t you? I live in
-Lincoln now, too, Jim. I’m in business for myself. I have a
-dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street. I’ve
-made a real good start.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0735">“But, Lena, when did you come?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0736">“Oh, I’ve been here all winter. Did
-n’t your grandmother ever write you? I’ve thought about
-looking you up lots of times. But we’ve all heard what a
-studious young man you’ve got to be, and I felt bashful. I did
-n’t know whether you’d be glad to see me.” She
-laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that was either very artless or very
-comprehending, one never quite knew which. “You seem the same,
-though,—except you’re a young man, now, of course. Do
-you think I’ve changed?”</p>
-
-<pb n="302" /><anchor id="Pg302" />
-
-<p id="p0737">“Maybe you’re prettier—though you
-were always pretty enough. Perhaps it’s your clothes that make a
-difference.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0738">“You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty
-well in my business.” She took off her jacket and sat more at
-ease in her blouse, of some soft, flimsy silk. She was already at home
-in my place, had slipped quietly into it, as she did into everything.
-She told me her business was going well, and she had saved a little
-money.</p>
-
-<p id="p0739">“This summer I’m going to build the house
-for mother I’ve talked about so long. I won’t be able to
-pay up on it at first, but I want her to have it before she is too old
-to enjoy it. Next summer I’ll take her down new furniture and
-carpets, so she’ll have something to look forward to all
-winter.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0740">I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and
-well cared-for, and thought of how she used to run barefoot over the
-prairie until after the snow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased
-her round and round the cornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she
-should have got on so well in the world. Certainly she had no one but
-herself to thank for it.</p>
-
-<pb n="303" /><anchor id="Pg303" />
-
-<p id="p0741">“You must feel proud of yourself, Lena,”
-I said heartily. “Look at me; I’ve never earned a dollar,
-and I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0742">“Tony says you’re going to be richer than
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling some day. She’s always bragging about
-you, you know.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0743">“Tell me, how <emph>is</emph>
-Tony?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0744">“She’s fine. She works for
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener at the hotel now. She’s housekeeper.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s health is n’t what it was,
-and she can’t see after everything like she used to. She has
-great confidence in Tony. Tony’s made it up with the Harlings,
-too. Little Nina is so fond of her that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling kind
-of overlooked things.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0745">“Is she still going with Larry
-Donovan?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0746">“Oh, that’s on, worse than ever! I guess
-they’re engaged. Tony talks about him like he was president of
-the railroad. Everybody laughs about it, because she was never a girl
-to be soft. She won’t hear a word against him. She’s so
-sort of innocent.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0747">I said I did n’t like Larry, and never
-would.</p>
-
-<p id="p0748">Lena’s face dimpled. “Some of us could
-tell her things, but it would n’t do any good. She’d
-always believe him. That’s Ántonia’s<pb n="304" /><anchor id="Pg304" />
-failing, you know; if she once likes people, she won’t hear
-anything against them.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0749">“I think I’d better go home and look
-after Ántonia,” I said.</p>
-
-<p id="p0750">“I think you had.” Lena looked up at me
-in frank amusement. “It’s a good thing the Harlings are
-friendly with her again. Larry’s afraid of them. They ship so
-much grain, they have influence with the railroad people. What are you
-studying?” She leaned her elbows on the table and drew my book
-toward her. I caught a faint odor of violet sachet. “So
-that’s Latin, is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theater
-sometimes, though, for I’ve seen you there. Don’t you just
-love a good play, Jim? I can’t stay at home in the evening if
-there’s one in town. I’d be willing to work like a slave,
-it seems to me, to live in a place where there are theaters.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0751">“Let’s go to a show together sometime.
-You are going to let me come to see you, are n’t you?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0752">“Would you like to? I’d be ever so
-pleased. I’m never busy after six o’clock, and I let my
-sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to save time, but
-sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I’d be glad to cook one
-for you.<pb n="305" /><anchor id="Pg305" />
-Well,”—she began to put on her white gloves,—“it’s been awful good to see you, Jim.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0753">“You need n’t hurry, need you?
-You’ve hardly told me anything yet.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0754">“We can talk when you come to see me. I expect
-you don’t often have lady visitors. The old woman downstairs did
-n’t want to let me come up very much. I told her I was from your
-home town, and had promised your grandmother to come and see you. How
-surprised <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Burden would be!” Lena laughed
-softly as she rose.</p>
-
-<p id="p0755">When I caught up my hat she shook her head.
-“No, I don’t want you to go with me. I’m to meet
-some Swedes at the drug-store. You would n’t care for them. I
-wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but I must
-tell her how I left you right here with your books. She’s always
-so afraid some one will run off with you!” Lena slipped her silk
-sleeves into the jacket I held for her, smoothed it over her person,
-and buttoned it slowly. I walked with her to the door. “Come and
-see me sometimes when you’re lonesome. But maybe you have all
-the friends you want. Have you?” She turned her soft cheek to
-me. “Have you?” she whispered<pb n="306" /><anchor id="Pg306" />
-teasingly in my ear. In a moment I watched her fade down the dusky
-stairway.</p>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p0756">When I turned back to my room the place seemed much
-pleasanter than before. Lena had left something warm and friendly in
-the lamplight. How I loved to hear her laugh again! It was so soft and
-unexcited and appreciative—gave a favorable interpretation to
-everything. When I closed my eyes I could hear them all laughing—the Danish laundry girls and the three Bohemian Marys. Lena
-had brought them all back to me. It came over me, as it had never done
-before, the relation between girls like those and the poetry of
-Virgil. If there were no girls like them in the world, there would be
-no poetry. I understood that clearly, for the first time. This
-revelation seemed to me inestimably precious. I clung to it as if it
-might suddenly vanish.</p>
-
-<p id="p0757">As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about
-Lena coming across the harvest field in her short skirt seemed to me
-like the memory of an actual experience. It floated before me on the
-page like a picture, and underneath it stood the mournful line: <foreign lang="la">Optima dies … prima
-fugit.</foreign></p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap3-03" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="307" /><anchor id="Pg307" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>III</head>
-
-<p id="p0758"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">In</hi> Lincoln the
-best part of the theatrical season came late, when the good companies
-stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long runs in New
-York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see Joseph
-Jefferson in “Rip Van Winkle,” and to a war play called
-“Shenandoah.” She was inflexible about paying for her own
-seat; said she was in business now, and she would n’t have a
-schoolboy spending his money on her. I liked to watch a play with
-Lena; everything was wonderful to her, and everything was true. It was
-like going to revival meetings with some one who was always being
-converted. She handed her feelings over to the actors with a kind of
-fatalistic resignation. Accessories of costume and scene meant much
-more to her than to me. She sat entranced through “Robin
-Hood” and hung upon the lips of the contralto who sang,
-“Oh, Promise Me!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0759">Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I
-watched anxiously in those days,<pb n="308" /><anchor id="Pg308" />
-bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which two names
-were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an
-actress of whom I had often heard, and the name
-“Camille.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0760">I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday
-evening, and we walked down to the theater. The weather was warm and
-sultry and put us both in a holiday humor. We arrived early, because
-Lena liked to watch the people come in. There was a note on the
-programme, saying that the “incidental music” would be
-from the opera “Traviata,” which was made from the same
-story as the play. We had neither of us read the play, and we did not
-know what it was about—though I seemed to remember having
-heard it was a piece in which great actresses shone. “The Count
-of Monte Cristo,” which I had seen James O’Neill play that
-winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I knew. This play, I saw, was
-by his son, and I expected a family resemblance. A couple of
-jack-rabbits, run in off the prairie, could not have been more
-innocent of what awaited them than were Lena and I.</p>
-
-<p id="p0761">Our excitement began with the rise of the<pb n="309" /><anchor id="Pg309" />
-curtain, when the moody Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated
-Nanine. Decidedly, there was a new tang about this dialogue. I had
-never heard in the theater lines that were alive, that presupposed and
-took for granted, like those which passed between Varville and
-Marguerite in the brief encounter before her friends entered. This
-introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most enchantingly gay
-scene I had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne bottles
-opened on the stage before—indeed, I had never seen them
-opened anywhere. The memory of that supper makes me hungry now; the
-sight of it then, when I had only a students’ boarding-house
-dinner behind me, was delicate torment. I seem to remember gilded
-chairs and tables (arranged hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and
-stockings), linen of dazzling whiteness, glittering glass, silver
-dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the reddest of roses. The room was
-invaded by beautiful women and dashing young men, laughing and talking
-together. The men were dressed more or less after the period in which
-the play was written; the women were not. I saw no inconsistency.
-Their talk seemed<pb n="310" /><anchor id="Pg310" />
-to open to one the brilliant world in which they lived; every sentence
-made one older and wiser, every pleasantry enlarged one’s
-horizon. One could experience excess and satiety without the
-inconvenience of learning what to do with one’s hands in a
-drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I missed some
-of the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery. I strained
-my ears and eyes to catch every exclamation.</p>
-
-<p id="p0762">The actress who played Marguerite was even then
-old-fashioned, though historic. She had been a member of Daly’s
-famous New York company, and afterward a “star” under his
-direction. She was a woman who could not be taught, it is said, though
-she had a crude natural force which carried with people whose feelings
-were accessible and whose taste was not squeamish. She was already
-old, with a ravaged countenance and a physique curiously hard and
-stiff. She moved with difficulty—I think she was lame—I seem to remember some story about a malady of the spine. Her Armand
-was disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth, perplexed
-in the extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly in her
-power to<pb n="311" /><anchor id="Pg311" />
-fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed her young,
-ardent, reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish, avid of
-pleasure. I wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted
-Armand in the frilled shirt to convince her that there was still
-loyalty and devotion in the world. Her sudden illness, when the gayety
-was at its height, her pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against
-her lips, the cough she smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept
-playing the piano lightly—it all wrung my heart. But not so
-much as her cynicism in the long dialogue with her lover which
-followed. How far was I from questioning her unbelief! While the
-charmingly sincere young man pleaded with her—accompanied by
-the orchestra in the old “Traviata” duet,
-<foreign lang="it">“misterioso, misterioso!”</foreign>—she maintained her bitter skepticism, and the curtain fell on
-her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent
-away with his flower.</p>
-
-<p id="p0763">Between the acts we had no time to forget. The
-orchestra kept sawing away at the “Traviata” music, so
-joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so clap-trap and yet so
-heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in<pb n="312" /><anchor id="Pg312" />
-tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to
-smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not
-brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the
-Junior dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena
-was at least a woman, and I was a man.</p>
-
-<p id="p0764">Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder
-Duval, Lena wept unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the
-closing of that chapter of idyllic love, dreading the return of the
-young man whose ineffable happiness was only to be the measure of his
-fall.</p>
-
-<p id="p0765">I suppose no woman could have been further in person,
-voice, and temperament from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the
-veteran actress who first acquainted me with her. Her conception of
-the character was as heavy and uncompromising as her diction; she bore
-hard on the idea and on the consonants. At all times she was highly
-tragic, devoured by remorse. Lightness of stress or behavior was far
-from her. Her voice was heavy and deep: “Ar-r-r-mond!” she
-would begin, as if she were summoning him to the bar of Judgment. But
-the lines were enough. She had<pb n="313" /><anchor id="Pg313" />
-only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0766">The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with
-Varville had never been so glittering and reckless as on the night
-when it gathered in Olympe’s salon for the fourth act. There
-were chandeliers hung from the ceiling, I remember, many servants in
-livery, gaming-tables where the men played with piles of gold, and a
-staircase down which the guests made their entrance. After all the
-others had gathered round the card tables, and young Duval had been
-warned by Prudence, Marguerite descended the staircase with Varville;
-such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels—and her face! One knew
-at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the terrible words,
-“Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!” flung the
-gold and
-bank-notes
-at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside me and covered
-her face with her hands.</p>
-
-<p id="p0767">The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time
-there was n’t a nerve in me that had n’t been twisted.
-Nanine alone could have made me cry. I loved Nanine tenderly; and
-Gaston, how one clung to that good<pb n="314" /><anchor id="Pg314" />
-fellow! The New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could
-be too much now. I wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my
-breast-pocket, worn for elegance and not at all for use, was wet
-through by the time that moribund woman sank for the last time into
-the arms of her lover.</p>
-
-<p id="p0768">When we reached the door of the theater, the streets
-were shining with rain. I had prudently brought along
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling’s useful Commencement present, and I
-took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I walked slowly
-out into the country part of the town where I lived. The lilacs were
-all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the rain, of
-the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with a
-sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the
-showery trees, mourning for Marguerite
-Gauthier
-as if she had died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840,
-which had sighed so much, and which had reached me only that night,
-across long years and several languages, through the person of an
-infirm old actress. The idea is one that no circumstances can
-frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is put on, it is April.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap3-04" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="315" /><anchor id="Pg315" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>IV</head>
-
-<p id="p0769"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">How</hi> well I
-remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: the
-hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long
-mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a
-moment I was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to
-my clothes after I went away. Lena’s success puzzled me. She was
-so easy-going; had none of the push and self-assertiveness that get
-people ahead in business. She had come to Lincoln, a country girl,
-with no introductions except to some cousins of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Thomas who lived there, and she was already making clothes for the
-women of “the young married set.” She evidently had great
-natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, “what
-people looked well in.” She never tired of poring over fashion
-books. Sometimes in the evening I would find her alone in her
-work-room, draping folds of satin on a wire figure, with a quite
-blissful expression of countenance. I could n’t help thinking
-that the years when Lena literally<pb n="316" /><anchor id="Pg316" />
-had n’t enough clothes to cover herself might have something to
-do with her untiring interest in dressing the human figure. Her
-clients said that Lena “had style,” and overlooked her
-habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, finished anything by
-the time she had promised, and she frequently spent more money on
-materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I arrived at
-six o’clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her
-awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to
-say apologetically:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0770">“You’ll try to keep it under fifty for
-me, won’t you, Miss Lingard? You see, she’s really too
-young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew you could do more
-with her than anybody else.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0771">“Oh, that will be all right, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr>
-Herron. I think we’ll manage to get a good effect,” Lena
-replied blandly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0772">I thought her manner with her customers very good,
-and wondered where she had learned such self-possession.</p>
-
-<p id="p0773">Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used
-to encounter Lena downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat,
-with<pb n="317" /><anchor id="Pg317" />
-a veil tied smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring
-morning. Maybe she would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a
-hyacinth plant. When we passed a candy store her footsteps would
-hesitate and linger. “Don’t let me go in,” she would
-murmur. “Get me by if you can.” She was very fond of
-sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump.</p>
-
-<p id="p0774">We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at
-Lena’s. At the back of her long work-room was a bay-window,
-large enough to hold a box-couch and a reading-table. We breakfasted
-in this recess, after drawing the curtains that shut out the long
-room, with cutting-tables and wire women and sheet-draped garments on
-the walls. The sunlight poured in, making everything on the table
-shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol lamp disappear
-altogether. Lena’s curly black water-spaniel, Prince,
-breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very
-well until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to
-practice, when Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust.
-Lena’s landlord, old Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and
-at first she was not at all pleased.<pb n="318" /><anchor id="Pg318" />
-She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have much
-sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she
-grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead
-dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap
-on his head—I had to take military drill at the University—and give him a yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His
-gravity made us laugh immoderately.</p>
-
-<p id="p0775">Lena’s talk always amused me. Ántonia
-had never talked like the people about her. Even after she learned to
-speak English readily there was always something impulsive and foreign
-in her speech. But Lena had picked up all the conventional expressions
-she heard at <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas’s dressmaking shop. Those
-formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and the
-flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became
-very funny, very engaging, when they were uttered in Lena’s soft
-voice, with her caressing intonation and arch naïveté.
-Nothing could be more diverting than to hear Lena, who was almost as
-candid as Nature, call a leg a “limb” or a house a
-“home.”</p>
-
-<pb n="319" /><anchor id="Pg319" />
-
-<p id="p0776">We used to linger a long while over our coffee in
-that sunny corner. Lena was never so pretty as in the morning; she
-wakened fresh with the world every day, and her eyes had a deeper
-color then, like the blue flowers that are never so blue as when they
-first open. I could sit idle all through a Sunday morning and look at
-her. Ole Benson’s behavior was now no mystery to me.</p>
-
-<p id="p0777">“There was never any harm in Ole,” she
-said once. “People need n’t have troubled themselves. He
-just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side and forget about his
-bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company’s welcome when
-you’re off with cattle all the time.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0778">“But was n’t he always glum?” I
-asked. “People said he never talked at all.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0779">“Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He’d been
-a sailor on an English boat and had seen lots of queer places. He had
-wonderful tattoos. We used to sit and look at them for hours; there
-was n’t much to look at out there. He was like a picture book.
-He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, and on the other a
-girl standing before a little house, with a fence and gate and all,
-waiting for<pb n="320" /><anchor id="Pg320" />
-her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor had come back and was
-kissing her. ‘The Sailor’s Return,’ he called
-it.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0780">I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a
-pretty girl once in a while, with such a fright at home.</p>
-
-<p id="p0781">“You know,” Lena said confidentially,
-“he married Mary because he thought she was strong-minded and
-would keep him straight. He never could keep straight on shore. The
-last time he landed in Liverpool he’d been out on a two
-years’ voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he
-had n’t a cent left, and his watch and compass were gone.
-He’d got with some women, and they’d taken everything. He
-worked his way to this country on a little passenger boat. Mary was a
-stewardess, and she tried to convert him on the way over. He thought
-she was just the one to keep him steady. Poor Ole! He used to bring me
-candy from town, hidden in his feed-bag. He could n’t refuse
-anything to a girl. He’d have given away his tattoos long ago,
-if he could. He’s one of the people I’m sorriest
-for.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0782">If I happened to spend an evening with Lena and
-stayed late, the Polish violin-teacher<pb n="321" /><anchor id="Pg321" />
-across the hall used to come out and watch me descend the stairs,
-muttering so threateningly that it would have been easy to fall into a
-quarrel with him. Lena had told him once that she liked to hear him
-practice, so he always left his door open, and watched who came and
-went.</p>
-
-<p id="p0783">There was a coolness between the Pole and
-Lena’s landlord on her account. Old Colonel Raleigh had come to
-Lincoln from Kentucky and invested an inherited fortune in real
-estate, at the time of inflated prices. Now he sat day after day in
-his office in the Raleigh Block, trying to discover where his money
-had gone and how he could get some of it back. He was a widower, and
-found very little congenial companionship in this casual Western city.
-Lena’s good looks and gentle manners appealed to him. He said
-her voice reminded him of Southern voices, and he found as many
-opportunities of hearing it as possible. He painted and papered her
-rooms for her that spring, and put in a porcelain bathtub in place of
-the tin one that had satisfied the former tenant. While these repairs
-were being made, the old gentleman often dropped in to consult
-Lena’s preferences.<pb n="322" /><anchor id="Pg322" />
-She told me with amusement how Ordinsky, the Pole, had presented
-himself at her door one evening, and said that if the landlord was
-annoying her by his attentions, he would promptly put a stop to it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0784">“I don’t exactly know what to do about
-him,” she said, shaking her head, “he’s so sort of
-wild all the time. I would n’t like to have him say anything
-rough to that nice old man. The Colonel is long-winded, but then I
-expect he’s lonesome. I don’t think he cares much for
-Ordinsky, either. He said once that if I had any complaints to make of
-my neighbors, I must n’t hesitate.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0785">One Saturday evening when I was having supper with
-Lena we heard a knock at her parlor door, and there stood the Pole,
-coatless, in a dress shirt and collar. Prince dropped on his paws and
-began to growl like a mastiff, while the visitor apologized, saying
-that he could not possibly come in thus attired, but he begged Lena to
-lend him some safety pins.</p>
-
-<p id="p0786">“Oh, you’ll have to come in,
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ordinsky, and let me see what’s the
-matter.” She closed the door behind him. “Jim, won’t
-you make Prince behave?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0787">I rapped Prince on the nose, while<pb n="323" /><anchor id="Pg323" />
-Ordinsky explained that he had not had his dress clothes on for a long
-time, and to-night, when he was going to play for a concert, his
-waistcoat had split down the back. He thought he could pin it together
-until he got it to a tailor.</p>
-
-<p id="p0788">Lena took him by the elbow and turned him round. She
-laughed when she saw the long gap in the satin. “You could never
-pin that, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ordinsky. You’ve kept it folded too
-long, and the goods is all gone along the crease. Take it off. I can
-put a new piece of lining-silk in there for you in ten minutes.”
-She disappeared into her work-room with the vest, leaving me to
-confront the Pole, who stood against the door like a wooden figure. He
-folded his arms and glared at me with his excitable, slanting brown
-eyes. His head was the shape of a chocolate drop, and was covered with
-dry, straw-colored hair that fuzzed up about his pointed crown. He had
-never done more than mutter at me as I passed him, and I was surprised
-when he now addressed me.</p>
-
-<p id="p0789">“Miss Lingard,” he said haughtily,
-“is a young woman for whom I have the utmost, the utmost
-respect.”</p>
-
-<pb n="324" /><anchor id="Pg324" />
-
-<p id="p0790">“So have I,” I said coldly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0791">He paid no heed to my remark, but began to do rapid
-finger-exercises on his shirt-sleeves, as he stood with tightly folded
-arms.</p>
-
-<p id="p0792">“Kindness of heart,” he went on, staring
-at the ceiling, “sentiment, are not understood in a place like
-this. The noblest qualities are ridiculed. Grinning college boys,
-ignorant and conceited, what do they know of delicacy!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0793">I controlled my features and tried to speak
-seriously.</p>
-
-<p id="p0794">“If you mean me, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ordinsky, I
-have known Miss Lingard a long time, and I think I appreciate her
-kindness. We come from the same town, and we grew up
-together.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0795">His gaze traveled slowly down from the ceiling and
-rested on me. “Am I to understand that you have this young
-woman’s interests at heart? That you do not wish to compromise
-her?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0796">“That’s a word we don’t use much
-here, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ordinsky. A girl who makes her own living can
-ask a college boy to supper without being talked about. We take some
-things for granted.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0797">“Then I have misjudged you, and I ask<pb n="325" /><anchor id="Pg325" />
-your pardon,”—he bowed gravely. “Miss
-Lingard,” he went on, “is an absolutely trustful heart.
-She has not learned the hard lessons of life. As for you and me, <foreign lang="fr">noblesse oblige,</foreign>”—he
-watched me narrowly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0798">Lena returned with the vest. “Come in and let
-us look at you as you go out, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Ordinsky. I’ve
-never seen you in your dress suit,” she said as she opened the
-door for him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0799">A few moments later he reappeared with his violin
-case—a heavy muffler about his neck and thick woolen gloves on
-his bony hands. Lena spoke encouragingly to him, and he went off with
-such an important, professional air, that we fell to laughing as soon
-as we had shut the door. “Poor fellow,” Lena said
-indulgently, “he takes everything so hard.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0800">After that Ordinsky was friendly to me, and behaved
-as if there were some deep understanding between us. He wrote a
-furious article, attacking the musical taste of the town, and asked me
-to do him a great service by taking it to the editor of the morning
-paper. If the editor refused to print it, I was to tell him that he
-would be answerable to Ordinsky “in person.” He declared
-that he would<pb n="326" /><anchor id="Pg326" />
-never retract one word, and that he was quite prepared to lose all his
-pupils. In spite of the fact that nobody ever mentioned his article to
-him after it appeared—full of typographical errors which he
-thought intentional—he got a certain satisfaction from
-believing that the citizens of Lincoln had meekly accepted the epithet
-“coarse barbarians.” “You see how it is,” he
-said to me, “where there is no chivalry, there is no
-<foreign lang="fr">amour propre</foreign>.” When I met
-him on his rounds now, I thought he carried his head more disdainfully
-than ever, and strode up the steps of front porches and rang doorbells
-with more assurance. He told Lena he would never forget how I had
-stood by him when he was “under fire.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0801">All this time, of course, I was drifting. Lena had
-broken up my serious mood. I was n’t interested in my classes. I
-played with Lena and Prince, I played with the Pole, I went
-buggy-riding with the old Colonel, who had taken a fancy to me and
-used to talk to me about Lena and the “great beauties” he
-had known in his youth. We were all three in love with Lena.</p>
-
-<p id="p0802">Before the first of June, Gaston Cleric was offered
-an instructorship at Harvard College,<pb n="327" /><anchor id="Pg327" />
-and accepted it. He suggested that I should follow him in the fall,
-and complete my course at Harvard. He had found out about Lena—not from me—and he talked to me seriously.</p>
-
-<p id="p0803">“You won’t do anything here now. You
-should either quit school and go to work, or change your college and
-begin again in earnest. You won’t recover yourself while you are
-playing about with this handsome Norwegian. Yes, I’ve seen her
-with you at the theater. She’s very pretty, and perfectly
-irresponsible, I should judge.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0804">Cleric wrote my grandfather that he would like to
-take me East with him. To my astonishment, grandfather replied that I
-might go if I wished. I was both glad and sorry on the day when the
-letter came. I stayed in my room all evening and thought things over;
-I even tried to persuade myself that I was standing in Lena’s
-way—it is so necessary to be a little noble!—and that
-if she had not me to play with, she would probably marry and secure
-her future.</p>
-
-<p id="p0805">The next evening I went to call on Lena. I found her
-propped up on the couch in her bay window, with her foot in a big
-slipper. An<pb n="328" /><anchor id="Pg328" />
-awkward little Russian girl whom she had taken into her work-room had
-dropped a flat-iron on Lena’s toe. On the table beside her there
-was a basket of early summer flowers which the Pole had left after he
-heard of the accident. He always managed to know what went on in
-Lena’s apartment.</p>
-
-<p id="p0806">Lena was telling me some amusing piece of gossip
-about one of her clients, when I interrupted her and picked up the
-flower basket.</p>
-
-<p id="p0807">“This old chap will be proposing to you some
-day, Lena.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0808">“Oh, he has—often!” she
-murmured.</p>
-
-<p id="p0809">“What! After you’ve refused
-him?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0810">“He does n’t mind that. It seems to cheer
-him to mention the subject. Old men are like that, you know. It makes
-them feel important to think they’re in love with
-somebody.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0811">“The Colonel would marry you in a minute. I
-hope you won’t marry some old fellow; not even a rich
-one.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0812">Lena shifted her pillows and looked up at me in
-surprise. “Why, I’m not going to marry anybody. Did
-n’t you know that?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0813">“Nonsense, Lena. That’s what girls say,
-but you know better. Every handsome girl like you marries, of
-course.”</p>
-
-<pb n="329" /><anchor id="Pg329" />
-
-<p id="p0814">She shook her head. “Not me.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0815">“But why not? What makes you say that?” I
-persisted.</p>
-
-<p id="p0816">Lena laughed. “Well, it’s mainly because
-I don’t want a husband. Men are all right for friends, but as
-soon as you marry them they turn into cranky old fathers, even the
-wild ones. They begin to tell you what’s sensible and
-what’s foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I
-prefer to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to
-nobody.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0817">“But you’ll be lonesome. You’ll get
-tired of this sort of life, and you’ll want a family.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0818">“Not me. I like to be lonesome. When I went to
-work for <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Thomas I was nineteen years old, and I had
-never slept a night in my life when there were n’t three in the
-bed. I never had a minute to myself except when I was off with the
-cattle.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0819">Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the
-country at all, she dismissed it with a single remark, humorous or
-mildly cynical. But to-night her mind seemed to dwell on those early
-years. She told me she could n’t remember a time when she was so
-little that she was n’t lugging a heavy baby about, helping to
-wash for babies, trying to keep their<pb n="330" /><anchor id="Pg330" />
-little chapped hands and faces clean. She remembered home as a place
-where there were always too many children, a cross man, and work
-piling up around a sick woman.</p>
-
-<p id="p0820">“It was n’t mother’s fault. She
-would have made us comfortable if she could. But that was no life for
-a girl! After I began to herd and milk I could never get the smell of
-the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had I kept in a cracker box.
-On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, then I could take a
-bath if I was n’t too tired. I could make two trips to the
-windmill to carry water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove.
-While the water was heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the
-cave, and take my bath in the kitchen. Then I could put on a clean
-nightgown and get into bed with two others, who likely had n’t
-had a bath unless I’d given it to them. You can’t tell me
-anything about family life. I’ve had plenty to last
-me.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0821">“But it’s not all like that,” I
-objected.</p>
-
-<p id="p0822">“Near enough. It’s all being under
-somebody’s thumb. What’s on your mind, Jim? Are you afraid
-I’ll want you to marry me some day?”</p>
-
-<pb n="331" /><anchor id="Pg331" />
-
-<p id="p0823">Then I told her I was going away.</p>
-
-<p id="p0824">“What makes you want to go away, Jim? Have
-n’t I been nice to you?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0825">“You’ve been just awfully good to me,
-Lena,” I blurted. “I don’t think about much else. I
-never shall think about much else while I’m with you. I’ll
-never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that.” I
-dropped down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have
-forgotten all my reasonable explanations.</p>
-
-<p id="p0826">Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in
-her voice that had hurt me was not there when she spoke again.</p>
-
-<p id="p0827">“I ought n’t to have begun it, ought
-I?” she murmured. “I ought n’t to have gone to see
-you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I’ve always been
-a little foolish about you. I don’t know what first put it into
-my head, unless it was Ántonia, always telling me I must
-n’t be up to any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a
-long while, though, did n’t I?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0828">She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that
-Lena Lingard!</p>
-
-<p id="p0829">At last she sent me away with her soft, slow,
-renunciatory kiss. “You are n’t sorry<pb n="332" /><anchor id="Pg332" />
-I came to see you that time?” she whispered. “It seemed so
-natural. I used to think I’d like to be your first sweetheart.
-You were such a funny kid!” She always kissed one as if she were
-sadly and wisely sending one away forever.</p>
-
-<p id="p0830">We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she
-never tried to hinder me or hold me back. “You are going, but
-you have n’t gone yet, have you?” she used to say.</p>
-
-<p id="p0831">My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my
-grandparents for a few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in
-Virginia until I joined Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years
-old.</p>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div id="book4" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="335" /><anchor id="Pg335" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>Book IV—The Pioneer Woman’s Story</head>
-<p></p>
-
-<div id="chap4-01">
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>I</head>
-
-<p id="p0832"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Two</hi> years after I
-left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. Before I
-entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On the
-night of my arrival <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling and Frances and Sally
-came over to greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My
-grandparents looked very little older. Frances Harling was married
-now, and she and her husband managed the Harling interests in Black
-Hawk. When we gathered in grandmother’s parlor, I could hardly
-believe that I had been away at all. One subject, however, we avoided
-all evening.</p>
-
-<p id="p0833">When I was walking home with Frances, after we had
-left <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling at her gate, she said simply,
-“You know, of course, about poor Ántonia.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0834">Poor Ántonia! Every one would be saying that
-now, I thought bitterly. I replied that<pb n="336" /><anchor id="Pg336" />
-grandmother had written me how Ántonia went away to marry Larry
-Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted her,
-and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew.</p>
-
-<p id="p0835">“He never married her,” Frances said.
-“I have n’t seen her since she came back. She lives at
-home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She brought the
-baby in to show it to mama once. I’m afraid she’s settled
-down to be Ambrosch’s drudge for good.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0836">I tried to shut Ántonia out of my mind. I was
-bitterly disappointed in her. I could not forgive her for becoming an
-object of pity, while Lena Lingard, for whom people had always
-foretold trouble, was now the leading dressmaker of Lincoln, much
-respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart away when she felt like
-it, but she kept her head for her business and had got on in the
-world.</p>
-
-<p id="p0837">Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of
-Lena and severely of Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try
-her fortune the year before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle,
-brought the news that Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as
-she had allowed people to think, but with<pb n="337" /><anchor id="Pg337" />
-very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used to stop at
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener’s hotel owned idle property along the
-water-front
-in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of
-his empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors’
-lodging-house. This, every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if
-she had begun by running a decent place, she could n’t keep it
-up; all sailors’ boarding-houses were alike.</p>
-
-<p id="p0838">When I thought about it, I discovered that I had
-never known Tiny as well as I knew the other girls. I remembered her
-tripping briskly about the dining-room on her high heels, carrying a
-big tray full of dishes, glancing rather pertly at the spruce
-traveling men, and contemptuously at the scrubby ones—who were
-so afraid of her that they did n’t dare to ask for two kinds of
-pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, might be
-afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat talking
-about her on Frances Harling’s front porch, if we could have
-known what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who
-grew up together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was<pb n="338" /><anchor id="Pg338" />
-to lead the most adventurous life and to achieve the most solid
-worldly success.</p>
-
-<p id="p0839">This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was
-running her lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska.
-Miners and sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and
-pouches of gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring
-which nobody had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business
-and set out for Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife
-whom she had persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a
-snowstorm, went in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the
-Yukon in flatboats. They reached Circle City on the very day when some
-Siwash Indians came into the settlement with the report that there had
-been a rich gold strike farther up the river, on a certain Klondike
-Creek. Two days later Tiny and her friends, and nearly every one else
-in Circle City, started for the Klondike fields on the last steamer
-that went up the Yukon before it froze for the winter. That boatload
-of people founded Dawson City. Within a few weeks there were fifteen
-hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the<pb n="339" /><anchor id="Pg339" />
-carpenter’s wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners
-gave her a lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There
-she sometimes fed a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on
-snowshoes from their placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh
-bread from her, and paid for it in gold.</p>
-
-<p id="p0840">That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs
-had been frozen one night in a storm when he was trying to find his
-way back to his cabin. The poor fellow thought it great good fortune
-to be cared for by a woman, and a woman who spoke his own tongue. When
-he was told that his feet must be amputated, he said he hoped he would
-not get well; what could a working-man do in this hard world without
-feet? He did, in fact, die from the operation, but not before he had
-deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel,
-invested half her money in Dawson building lots, and with the rest she
-developed her claim. She went off into the wilds and lived on it. She
-bought other claims from discouraged miners, traded or sold them on
-percentages.</p>
-
-<p id="p0841">After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny
-returned, with a considerable fortune,<pb n="340" /><anchor id="Pg340" />
-to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. She was
-a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in manner.
-Curiously enough, she reminded me of <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Gardener, for
-whom she had worked in Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some
-of the desperate chances she had taken in the gold country, but the
-thrill of them was quite gone. She said frankly that nothing
-interested her much now but making money. The only two human beings of
-whom she spoke with any feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who had given
-her his claim, and Lena Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to San
-Francisco and go into business there.</p>
-
-<p id="p0842">“Lincoln was never any place for her,”
-Tiny remarked. “In a town of that size Lena would always be
-gossiped about. Frisco’s the right field for her. She has a fine
-class of trade. Oh, she’s just the same as she always was!
-She’s careless, but she’s level-headed. She’s the
-only person I know who never gets any older. It’s fine for me to
-have her there; somebody who enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye
-on me and won’t let me be shabby. When she thinks I need a new
-dress,<pb n="341" /><anchor id="Pg341" />
-she makes it and sends it home—with a bill that’s long
-enough, I can tell you!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0843">Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on
-Hunker Creek took toll from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a
-sudden turn of weather, like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from
-one of those pretty little feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in
-pointed slippers and striped stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation
-quite casually—did n’t seem sensitive about it. She was
-satisfied with her success, but not elated. She was like some one in
-whom the faculty of becoming interested is worn out.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap4-02" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="342" /><anchor id="Pg342" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>II</head>
-
-<p id="p0844"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Soon</hi> after I got
-home that summer I persuaded my grandparents to have their photographs
-taken, and one morning I went into the photographer’s shop to
-arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of his
-developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses on
-his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms
-holding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a
-heavy frame, one of those depressing “crayon enlargements”
-often seen in farmhouse parlors, the subject being a round-eyed baby
-in short dresses. The photographer came out and gave a constrained,
-apologetic laugh.</p>
-
-<p id="p0845">“That’s Tony Shimerda’s baby. You
-remember her; she used to be the
-Harling’s
-Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; would n’t
-hear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in
-for it Saturday.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0846">I went away feeling that I must see Ántonia
-again. Another girl would have kept<pb n="343" /><anchor id="Pg343" />
-her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture on
-exhibition at the town photographer’s, in a great gilt frame.
-How like her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she had n’t
-thrown herself away on such a cheap sort of fellow.</p>
-
-<p id="p0847">Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those
-train-crew aristocrats who are always afraid that some one may ask
-them to put up a car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a
-menial service, silently point to the button that calls the porter.
-Larry wore this air of official aloofness even on the street, where
-there were no car-windows to compromise his dignity. At the end of his
-run he stepped indifferently from the train along with the passengers,
-his street hat on his head and his conductor’s cap in an
-alligator-skin bag, went directly into the station and changed his
-clothes. It was a matter of the utmost importance to him never to be
-seen in his blue trousers away from his train. He was usually cold and
-distant with men, but with all women he had a silent, grave
-familiarity, a special handshake, accompanied by a significant,
-deliberate look. He took women, married or single, into his<pb n="344" /><anchor id="Pg344" />
-confidence; walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling them
-what a mistake he had made by not entering the office branch of the
-service, and how much better fitted he was to fill the post of General
-Passenger Agent in Denver than the roughshod man who then bore that
-title. His unappreciated worth was the tender secret Larry shared with
-his sweethearts, and he was always able to make some foolish heart
-ache over it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0848">As I drew near home that morning, I saw
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling out in her yard, digging round her
-
-mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now no boy to help
-her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhere on the
-Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate—it was with a feeling
-of pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked
-the feel of it under my hand. I took the spade away from
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling, and while I loosened the earth around the
-tree, she sat down on the steps and talked about the oriole family
-that had a nest in its branches.</p>
-
-<p id="p0849">“<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling,” I said
-presently, “I wish I could find out exactly how
-Ántonia’s marriage fell through.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0850">“Why don’t you go out and see your<pb n="345" /><anchor id="Pg345" />
-grandfather’s tenant, the Widow Steavens? She knows more about
-it than anybody else. She helped Ántonia get ready to be
-married, and she was there when Ántonia came back. She took
-care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything.
-Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkable
-memory.”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap4-03" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="346" /><anchor id="Pg346" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>III</head>
-
-<p id="p0851"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">On</hi> the first or
-second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out for the high
-country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was over, and
-here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of smoke from
-the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now being
-broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was
-disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There
-were wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little
-orchards, and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented
-women, and men who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The
-windy springs and the blazing summers, one after another, had enriched
-and mellowed that flat tableland; all the human effort that had gone
-into it was coming back in long, sweeping lines of fertility. The
-changes seemed beautiful and harmonious to me; it was like watching
-the growth of a great man or of a great idea. I recognized every tree
-and sandbank and<pb n="347" /><anchor id="Pg347" />
-rugged draw. I found that I remembered the conformation of the land as
-one remembers the modeling of human faces.</p>
-
-<p id="p0852">When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow
-Steavens came out to meet me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall,
-and very strong. When I was little, her massive head had always seemed
-to me like a Roman senator’s. I told her at once why I had
-come.</p>
-
-<p id="p0853">“You’ll stay the night with us, Jimmy?
-I’ll talk to you after supper. I can take more interest when my
-work is off my mind. You’ve no prejudice against hot biscuit for
-supper? Some have, these days.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0854">While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster
-squawking. I looked at my watch and sighed; it was three
-o’clock, and I knew that I must eat him at six.</p>
-
-<p id="p0855">After supper <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens and I went
-upstairs to the old sitting-room, while her grave, silent brother
-remained in the basement to read his farm papers. All the windows were
-open. The white summer moon was shining outside, the windmill was
-pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess put the lamp on a stand
-in the corner, and turned it low because of the heat. She sat<pb n="348" /><anchor id="Pg348" />
-down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little stool
-comfortably under her tired feet. “I’m troubled with
-callouses, Jim; getting old,” she sighed cheerfully. She crossed
-her hands in her lap and sat as if she were at a meeting of some
-kind.</p>
-
-<p id="p0856">“Now, it’s about that dear Ántonia
-you want to know? Well, you’ve come to the right person.
-I’ve watched her like she’d been my own daughter.</p>
-
-<p id="p0857">“When she came home to do her sewing that
-summer before she was to be married, she was over here about every
-day. They’ve never had a sewing machine at the Shimerdas’,
-and she made all her things here. I taught her hemstitching, and I
-helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at that machine by
-the window, pedaling the life out of it—she was so strong—and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the
-happiest thing in the world.</p>
-
-<p id="p0858">“‘Ántonia,’ I used to say,
-‘don’t run that machine so fast. You won’t hasten
-the day none that way.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0859">“Then she’d laugh and slow down for a
-little, but she’d soon forget and begin to pedal and sing again.
-I never saw a girl<pb n="349" /><anchor id="Pg349" />
-work harder to go to housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely
-table linen the Harlings had given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her
-nice things from Lincoln. We hemstitched all the tablecloths and
-pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. Old <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda
-knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony told me just
-how she meant to have everything in her house. She’d even bought
-silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always
-coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her
-real often, from the different towns along his run.</p>
-
-<p id="p0860">“The first thing that troubled her was when he
-wrote that his run had been changed, and they would likely have to
-live in Denver. ‘I’m a country girl,’ she said,
-‘and I doubt if I’ll be able to manage so well for him in
-a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.’
-She soon cheered up, though.</p>
-
-<p id="p0861">“At last she got the letter telling her when to
-come. She was shaken by it; she broke the seal and read it in this
-room. I suspected then that she’d begun to get faint-hearted,
-waiting; though she’d never let me see it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0862">“Then there was a great time of packing. It<pb n="350" /><anchor id="Pg350" />
-was in March, if I remember rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell,
-with the roads bad for hauling her things to town. And here let me
-say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He went to Black Hawk and bought
-her a set of plated silver in a purple velvet box, good enough for her
-station. He gave her three hundred dollars in money; I saw the check.
-He’d collected her wages all those first years she worked out,
-and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this room.
-‘You’re behaving like a man, Ambrosch,’ I said,
-‘and I’m glad to see it, son.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0863">“’T was a cold, raw day he drove her and
-her three trunks into Black Hawk to take the night train for Denver—the boxes had been shipped before. He stopped the wagon here,
-and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her arms around me and
-kissed me, and thanked me for all I’d done for her. She was so
-happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red cheeks
-was all wet with rain.</p>
-
-<p id="p0864">“‘You’re surely handsome enough for
-any man,’ I said, looking her over.</p>
-
-<p id="p0865">“She laughed kind of flighty like, and
-whispered, ‘Good-bye, dear house!’ and then<pb n="351" /><anchor id="Pg351" />
-ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your
-grandmother, as much as for me, so I’m particular to tell you.
-This house had always been a refuge to her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0866">“Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she
-got to Denver safe, and he was there to meet her. They were to be
-married in a few days. He was trying to get his promotion before he
-married, she said. I did n’t like that, but I said nothing. The
-next week Yulka got a postal card, saying she was ‘well and
-happy.’ After that we heard nothing. A month went by, and old
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky
-with me as if I’d picked out the man and arranged the match.</p>
-
-<p id="p0867">“One night brother William came in and said
-that on his way back from the fields he had passed a livery team from
-town, driving fast out the west road. There was a trunk on the front
-seat with the driver, and another behind. In the back seat there was a
-woman all bundled up; but for all her veils, he thought ’t was
-Ántonia Shimerda, or Ántonia Donovan, as her name ought
-now to be.</p>
-
-<p id="p0868">“The next morning I got brother to drive me
-over. I can walk still, but my feet ain’t<pb n="352" /><anchor id="Pg352" />
-what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines outside the
-Shimerdas’ house was full of washing, though it was the middle
-of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink—all those underclothes we’d put so much work on, out
-there swinging in the wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung
-clothes, but she darted back into the house like she was loath to see
-us. When I went in, Ántonia was standing over the tubs, just
-finishing up a big washing. <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda was going about
-her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n’t so much
-as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out to
-me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she
-drew away. ‘Don’t, <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens,’ she
-says, ‘you’ll make me cry, and I don’t want
-to.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0869">“I whispered and asked her to come out of doors
-with me. I knew she could n’t talk free before her mother. She
-went out with me, bareheaded, and we walked up toward the garden.</p>
-
-<p id="p0870">“‘I’m not married,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens,’ she says to me very quiet and
-natural-like, ‘and I ought to be.’</p>
-
-<pb n="353" /><anchor id="Pg353" />
-
-<p id="p0871">“‘Oh, my child,’ says I,
-‘what’s happened to you? Don’t be afraid to tell
-me!’</p>
-
-<p id="p0872">“She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of
-the house. ‘He’s run away from me,’ she said.
-‘I don’t know if he ever meant to marry me.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0873">“‘You mean he’s thrown up his job
-and quit the country?’ says I.</p>
-
-<p id="p0874">“‘He did n’t have any job.
-He’d been fired; blacklisted for knocking down fares. I did
-n’t know. I thought he had n’t been treated right. He was
-sick when I got there. He’d just come out of the hospital. He
-lived with me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had
-n’t really been hunting work at all. Then he just did n’t
-come back. One nice fellow at the station told me, when I kept going
-to look for him, to give it up. He said he was afraid Larry’d
-gone bad and would n’t come back any more. I guess he’s
-gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, collecting
-half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was always
-talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0875">“I asked her, of course, why she did n’t
-insist on a civil marriage at once—that would<pb n="354" /><anchor id="Pg354" />
-have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on her hands,
-poor child, and said, ‘I just don’t know,
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens. I guess my patience was wore out, waiting
-so long. I thought if he saw how well I could do for him, he’d
-want to stay with me.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0876">“Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside
-her and made lament. I cried like a young thing. I could n’t
-help it. I was just about heart-broke. It was one of them lovely warm
-May days, and the wind was blowing and the colts jumping around in the
-pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. My Ántonia, that had
-so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that Lena Lingard,
-that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out so well,
-and was coming home here every summer in her silks and her satins, and
-doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit is due, but
-you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference in the
-principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that had
-come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As
-we went back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see
-if they was drying well, and seemed<pb n="355" /><anchor id="Pg355" />
-to take pride in their whiteness—she said she’d been
-living in a brick block, where she did n’t have proper
-conveniences to wash them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0877">“The next time I saw Ántonia, she was
-out in the fields ploughing corn. All that spring and summer she did
-the work of a man on the farm; it seemed to be an understood thing.
-Ambrosch did n’t get any other hand to help him. Poor Marek had
-got violent and been sent away to an institution a good while back. We
-never even saw any of Tony’s pretty dresses. She did n’t
-take them out of her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected
-her industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. They
-talked, to be sure; but not like they would if she’d put on
-airs. She was so crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to
-humble her. She never went anywhere. All that summer she never once
-came to see me. At first I was hurt, but I got to feel that it was
-because this house reminded her of too much. I went over there when I
-could, but the times when she was in from the fields were the times
-when I was busiest here. She talked about the grain and the weather as
-if she’d<pb n="356" /><anchor id="Pg356" />
-never had another interest, and if I went over at night she always
-looked dead weary. She was afflicted with toothache; one tooth after
-another ulcerated, and she went about with her face swollen half the
-time. She would n’t go to Black Hawk to a dentist for fear of
-meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spell long
-ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let
-Ántonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, ‘If
-you put that in her head, you better stay home.’ And after that
-I did.</p>
-
-<p id="p0878">“Ántonia worked on through harvest and
-thrashing, though she was too modest to go out thrashing for the
-neighbors, like when she was young and free. I did n’t see much
-of her until late that fall when she begun to herd Ambrosch’s
-cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big
-dog town.
-Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and I
-would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty
-cattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or
-she would n’t have brought them so far.</p>
-
-<p id="p0879">“It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be
-alone. While the steers grazed, she used to<pb n="357" /><anchor id="Pg357" />
-sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun herself for hours.
-Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she had n’t gone
-too far.</p>
-
-<p id="p0880">“‘It does seem like I ought to make lace,
-or knit like Lena used to,’ she said one day, ‘but if I
-start to work, I look around and forget to go on. It seems such a
-little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all over this
-country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father used
-to stand. Sometimes I feel like I’m not going to live very long,
-so I’m just enjoying every day of this fall.’</p>
-
-<p id="p0881">“After the winter begun she wore a man’s
-long overcoat and boots, and a man’s felt hat with a wide brim.
-I used to watch her coming and going, and I could see that her steps
-were getting heavier. One day in December, the snow began to fall.
-Late in the afternoon I saw Ántonia driving her cattle homeward
-across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to face
-it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. ‘Deary
-me,’ I says to myself, ‘the girl’s stayed out too
-late. It’ll be dark before she gets them cattle put into the
-corral.’ I seemed to sense<pb n="358" /><anchor id="Pg358" />
-she’d been feeling too miserable to get up and drive them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0882">“That very night, it happened. She got her
-cattle home, turned them into the corral, and went into the house,
-into her room behind the kitchen, and shut the door. There, without
-calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay down on the bed and bore
-her child.</p>
-
-<p id="p0883">“I was lifting supper when old
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda came running down the basement stairs, out
-of breath and screeching:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0884">“‘Baby come, baby come!’ she says.
-‘Ambrosch much like devil!’</p>
-
-<p id="p0885">“Brother William is surely a patient man. He
-was just ready to sit down to a hot supper after a long day in the
-fields. Without a word he rose and went down to the barn and hooked up
-his team. He got us over there as quick as it was humanly possible. I
-went right in, and began to do for Ántonia; but she laid there
-with her eyes shut and took no account of me. The old woman got a
-tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked what she was doing
-and I said out loud:—</p>
-
-<p id="p0886">“‘<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda, don’t
-you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. You’ll blister
-its little skin.’ I was indignant.</p>
-
-<figure url="images/image09.png" rend="w90">
-<index index="fig" />
-<figDesc>Illustration: Ántonia driving her cattle home</figDesc>
-</figure>
-
-<pb n="359" /><anchor id="Pg359" />
-
-<p id="p0887">“‘<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens,’
-Ántonia said from the bed, ‘if you’ll look in the
-top tray of my trunk, you’ll see some fine soap.’ That was
-the first word she spoke.</p>
-
-<p id="p0888">“After I’d dressed the baby, I took it
-out to show it to Ambrosch. He was muttering behind the stove and
-would n’t look at it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0889">“‘You’d better put it out in the
-rain barrel,’ he says.</p>
-
-<p id="p0890">“‘Now, see here, Ambrosch,’ says I,
-‘there’s a law in this land, don’t forget that. I
-stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world sound and
-strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.’ I pride
-myself I cowed him.</p>
-
-<p id="p0891">“Well, I expect you’re not much
-interested in babies, but Ántonia’s got on fine. She
-loved it from the first as dearly as if she’d had a ring on her
-finger, and was never ashamed of it. It’s a year and eight
-months old now, and no baby was ever better cared-for. Ántonia
-is a natural-born mother. I wish she could marry and raise a family,
-but I don’t know as there’s much chance now.”</p>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p0892">I slept that night in the room I used to have when I
-was a little boy, with the<pb n="360" /><anchor id="Pg360" />
-summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the ripe
-fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn
-and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark
-shadow against the blue sky.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap4-04" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="361" /><anchor id="Pg361" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>IV</head>
-
-<p id="p0893"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">The</hi> next afternoon
-I walked over to the Shimerdas’. Yulka showed me the baby and
-told me that Ántonia was shocking wheat on the southwest
-quarter. I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long
-way off. She stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork,
-watching me as I came. We met like the people in the old song, in
-silence, if not in tears. Her warm hand clasped mine.</p>
-
-<p id="p0894">“I thought you’d come, Jim. I heard you
-were at <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens’s last night. I’ve been
-looking for you all day.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0895">She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked,
-as <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Steavens said, “worked down,” but
-there was a new kind of strength in the gravity of her face, and her
-color still gave her that look of deep-seated health and ardor. Still?
-Why, it flashed across me that though so much had happened in her life
-and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old.</p>
-
-<p id="p0896">Ántonia stuck her fork in the ground, and
-instinctively we walked toward that<pb n="362" /><anchor id="Pg362" />
-unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to
-talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that
-shut <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Shimerda’s plot off from the rest of the
-world. The tall red grass had never been cut there. It had died down
-in winter and come up again in the spring until it was as thick and
-shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I found myself telling her
-everything: why I had decided to study law and to go into the law
-office of one of my mother’s relatives in New York City; about
-Gaston Cleric’s death from pneumonia last winter, and the
-difference it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends
-and my way of living, and my dearest hopes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0897">“Of course it means you are going away from us
-for good,” she said with a sigh. “But that don’t
-mean I’ll lose you. Look at my papa here; he’s been dead
-all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody
-else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all
-the time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I
-understand him.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0898">She asked me whether I had learned to like big
-cities. “I’d always be miserable in a<pb n="363" /><anchor id="Pg363" />
-city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every
-stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live
-and die here. Father Kelly says everybody’s put into this world
-for something, and I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going
-to see that my little girl has a better chance than ever I had.
-I’m going to take care of that girl, Jim.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0899">I told her I knew she would. “Do you know,
-Ántonia, since I’ve been away, I think of you more often
-than of any one else in this part of the world. I’d have liked
-to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my sister—anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a
-part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes,
-hundreds of times when I don’t realize it. You really are a part
-of me.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0900">She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the
-tears came up in them slowly. “How can it be like that, when you
-know so many people, and when I’ve disappointed you so?
-Ain’t it wonderful, Jim, how much people can mean to each other?
-I’m so glad we had each other when we were little. I can’t
-wait till my little girl’s old enough to<pb n="364" /><anchor id="Pg364" />
-tell her about all the things we used to do. You’ll always
-remember me when you think about old times, won’t you? And I
-guess everybody thinks about old times, even the happiest
-people.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0901">As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun
-dropped and lay like a great golden globe in the low west. While it
-hung there, the moon rose in the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale
-silver and streaked with rose color, thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon.
-For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two luminaries confronted each
-other across the level land, resting on opposite edges of the world.
-In that singular light every little tree and shock of wheat, every
-sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, drew itself up high
-and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields seemed to stand
-up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn magic that
-comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a little
-boy again, and that my way could end there.</p>
-
-<p id="p0902">We reached the edge of the field, where our ways
-parted. I took her hands and held them against my breast, feeling once
-more how strong and warm and good they were, those<pb n="365" /><anchor id="Pg365" />
-brown hands, and remembering how many kind things they had done for
-me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About us it was
-growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her face,
-which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face,
-under all the shadows of women’s faces, at the very bottom of my
-memory.</p>
-
-<p id="p0903">“I’ll come back,” I said earnestly,
-through the soft, intrusive darkness.</p>
-
-<p id="p0904">“Perhaps you will”—I felt rather
-than saw her smile. “But even if you don’t, you’re
-here, like my father. So I won’t be lonesome.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0905">As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could
-almost believe that a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows
-used to do, laughing and whispering to each other in the grass.</p>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-<div id="book5" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="369" /><anchor id="Pg369" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>Book V—Cuzak’s Boys</head>
-<p></p>
-
-<div id="chap5-01">
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>I</head>
-
-<p id="p0906"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">I told</hi>
-Ántonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was
-twenty years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to
-time; that she married, very soon after I last saw her, a young
-Bohemian, a cousin of Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a
-large family. Once when I was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from
-Prague I sent Ántonia some photographs of her native village.
-Months afterward came a letter from her, telling me the names and ages
-of her many children, but little else; signed, “Your old friend,
-Ántonia Cuzak.” When I met Tiny Soderball in Salt Lake,
-she told me that Ántonia had not “done very well”;
-that her husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard
-life. Perhaps it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business
-took me West several times every year, and it was always in the<pb n="370" /><anchor id="Pg370" />
-back of my mind that I would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see
-Ántonia. But I kept putting it off until the next trip. I did
-not want to find her aged and broken; I really dreaded it. In the
-course of twenty crowded years one parts with many illusions. I did
-not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are realities, and are
-better than anything that can ever happen to one again.</p>
-
-<p id="p0907">I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see
-Ántonia at last. I was in San Francisco two summers ago when
-both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. Tiny lives in a house of
-her own, and Lena’s shop is in an apartment house just around
-the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the two
-women together. Tiny audits Lena’s accounts occasionally, and
-invests her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny
-does n’t grow too miserly. “If there’s anything I
-can’t stand,” she said to me in Tiny’s presence,
-“it’s a shabby rich woman.” Tiny smiled grimly and
-assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. “And
-I don’t want to be,” the other agreed complacently.</p>
-
-<p id="p0908">Lena gave me a cheerful account of Ántonia and
-urged me to make her a visit.</p>
-
-<pb n="371" /><anchor id="Pg371" />
-
-<p id="p0909">“You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such
-a satisfaction to her. Never mind what Tiny says. There’s
-nothing the matter with Cuzak. You’d like him. He is n’t a
-hustler, but a rough man would never have suited Tony. Tony has nice
-children—ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. I should
-n’t care for a family of that size myself, but somehow
-it’s just right for Tony. She’d love to show them to
-you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0910">On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in
-Nebraska, and set off with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team
-to find the Cuzak farm. At a little past midday, I knew I must be
-nearing my destination. Set back on a swell of land at my right, I saw
-a wide farmhouse, with a red barn and an ash grove, and cattle yards
-in front that sloped down to the high road. I drew up my horses and
-was wondering whether I should drive in here, when I heard low voices.
-Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the road, I saw two boys bending
-over a dead dog. The little one, not more than four or five, was on
-his knees, his hands folded, and his close-clipped, bare head drooping
-forward in deep dejection. The other stood beside him, a hand on his<pb n="372" /><anchor id="Pg372" />
-shoulder, and was comforting him in a language I had not heard for a
-long while. When I stopped my horses opposite them, the older boy took
-his brother by the hand and came toward me. He, too, looked grave.
-This was evidently a sad afternoon for them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0911">“Are you <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cuzak’s
-boys?” I asked.</p>
-
-<p id="p0912">The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in
-his own feelings, but his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes.
-“Yes, sir.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0913">“Does she live up there on the hill? I am going
-to see her. Get in and ride up with me.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0914">He glanced at his reluctant little brother. “I
-guess we’d better walk. But we’ll open the gate for
-you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0915">I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly
-behind. When I pulled up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and
-curly-headed, ran out of the barn to tie my team for me. He was a
-handsome one, this chap, fair-skinned and freckled, with red cheeks
-and a ruddy pelt as thick as a lamb’s wool, growing down on his
-neck in little tufts. He tied my team with two flourishes of his
-hands, and nodded when I asked him if his mother was at home. As he
-glanced at me, his<pb n="373" /><anchor id="Pg373" />
-face dimpled with a seizure of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up
-the windmill tower with a lightness that struck me as disdainful. I
-knew he was peering down at me as I walked toward the house.</p>
-
-<p id="p0916">Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White
-cats were sunning themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps.
-I looked through the wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a
-white floor. I saw a long table, rows of wooden chairs against the
-wall, and a shining range in one corner. Two girls were washing dishes
-at the sink, laughing and chattering, and a little one, in a short
-pinafore, sat on a stool playing with a rag baby. When I asked for
-their mother, one of the girls dropped her towel, ran across the floor
-with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. The older one, who wore
-shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me. She was a buxom
-girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed.</p>
-
-<p id="p0917">“Won’t you come in? Mother will be here
-in a minute.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0918">Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me,
-the miracle happened; one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart,<pb n="374" /><anchor id="Pg374" />
-and take more courage than the noisy, excited passages in life.
-Ántonia came in and stood before me; a stalwart, brown woman,
-flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little grizzled. It was a shock,
-of course. It always is, to meet people after long years, especially
-if they have lived as much and as hard as this woman had. We stood
-looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously at me were—simply Ántonia’s eyes. I had seen no others like
-them since I looked into them last, though I had looked at so many
-thousands of human faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less
-apparent to me, her identity stronger. She was there, in the full
-vigor of her personality, battered but not diminished, looking at me,
-speaking to me in the husky, breathy voice I remembered so well.</p>
-
-<p id="p0919">“My husband’s not at home, sir. Can I do
-anything?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0920">“Don’t you remember me, Ántonia?
-Have I changed so much?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0921">She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her
-brown hair look redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her
-whole face seemed to grow broader. She caught her breath and put out
-two hard-worked hands.</p>
-
-<pb n="375" /><anchor id="Pg375" />
-
-<p id="p0922">“Why, it’s Jim! Anna, Yulka, it’s
-Jim Burden!” She had no sooner caught my hands than she looked
-alarmed. “What’s happened? Is anybody dead?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0923">I patted her arm. “No. I did n’t come to
-a funeral this time. I got off the train at Hastings and drove down to
-see you and your family.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0924">She dropped my hand and began rushing about.
-“Anton, Yulka, Nina, where are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for
-the boys. They’re off looking for that dog, somewhere. And call
-Leo. Where is that Leo!” She pulled them out of corners and came
-bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her kittens. “You
-don’t have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy’s not here.
-He’s gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won’t
-let you go! You’ve got to stay and see Rudolph and our
-papa.” She looked at me imploringly, panting with excitement.</p>
-
-<p id="p0925">While I reassured her and told her there would be
-plenty of time, the barefooted boys from outside were slipping into
-the kitchen and gathering about her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0926">“Now, tell me their names, and how old they
-are.”</p>
-
-<pb n="376" /><anchor id="Pg376" />
-
-<p id="p0927">As she told them off in turn, she made several
-mistakes about ages, and they roared with laughter. When she came to
-my light-footed friend of the windmill, she said, “This is Leo,
-and he’s old enough to be better than he is.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0928">He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his
-curly head, like a little ram, but his voice was quite desperate.
-“You’ve forgot! You always forget mine. It’s mean!
-Please tell him, mother!” He clenched his fists in vexation and
-looked up at her impetuously.</p>
-
-<p id="p0929">She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and
-pulled it, watching him. “Well, how old are you?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0930">“I’m twelve,” he panted, looking
-not at me but at her; “I’m twelve years old, and I was
-born on Easter day!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0931">She nodded to me. “It’s true. He was an
-Easter baby.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0932">The children all looked at me, as if they expected me
-to exhibit astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they
-were proud of each other, and of being so many. When they had all been
-introduced, Anna, the eldest daughter, who had met me at the<pb n="377" /><anchor id="Pg377" />
-door, scattered them gently, and came bringing a white apron which she
-tied round her mother’s waist.</p>
-
-<p id="p0933">“Now, mother, sit down and talk to
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden. We’ll finish the dishes quietly and not
-disturb you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0934">Ántonia looked about, quite distracted.
-“Yes, child, but why don’t we take him into the parlor,
-now that we’ve got a nice parlor for company?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0935">The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat
-from me. “Well, you’re here, now, mother, and if you talk
-here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You can show him the parlor after
-while.” She smiled at me, and went back to the dishes, with her
-sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a place on the bottom
-step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her toes curled up,
-looking out at us expectantly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0936">“She’s Nina, after Nina Harling,”
-Ántonia explained. “Ain’t her eyes like
-Nina’s? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I
-love my own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally,
-like as if they’d grown up with you. I can’t think of what
-I want to say, you’ve got me<pb n="378" /><anchor id="Pg378" />
-so stirred up. And then, I’ve forgot my English so. I
-don’t often talk it any more. I tell the children I used to
-speak real well.” She said they always spoke Bohemian at home.
-The little ones could not speak English at all—did n’t
-learn it until they went to school.</p>
-
-<p id="p0937">“I can’t believe it’s you, sitting
-here, in my own kitchen. You would n’t have known me, would you,
-Jim? You’ve kept so young, yourself. But it’s easier for a
-man. I can’t see how my Anton looks any older than the day I
-married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n’t got many
-left. But I feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much
-work. Oh, we don’t have to work so hard now! We’ve got
-plenty to help us, papa and me. And how many have you got,
-Jim?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0938">When I told her I had no children she seemed
-embarrassed. “Oh, ain’t that too bad! Maybe you could take
-one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he’s the worst of all.”
-She leaned toward me with a smile. “And I love him the
-best,” she whispered.</p>
-
-<p id="p0939">“Mother!” the two girls murmured
-reproachfully from the dishes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0940">Ántonia threw up her head and laughed.
-“I can’t help it. You know I do. Maybe<pb n="379" /><anchor id="Pg379" />
-it’s because he came on Easter day, I don’t know. And
-he’s never out of mischief one minute!”</p>
-
-<p id="p0941">I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it
-mattered—about her teeth, for instance. I know so many women
-who have kept all the things that she had lost, but whose inner glow
-has faded. Whatever else was gone, Ántonia had not lost the
-fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not that look of
-flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn away.</p>
-
-<p id="p0942">While we were talking, the little boy whom they
-called Jan came in and sat down on the step beside Nina, under the
-hood of the stairway. He wore a funny long gingham apron, like a
-smock, over his trousers, and his hair was clipped so short that his
-head looked white and naked. He watched us out of his big, sorrowful
-gray eyes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0943">“He wants to tell you about the dog, mother.
-They found it dead,” Anna said, as she passed us on her way to
-the cupboard.</p>
-
-<p id="p0944">Ántonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by
-her chair, leaning his elbows on her knees and twisting her apron
-strings in his slender fingers, while he told her his story softly in<pb n="380" /><anchor id="Pg380" />
-Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His
-mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and in a whisper promised
-him something that made him give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped
-away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to her and
-talking behind his hand.</p>
-
-<p id="p0945">When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands,
-she came and stood behind her mother’s chair. “Why
-don’t we show <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden our new fruit cave?”
-she asked.</p>
-
-<p id="p0946">We started off across the yard with the children at
-our heels. The boys were standing by the windmill, talking about the
-dog; some of them ran ahead to open the cellar door. When we
-descended, they all came down after us, and seemed quite as proud of
-the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who
-had directed me down by the plum bushes, called my attention to the
-stout brick walls and the cement floor. “Yes, it is a good way
-from the house,” he admitted. “But, you see, in winter
-there are nearly always some of us around to come out and get
-things.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0947">Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one
-full of dill pickles, one full of<pb n="381" /><anchor id="Pg381" />
-chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds.</p>
-
-<p id="p0948">“You would n’t believe, Jim, what it
-takes to feed them all!” their mother exclaimed. “You
-ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and Saturdays! It’s
-no wonder their poor papa can’t get rich, he has to buy so much
-sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for flour,—but then there’s that much less to sell.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0949">Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept
-shyly pointing out to me the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing,
-but glancing at me, traced on the glass with their finger-tips the
-outline of the cherries and strawberries and crab-apples within,
-trying by a blissful expression of countenance to give me some idea of
-their deliciousness.</p>
-
-<p id="p0950">“Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans
-don’t have those,” said one of the older boys.
-“Mother uses them to make
-<foreign lang="cs">kolaches,</foreign>” he added.</p>
-
-<p id="p0951">Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark
-in Bohemian.</p>
-
-<p id="p0952">I turned to him. “You think I don’t know
-what <foreign lang="cs">kolaches</foreign> are, eh?
-You’re mistaken, young man. I’ve eaten your mother’s<pb n="382" /><anchor id="Pg382" />
-<foreign lang="cs">kolaches</foreign> long before that
-Easter day when you were born.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0953">“Always too fresh, Leo,” Ambrosch
-remarked with a shrug.</p>
-
-<p id="p0954">Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me.</p>
-
-<p id="p0955">We turned to leave the cave; Ántonia and I
-went up the stairs first, and the children waited. We were standing
-outside talking, when they all came running up the steps together, big
-and little, tow heads and gold heads and brown, and flashing little
-naked legs; a veritable explosion of life out of the dark cave into
-the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment.</p>
-
-<p id="p0956">The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which
-I had n’t yet seen; in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes
-by the back door. The roof was so steep that the eaves were not much
-above the forest of tall hollyhocks, now brown and in seed. Through
-July, Ántonia said, the house was buried in them; the
-Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front yard was
-enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two silvery,
-moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down over
-the<pb n="383" /><anchor id="Pg383" />
-cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch of
-stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer.</p>
-
-<p id="p0957">At some distance behind the house were an ash grove
-and two orchards; a cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes
-between the rows, and an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from
-the hot winds. The older children turned back when we reached the
-hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie crept through it by a hole known
-only to themselves and hid under the low-branching mulberry bushes.</p>
-
-<p id="p0958">As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in
-tall bluegrass, Ántonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree
-and another. “I love them as if they were people,” she
-said, rubbing her hand over the bark. “There was n’t a
-tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to carry
-water for them, too—after we’d been working in the
-fields all day. Anton, he was a city man, and he used to get
-discouraged. But I could n’t feel so tired that I would
-n’t fret about these trees when there was a dry time. They were
-on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep I’ve
-got up and come out and carried water to the poor things. And now, you
-see,<pb n="384" /><anchor id="Pg384" />
-we have the good of them. My man worked in the orange groves in
-Florida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain’t one of our
-neighbors has an orchard that bears like ours.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0959">In the middle of the orchard we came upon a
-grape-arbor, with seats built along the sides and a warped plank
-table. The three children were waiting for us there. They looked up at
-me bashfully and made some request of their mother.</p>
-
-<p id="p0960">“They want me to tell you how the teacher has
-the school picnic here every year. These don’t go to school yet,
-so they think it’s all like the picnic.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0961">After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the
-youngsters ran away to an open place where there was a rough jungle of
-French pinks, and squatted down among them, crawling about and
-measuring with a string. “Jan wants to bury his dog
-there,” Ántonia explained. “I had to tell him he
-could. He’s kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she
-used to take little things? He has funny notions, like her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0962">We sat down and watched them. Ántonia leaned
-her elbows on the table. There was the<pb n="385" /><anchor id="Pg385" />
-deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple
-enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the
-mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to
-the protecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could
-see nothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the
-windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape
-leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell
-the ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick
-as beads on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them.
-Some hens and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at
-the fallen apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray
-bodies, their heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers
-which grew close and full, changing to blue like a peacock’s
-neck. Ántonia said they always reminded her of soldiers—some uniform she had seen in the old country, when she was a child.</p>
-
-<p id="p0963">“Are there any quail left now?” I asked.
-I reminded her how she used to go hunting with me the last summer
-before we moved to town. “You were n’t a bad shot, Tony. Do<pb n="386" /><anchor id="Pg386" />
-you remember how you used to want to run away and go for ducks with
-Charley Harling and me?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0964">“I know, but I’m afraid to look at a gun
-now.” She picked up one of the drakes and ruffled his green
-capote with her fingers. “Ever since I’ve had children, I
-don’t like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to wring
-an old goose’s neck. Ain’t that strange, Jim?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0965">“I don’t know. The young Queen of Italy
-said the same thing once, to a friend of mine. She used to be a great
-huntswoman, but now she feels as you do, and only shoots clay
-pigeons.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0966">“Then I’m sure she’s a good
-mother,” Ántonia said warmly.</p>
-
-<p id="p0967">She told me how she and her husband had come out to
-this new country when the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy
-payments. The first ten years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew
-very little about farming and often grew discouraged.
-“We’d never have got through if I had n’t been so
-strong. I’ve always had good health, thank God, and I was able
-to help him in the fields until right up to the time before my babies<pb n="387" /><anchor id="Pg387" />
-came. Our children were good about taking care of each other. Martha,
-the one you saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she
-trained Anna to be just like her. My Martha’s married now, and
-has a baby of her own. Think of that, Jim!</p>
-
-<p id="p0968">“No, I never got down-hearted. Anton’s a
-good man, and I loved my children and always believed they would turn
-out well. I belong on a farm. I’m never lonesome here like I
-used to be in town. You remember what sad spells I used to have, when
-I did n’t know what was the matter with me? I’ve never had
-them out here. And I don’t mind work a bit, if I don’t
-have to put up with sadness.” She leaned her chin on her hand
-and looked down through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing
-more and more golden.</p>
-
-<p id="p0969">“You ought never to have gone to town,
-Tony,” I said, wondering at her.</p>
-
-<p id="p0970">She turned to me eagerly. “Oh, I’m glad I
-went! I’d never have known anything about cooking or
-housekeeping if I had n’t. I learned nice ways at the
-Harlings’, and I’ve been able to bring my children up so
-much better. Don’t you think they are pretty well-behaved for
-country children? If it had n’t been for<pb n="388" /><anchor id="Pg388" />
-what <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Harling taught me, I expect I’d have
-brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I’m glad I had a chance
-to learn; but I’m thankful none of my daughters will ever have
-to work out. The trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm
-of anybody I loved.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0971">While we were talking, Ántonia assured me that
-she could keep me for the night. “We’ve plenty of room.
-Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till cold weather comes, but
-there’s no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep there, and
-Ambrosch goes along to look after him.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0972">I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with
-the boys.</p>
-
-<p id="p0973">“You can do just as you want to. The chest is
-full of clean blankets, put away for winter. Now I must go, or my
-girls will be doing all the work, and I want to cook your supper
-myself.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0974">As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and
-Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I
-joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead
-and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling,
-“I’m a jack rabbit,” or, “I’m a big
-bull-snake.”</p>
-
-<pb n="389" /><anchor id="Pg389" />
-
-<p id="p0975">I walked between the two older boys—straight,
-well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about
-their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the
-harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were
-easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the
-family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company,
-and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after
-all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the
-sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my
-right, over the close-cropped grass.</p>
-
-<p id="p0976">“Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her
-from the old country?” Ambrosch asked. “We’ve had
-them framed and they’re hung up in the parlor. She was so glad
-to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about
-anything.” There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice
-that made me wish I had given more occasion for it.</p>
-
-<p id="p0977">I put my hand on his shoulder. “Your mother,
-you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful
-girl.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0978">“Oh, we know!” They both spoke<pb n="390" /><anchor id="Pg390" />
-together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary
-to mention this. “Everybody liked her, did n’t they? The
-Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0979">“Sometimes,” I ventured, “it does
-n’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and
-pretty.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0980">“Oh, we know!” they said again, warmly.
-“She’s not very old now,” Ambrosch added. “Not
-much older than you.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0981">“Well,” I said, “if you were
-n’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the
-whole lot of you. I could n’t stand it if you boys were
-inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who
-looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother
-once, and I know there’s nobody like her.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0982">The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed.
-“She never told us that,” said Anton. “But
-she’s always talked lots about you, and about what good times
-you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the
-Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up
-to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he
-likes to be smart.”</p>
-
-<pb n="391" /><anchor id="Pg391" />
-
-<p id="p0983">We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the
-barn, and the boys milked them while night came on. Everything was as
-it should be: the strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew,
-the clear blue and gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the
-milk into the pails, the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over
-their supper. I began to feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at
-evening, when the chores seem everlastingly the same, and the world so
-far away.</p>
-
-<p id="p0984">What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of
-restless heads in the lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly
-upon Ántonia as she sat at the head of the table, filling the
-plates and starting the dishes on their way. The children were seated
-according to a system; a little one next an older one, who was to
-watch over his behavior and to see that he got his food. Anna and
-Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh plates of <foreign lang="cs">kolaches</foreign> and pitchers of milk.</p>
-
-<p id="p0985">After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka
-and Leo could play for me. Ántonia went first, carrying the
-lamp. There were not nearly chairs enough to go round, so the younger
-children sat down on the bare<pb n="392" /><anchor id="Pg392" />
-floor. Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a
-parlor carpet if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a
-good deal of fussing, got out his violin. It was old <abbr>Mr.</abbr>
-Shimerda’s instrument, which Ántonia had always kept, and
-it was too big for him. But he played very well for a self-taught boy.
-Poor Yulka’s efforts were not so successful. While they were
-playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into the middle
-of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the boards with
-her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and when she
-was through she stole back and sat down by her brother.</p>
-
-<p id="p0986">Ántonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned
-and wrinkled up his face. He seemed to be trying to pout, but his
-attempt only brought out dimples in unusual places. After twisting and
-screwing the keys, he played some Bohemian airs, without the organ to
-hold him back, and that went better. The boy was so restless that I
-had not had a chance to look at his face before. My first impression
-was right; he really was faun-like. He had n’t much head behind
-his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the back of his<pb n="393" /><anchor id="Pg393" />
-neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the other
-boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive to
-the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put
-together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were
-broken, teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull
-would stand for, or how sharp the new axe was.</p>
-
-<p id="p0987">After the concert was over Ántonia brought out
-a big boxful of photographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes,
-holding hands; her brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a
-farm of her own, and who bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear;
-the three Bohemian Marys and their large families.</p>
-
-<p id="p0988">“You would n’t believe how steady those
-girls have turned out,” Ántonia remarked. “Mary
-Svoboda’s the best butter-maker in all this country, and a fine
-manager. Her children will have a grand chance.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0989">As Ántonia turned over the pictures the young
-Cuzaks stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder with
-interested faces. Nina and Jan, after trying to see round the taller
-ones, quietly brought a chair, climbed up on it, and stood close
-together, looking. The<pb n="394" /><anchor id="Pg394" />
-little boy forgot his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar
-faces came into view. In the group about Ántonia I was
-conscious of a kind of physical harmony. They leaned this way and
-that, and were not afraid to touch each other. They contemplated the
-photographs with pleased recognition; looked at some admiringly, as if
-these characters in their mother’s girlhood had been remarkable
-people. The little children, who could not speak English, murmured
-comments to each other in their rich old language.</p>
-
-<p id="p0990">Ántonia held out a photograph of Lena that had
-come from San Francisco last Christmas. “Does she still look
-like that? She has n’t been home for six years now.” Yes,
-it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, a trifle too
-plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy eyes, and
-the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of her
-mouth.</p>
-
-<p id="p0991">There was a picture of Frances Harling in a
-be-frogged riding costume that I remembered well. “Is n’t
-she fine!” the girls murmured. They all assented. One could see
-that Frances had come down as a heroine in the family legend. Only Leo
-was unmoved.</p>
-
-<pb n="395" /><anchor id="Pg395" />
-
-<p id="p0992">“And there’s <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Harling, in
-his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, was n’t he,
-mother?”</p>
-
-<p id="p0993">“He was n’t any Rockefeller,” put
-in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which reminded me of the way in
-which <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Shimerda had once said that my grandfather
-“was n’t Jesus.” His habitual skepticism was like a
-direct inheritance from that old woman.</p>
-
-<p id="p0994">“None of your smart speeches,” said
-Ambrosch severely.</p>
-
-<p id="p0995">Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a
-moment later broke into a giggle at a tintype of two men,
-uncomfortably seated, with an awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes
-standing between them; Jake and Otto and I! We had it taken, I
-remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the first Fourth of July I
-spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake’s grin again, and
-Otto’s ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about
-them.</p>
-
-<p id="p0996">“He made grandfather’s coffin, did
-n’t he?” Anton asked.</p>
-
-<p id="p0997">“Was n’t they good fellows, Jim?”
-Ántonia’s eyes filled. “To this day I’m
-ashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy and
-impertinent to him, Leo, like you<pb n="396" /><anchor id="Pg396" />
-are with people sometimes, and I wish somebody had made me
-behave.”</p>
-
-<p id="p0998">“We are n’t through with you, yet,”
-they warned me. They produced a photograph taken just before I went
-away to college; a tall youth in striped trousers and a straw hat,
-trying to look easy and jaunty.</p>
-
-<p id="p0999">“Tell us, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden,” said
-Charley, “about the rattler you killed at the
-dog town.
-How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes she says
-five.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1000">These children seemed to be upon very much the same
-terms with Ántonia as the Harling children had been so many
-years before. They seemed to feel the same pride in her, and to look
-to her for stories and entertainment as we used to do.</p>
-
-<p id="p1001">It was eleven o’clock when I at last took my
-bag and some blankets and started for the barn with the boys. Their
-mother came to the door with us, and we tarried for a moment to look
-out at the white slope of the corral and the two ponds asleep in the
-moonlight, and the long sweep of the pasture under the star-sprinkled
-sky.</p>
-
-<p id="p1002">The boys told me to choose my own place in the
-haymow, and I lay down before a big<pb n="397" /><anchor id="Pg397" />
-window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the stars.
-Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, and
-lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and
-tumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot,
-they were still. There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland
-slumber.</p>
-
-<p id="p1003">I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving
-moon passed my window on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about
-Ántonia and her children; about Anna’s solicitude for
-her, Ambrosch’s grave affection, Leo’s jealous, animal
-little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out of the cave
-into the light, was a sight any man might have come far to see.
-Ántonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that
-did not fade—that grew stronger with time. In my memory there
-was a succession of such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts
-of one’s first primer: Ántonia kicking her bare legs
-against the sides of my pony when we came home in triumph with our
-snake; Ántonia in her black shawl and fur cap, as she stood by
-her father’s grave in the snowstorm; Ántonia coming in
-with her work-team along the<pb n="398" /><anchor id="Pg398" />
-evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorial human attitudes which
-we recognize by instinct as universal and true. I had not been
-mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; but she
-still had that something which fires the imagination, could still stop
-one’s breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow
-revealed the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the
-orchard, to put her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the
-apples, to make you feel the goodness of planting and tending and
-harvesting at last. All the strong things of her heart came out in her
-body, that had been so tireless in serving generous emotions.</p>
-
-<p id="p1004">It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and
-straight. She was a rich mine of life, like the founders of early
-races.</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap5-02" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="399" /><anchor id="Pg399" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>II</head>
-
-<p id="p1005"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">When</hi> I awoke in
-the morning long bands of sunshine were coming in at the window and
-reaching back under the eaves where the two boys lay. Leo was wide
-awake and was tickling his brother’s leg with a dried
-cone-flower he had pulled out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and
-turned over. I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on
-his back, elevated one foot, and began exercising his toes. He picked
-up dried flowers with his toes and brandished them in the belt of
-sunlight. After he had amused himself thus for some time, he rose on
-one elbow and began to look at me, cautiously, then critically,
-blinking his eyes in the light. His expression was droll; it dismissed
-me lightly. “This old fellow is no different from other people.
-He does n’t know my secret.” He seemed conscious of
-possessing a keener power of enjoyment than other people; his quick
-recognitions made him frantically impatient of deliberate judgments.
-He always knew what he wanted without thinking.</p>
-
-<pb n="400" /><anchor id="Pg400" />
-
-<p id="p1006">After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold
-water at the windmill. Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen,
-and Yulka was baking griddle-cakes. The three older boys set off for
-the fields early. Leo and Yulka were to drive to town to meet their
-father, who would return from Wilber on the noon train.</p>
-
-<p id="p1007">“We’ll only have a lunch at noon,”
-Ántonia said, “and cook the geese for supper, when our
-papa will be here. I wish my Martha could come down to see you. They
-have a Ford car now, and she don’t seem so far away from me as
-she used to. But her husband’s crazy about his farm and about
-having everything just right, and they almost never get away except on
-Sundays. He’s a handsome boy, and he’ll be rich some day.
-Everything he takes hold of turns out well. When they bring that baby
-in here, and unwrap him, he looks like a little prince; Martha takes
-care of him so beautiful. I’m reconciled to her being away from
-me now, but at first I cried like I was putting her into her
-coffin.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1008">We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who
-was pouring cream into the churn. She looked up at me. “Yes, she
-did. We were just ashamed of mother. She went round<pb n="401" /><anchor id="Pg401" />
-crying, when Martha was so happy, and the rest of us were all glad.
-Joe certainly was patient with you, mother.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1009">Ántonia nodded and smiled at herself. “I
-know it was silly, but I could n’t help it. I wanted her right
-here. She’d never been away from me a night since she was born.
-If Anton had made trouble about her when she was a baby, or wanted me
-to leave her with my mother, I would n’t have married him. I
-could n’t. But he always loved her like she was his
-own.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1010">“I did n’t even know Martha was n’t
-my full sister until after she was engaged to Joe,” Anna told
-me.</p>
-
-<p id="p1011">Toward the middle of the afternoon the wagon drove
-in, with the father and the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard,
-and as I went out to meet them, Ántonia came running down from
-the house and hugged the two men as if they had been away for
-months.</p>
-
-<p id="p1012">“Papa” interested me, from my first
-glimpse of him. He was shorter than his older sons; a crumpled little
-man, with run-over boot heels, and he carried one shoulder higher than
-the other. But he moved very quickly, and there was an air of jaunty
-liveliness about him. He<pb n="402" /><anchor id="Pg402" />
-had a strong, ruddy color, thick black hair, a little grizzled, a
-curly mustache, and red lips. His smile showed the strong teeth of
-which his wife was so proud, and as he saw me his lively, quizzical
-eyes told me that he knew all about me. He looked like a humorous
-philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder under the burdens of life,
-and gone on his way having a good time when he could. He advanced to
-meet me and gave me a hard hand, burned red on the back and heavily
-coated with hair. He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick and hot for
-the weather, an unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie with big
-white dots, like a little boy’s, tied in a flowing bow. Cuzak
-began at once to talk about his holiday—from politeness he
-spoke in English.</p>
-
-<p id="p1013">“Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the
-slack-wire in the street at night. They throw a bright light on her
-and she float through the air something beautiful, like a bird! They
-have a dancing bear, like in the old country, and two three
-merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and what you call the big
-wheel, Rudolph?”</p>
-
-<p id="p1014">“A Ferris wheel,” Rudolph entered the<pb n="403" /><anchor id="Pg403" />
-conversation in a deep baritone voice. He was six foot two, and had a
-chest like a young blacksmith. “We went to the big dance in the
-hall behind the saloon last night, mother, and I danced with all the
-girls, and so did father. I never saw so many pretty girls. It was a
-Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n’t hear a word of English on the
-street, except from the show people, did we, papa?”</p>
-
-<p id="p1015">Cuzak nodded. “And very many send word to you,
-Ántonia. You will excuse”—turning to me—“if I tell her.” While we walked toward the house he
-related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke
-fluently, and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their
-relations had become—or remained. The two seemed to be on
-terms of easy friendliness, touched with humor. Clearly, she was the
-impulse, and he the corrective. As they went up the hill he kept
-glancing at her sidewise, to see whether she got his point, or how she
-received it. I noticed later that he always looked at people sidewise,
-as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even when he sat opposite me in
-the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a little toward the clock
-or the stove and look at me from<pb n="404" /><anchor id="Pg404" />
-the side, but with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not
-suggest duplicity or secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the
-horse.</p>
-
-<p id="p1016">He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for
-Ántonia’s collection, and several paper bags of candy for
-the children. He looked a little disappointed when his wife showed him
-a big box of candy I had got in Denver—she had n’t let
-the children touch it the night before. He put his candy away in the
-cupboard, “for when she rains,” and glanced at the box,
-chuckling. “I guess you must have hear about how my family
-ain’t so small,” he said.</p>
-
-<p id="p1017">Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his
-women-folk and the little children with equal amusement. He thought
-they were nice, and he thought they were funny, evidently. He had been
-off dancing with the girls and forgetting that he was an old fellow,
-and now his family rather surprised him; he seemed to think it a joke
-that all these children should belong to him. As the younger ones
-slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking things out of his
-pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that was<pb n="405" /><anchor id="Pg405" />
-inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan,
-whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as
-not to startle him. Looking over the boy’s head he said to me,
-“This one is bashful. He gets left.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1018">Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated
-Bohemian papers. He opened them and began to tell his wife the news,
-much of which seemed to relate to one person. I heard the name
-Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated several times with lively interest, and
-presently I asked him whether he were talking about the singer, Maria
-Vasak.</p>
-
-<p id="p1019">“You know? You have heard, maybe?” he
-asked incredulously. When I assured him that I had heard her, he
-pointed out her picture and told me that Vasak had broken her leg,
-climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be able to fill her
-engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard her sing in
-London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our talk
-the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend
-her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about
-her looks,<pb n="406" /><anchor id="Pg406" />
-her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know whether
-I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved much
-money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would
-n’t squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old.
-As a young man, working in
-Wienn,
-he had seen a good many artists who were old and poor, making one
-glass of beer last all evening, and “it was not very nice,
-that.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1020">When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the
-long table was laid, and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were
-put down sizzling before Ántonia. She began to carve, and
-Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started the plates on their way.
-When everybody was served, he looked across the table at me.</p>
-
-<p id="p1021">“Have you been to Black Hawk lately,
-<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden? Then I wonder if you’ve heard about the
-Cutters?”</p>
-
-<p id="p1022">No, I had heard nothing at all about them.</p>
-
-<p id="p1023">“Then you must tell him, son, though it’s
-a terrible thing to talk about at supper. Now, all you children be
-quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about the murder.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1024">“Hurrah! The murder!” the children
-murmured, looking pleased and interested.</p>
-
-<pb n="407" /><anchor id="Pg407" />
-
-<p id="p1025">Rudolph told his story in great detail, with
-occasional promptings from his mother or father.</p>
-
-<p id="p1026">Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the
-house that Ántonia and I knew so well, and in the way we knew
-so well. They grew to be very old people. He shriveled up,
-Ántonia said, until he looked like a little old yellow monkey,
-for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color.
-<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had
-known her, but as the years passed she became afflicted with a shaking
-palsy which made her nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her
-hands were so uncertain that she could no longer disfigure china, poor
-woman! As the couple grew older, they quarreled more and more about
-the ultimate disposition of their “property.” A new law
-was passed in the State, securing the surviving wife a third of her
-husband’s estate under all conditions. Cutter was tormented by
-the fear that <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter would live longer than he, and
-that eventually her “people,” whom he had always hated so
-violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the
-boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by
-whoever wished to loiter and listen.</p>
-
-<pb n="408" /><anchor id="Pg408" />
-
-<p id="p1027">One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the
-hardware store and bought a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a
-dog, and adding that he “thought he would take a shot at an old
-cat while he was about it.” (Here the children interrupted
-Rudolph’s narrative by smothered giggles.)</p>
-
-<p id="p1028">Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a
-target, practiced for an hour or so, and then went home. At six
-o’clock that evening, when several men were passing the Cutter
-house on their way home to supper, they heard a pistol shot. They
-paused and were looking doubtfully at one another, when another shot
-came crashing through an upstairs window. They ran into the house and
-found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs bedroom, with his
-throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had placed beside
-his head.</p>
-
-<p id="p1029">“Walk in, gentlemen,” he said weakly.
-“I am alive, you see, and competent. You are witnesses that I
-have survived my wife. You will find her in her own room. Please make
-your examination at once, so that there will be no mistake.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1030">One of the neighbors telephoned for a<pb n="409" /><anchor id="Pg409" />
-doctor, while the others went into <abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter’s
-room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and wrapper, shot
-through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she was taking
-her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her breast.
-Her nightgown was burned from the powder.</p>
-
-<p id="p1031">The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He
-opened his eyes and said distinctly, “<abbr>Mrs.</abbr> Cutter
-is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My affairs are in
-order.” Then, Rudolph said, “he let go and died.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1032">On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five
-o’clock that afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his
-wife; that any will she might secretly have made would be invalid, as
-he survived her. He meant to shoot himself at six o’clock and
-would, if he had strength, fire a shot through the window in the hope
-that passers-by might come in and see him “before life was
-extinct,” as he wrote.</p>
-
-<p id="p1033">“Now, would you have thought that man had such
-a cruel heart?” Ántonia turned to me after the story was
-told. “To go and do that poor woman out of any comfort she might
-have from his money after he was gone!”</p>
-
-<p id="p1034">“Did you ever hear of anybody else that<pb n="410" /><anchor id="Pg410" />
-killed himself for spite, <abbr>Mr.</abbr> Burden?” asked
-Rudolph.</p>
-
-<p id="p1035">I admitted that I had n’t. Every lawyer learns
-over and over how strong a motive hate can be, but in my collection of
-legal anecdotes I had nothing to match this one. When I asked how much
-the estate amounted to, Rudolph said it was a little over a hundred
-thousand dollars.</p>
-
-<p id="p1036">Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance.
-“The lawyers, they got a good deal of it, sure,” he said
-merrily.</p>
-
-<p id="p1037">A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune
-that had been scraped together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter
-himself had died for in the end!</p>
-
-<p id="p1038">After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard
-and sat down by the windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it
-were my business to know it.</p>
-
-<p id="p1039">His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and
-he, being a younger son, was apprenticed to the latter’s trade.
-You never got anywhere working for your relatives, he said, so when he
-was a journeyman he went to Vienna and worked in a big fur shop,
-earning good money. But a young fellow who liked a<pb n="411" /><anchor id="Pg411" />
-good time did n’t save anything in Vienna; there were too many
-pleasant ways of spending every night what he’d made in the day.
-After three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and
-went to work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering
-big wages. The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a
-few hundred dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise
-oranges. He had always thought he would like to raise oranges! The
-second year a hard frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with
-malaria. He came to Nebraska to visit his cousin, Anton Jelinek, and
-to look about. When he began to look about, he saw Ántonia, and
-she was exactly the kind of girl he had always been hunting for. They
-were married at once, though he had to borrow money from his cousin to
-buy the wedding-ring.</p>
-
-<p id="p1040">“It was a pretty hard job, breaking up this
-place and making the first crops grow,” he said, pushing back
-his hat and scratching his grizzled hair. “Sometimes I git awful
-sore on this place and want to quit, but my wife she always say we
-better stick it out. The babies come along pretty fast, so it look
-like it be hard to move, anyhow. I guess she was<pb n="412" /><anchor id="Pg412" />
-right, all right. We got this place clear now. We pay only twenty
-dollars an acre then, and I been offered a hundred. We bought another
-quarter ten years ago, and we got it most paid for. We got plenty
-boys; we can work a lot of land. Yes, she is a good wife for a poor
-man. She ain’t always so strict with me, neither. Sometimes
-maybe I drink a little too much beer in town, and when I come home she
-don’t say nothing. She don’t ask me no questions. We
-always get along fine, her and me, like at first. The children
-don’t make trouble between us, like sometimes happens.” He
-lit another pipe and pulled on it contentedly.</p>
-
-<p id="p1041">I found Cuzak a most companionable fellow. He asked
-me a great many questions about my trip through Bohemia, about Vienna
-and the Ringstrasse and the theaters.</p>
-
-<p id="p1042">“Gee! I like to go back there once, when the
-boys is big enough to farm the place. Sometimes when I read the papers
-from the old country, I pretty near run away,” he confessed with
-a little laugh. “I never did think how I would be a settled man
-like this.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1043">He was still, as Ántonia said, a city man. He
-liked theaters and lighted streets and music and a game of dominoes
-after the day’s<pb n="413" /><anchor id="Pg413" />
-work was over. His sociability was stronger than his acquisitive
-instinct. He liked to live day by day and night by night, sharing in
-the excitement of the crowd.—Yet his wife had managed to hold
-him here on a farm, in one of the loneliest countries in the world.</p>
-
-<p id="p1044">I could see the little chap, sitting here every
-evening by the windmill, nursing his pipe and listening to the
-silence; the wheeze of the pump, the grunting of the pigs, an
-occasional squawking when the hens were disturbed by a rat. It did
-rather seem to me that Cuzak had been made the instrument of
-Ántonia’s special mission. This was a fine life,
-certainly, but it was n’t the kind of life he had wanted to
-live. I wondered whether the life that was right for one was ever
-right for two!</p>
-
-<p id="p1045">I asked Cuzak if he did n’t find it hard to do
-without the gay company he had always been used to. He knocked out his
-pipe against an upright, sighed, and dropped it into his pocket.</p>
-
-<p id="p1046">“At first I near go crazy with
-lonesomeness,” he said frankly, “but my woman is got such
-a warm heart. She always make it as good for me as she could. Now it
-ain’t so bad; I can begin to have some fun with my boys,
-already!”</p>
-
-<pb n="414" /><anchor id="Pg414" />
-
-<p id="p1047">As we walked toward the house, Cuzak cocked his hat
-jauntily over one ear and looked up at the moon. “Gee!” he
-said in a hushed voice, as if he had just wakened up, “it
-don’t seem like I am away from there twenty-six year!”</p>
-</div>
-
-<div id="chap5-03" rend="page-break-before: right">
-<pb n="415" /><anchor id="Pg415" />
-<index index="toc" />
-<index index="pdf" />
-<head>III</head>
-
-<p id="p1048"><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">After</hi> dinner the
-next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to take the train
-for Black Hawk. Ántonia and her children gathered round my
-buggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with
-friendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When
-I reached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still
-there by the windmill. Ántonia was waving her apron.</p>
-
-<p id="p1049">At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy,
-resting his arm on the wheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and
-ran off into the pasture.</p>
-
-<p id="p1050">“That’s like him,” his brother said
-with a shrug. “He’s a crazy kid. Maybe he’s sorry to
-have you go, and maybe he’s jealous. He’s jealous of
-anybody mother makes a fuss over, even the priest.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1051">I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant
-voice and his fine head and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood
-there without<pb n="416" /><anchor id="Pg416" />
-a hat, the wind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and
-shoulders.</p>
-
-<p id="p1052">“Don’t forget that you and Rudolph are
-going hunting with me up on the Niobrara next summer,” I said.
-“Your father’s agreed to let you off after
-harvest.”</p>
-
-<p id="p1053">He smiled. “I won’t likely forget.
-I’ve never had such a nice thing offered to me before. I
-don’t know what makes you so nice to us boys,” he added,
-blushing.</p>
-
-<p id="p1054">“Oh, yes you do!” I said, gathering up my
-reins.</p>
-
-<p id="p1055">He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with
-unabashed pleasure and affection as I drove away.</p>
-
-<milestone unit="tb"/>
-
-<p id="p1056">My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my
-old friends were dead or had moved away. Strange children, who meant
-nothing to me, were playing in the Harlings’ big yard when I
-passed; the mountain ash had been cut down, and only a sprouting stump
-was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that used to guard the gate. I
-hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with Anton Jelinek, under
-a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his saloon. While I was
-having my mid-day<pb n="417" /><anchor id="Pg417" />
-dinner at the hotel, I met one of the old lawyers who was still in
-practice, and he took me up to his office and talked over the Cutter
-case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how to put in the time until
-the night express was due.</p>
-
-<p id="p1057">I took a long walk north of the town, out into the
-pastures where the land was so rough that it had never been ploughed
-up, and the long red grass of early times still grew shaggy over the
-draws and hillocks. Out there I felt at home again. Overhead the sky
-was that indescribable blue of autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as
-enamel. To the south I could see the dun-shaded river bluffs that used
-to look so big to me, and all about stretched drying cornfields, of
-the pale-gold color I remembered so well. Russian thistles were
-blowing across the uplands and piling against the wire fences like
-barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of golden-rod were
-already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold threads in it. I
-had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over little towns,
-and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to take with
-the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water. There
-were enough Cuzaks to play with for<pb n="418" /><anchor id="Pg418" />
-a long while yet. Even after the boys grew up, there would always be
-Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along a few miles of lighted streets
-with Cuzak.</p>
-
-<p id="p1058">As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the
-good luck to stumble upon a bit of the first road that went from Black
-Hawk out to the north country; to my grandfather’s farm, then on
-to the Shimerdas’ and to the Norwegian settlement. Everywhere
-else it had been ploughed under when the highways were surveyed; this
-half-mile or so within the pasture fence was all that was left of that
-old road which used to run like a wild thing across the open prairie,
-clinging to the high places and circling and doubling like a rabbit
-before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had almost disappeared—were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would not have
-noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was easy to
-find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed them so
-deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like gashes
-torn by a grizzly’s claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons
-used to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling<pb n="419" /><anchor id="Pg419" />
-muscles on the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the
-haystacks turn rosy in the slanting sunlight.</p>
-
-<p id="p1059">This was the road over which Ántonia and I
-came on that night when we got off the train at Black Hawk and were
-bedded down in the straw, wondering children, being taken we knew not
-whither. I had only to close my eyes to hear the rumbling of the
-wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by that obliterating
-strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near that I could
-reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of coming home
-to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man’s
-experience is. For Ántonia and for me, this had been the road
-of Destiny; had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which
-predetermined for us all that we can ever be. Now I understood that
-the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we had missed,
-we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past.</p>
-
-<p rend="text-align: center; font-variant: small-caps">The End</p>
-</div>
-</div>
-
-</body>
-
-<back rend="page-break-before: right">
-<div>
-<pgIf output="pdf">
- <then>
- <div>
- <divGen type="footnotes" />
- </div>
- </then>
- <else>
- <div>
- <head>Footnotes</head>
- <divGen type="footnotes" />
- </div>
- </else>
-</pgIf>
-</div>
-
-<div rend="page-break-before: right">
-<divGen type="pgfooter" />
-</div>
-
-</back>
-
- </text>
-</TEI.2>
-
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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under -the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or -online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license - - - -Title: My Antonia - -Author: Willa Sibert Cather - -Release Date: November 14, 2006 [Ebook #19810] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ANTONIA*** - - - - - -My Antonia - -By Willa Sibert Cather - - - Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit - Virgil - - -with illustrations by -W. T. Benda - - [Illustration: The Riverside Press] -Boston and New York -Houghton Mifflin Companys -The Riverside Press Cambridge - -1918 - - - - - - To - Carrie and Irene Miner - - _In memory of affections old and true_ - - - - - -CONTENTS - - -Introduction -Book I-- The Shimerdas - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI - XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX -Book II--The Hired Girls - I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI - XII - XIII - XIV - XV -Book III--Lena Lingard - I - II - III - IV -Book IV--The Pioneer Woman's Story - I - II - III - IV -Book V--Cuzak's Boys - I - II - III - - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform -Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over -his shoulder -Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest -Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree -Illustration: Antonia ploughing in the field -Illustration: Jim and Antonia in the garden -Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings -Illustration: Antonia driving her cattle home - - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -LAST summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of -intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion -James Quayle Burden--Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I -are old friends--we grew up together in the same Nebraska town--and we had -much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending -miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak -groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the -woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The -dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were -talking about what it is like to spend one's childhood in little towns -like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of -climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a -brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and -smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little -snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We -agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could -know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said. - -Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and are old friends, I do -not see much of him there. He is legal counsel for one of the great -Western railways, and is sometimes away from his New York office for weeks -together. That is one reason why we do not often meet. Another is that I -do not like his wife. - -When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, struggling to make his way in -New York, his career was suddenly advanced by a brilliant marriage. -Genevieve Whitney was the only daughter of a distinguished man. Her -marriage with young Burden was the subject of sharp comment at the time. -It was said she had been brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, -and that she married this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She -was a restless, headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her -friends. Later, when I knew her, she was always doing something -unexpected. She gave one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, -produced one of her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for -picketing during a garment-makers' strike, etc. I am never able to believe -that she has much feeling for the causes to which she lends her name and -her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic, executive, but to me -she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally incapable of enthusiasm. -Her husband's quiet tastes irritate her, I think, and she finds it worth -while to play the patroness to a group of young poets and painters of -advanced ideas and mediocre ability. She has her own fortune and lives her -own life. For some reason, she wishes to remain Mrs. James Burden. - -As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe enough to chill his -naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This disposition, though it -often made him seem very funny when he was a boy, has been one of the -strongest elements in his success. He loves with a personal passion the -great country through which his railway runs and branches. His faith in it -and his knowledge of it have played an important part in its development. -He is always able to raise capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or -Montana, and has helped young men out there to do remarkable things in -mines and timber and oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim -Burden's attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the -wilds hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money -which means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose -himself in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets -new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood -friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color -and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and -his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is -Western and American. - -During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept -returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago -and whom both of us admired. More than any other person we remembered, -this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the whole -adventure of our childhood. To speak her name was to call up pictures of -people and places, to set a quiet drama going in one's brain. I had lost -sight of her altogether, but Jim had found her again after long years, had -renewed a friendship that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy -life had set apart time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full -of her that day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all -my old affection for her. - -"I can't see," he said impetuously, "why you have never written anything -about Antonia." - -I told him I had always felt that other people--he himself, for one--knew -her much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with -him; I would set down on paper all that I remembered of Antonia if he -would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her. - -He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often -announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took -hold of him. "Maybe I will, maybe I will!" he declared. He stared out of -the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had -the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. "Of -course," he said, "I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great -deal about myself. It's through myself that I knew and felt her, and I've -had no practice in any other form of presentation." - -I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most -wanted to know about Antonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little -girl who watched her come and go, had not. - - - -Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter -afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur -overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with -some pride as he stood warming his hands. - -"I finished it last night--the thing about Antonia," he said. "Now, what -about yours?" - -I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes. - -"Notes? I did n't make any." He drank his tea all at once and put down the -cup. "I did n't arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself -and myself and other people Antonia's name recalls to me. I suppose it has -n't any form. It has n't any title, either." He went into the next room, -sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the -word, "Antonia." He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, -making it "My Antonia." That seemed to satisfy him. - -"Read it as soon as you can," he said, rising, "but don't let it influence -your own story." - -My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim's -manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me. - - - - - - -BOOK I-- THE SHIMERDAS - - - - -I - - -I FIRST heard of Antonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey -across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; -I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia -relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I -traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the "hands" -on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to -work for my grandfather. Jake's experience of the world was not much wider -than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we -set out together to try our fortunes in a new world. - -We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with -each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered -him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a -"Life of Jesse James," which I remember as one of the most satisfactory -books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a -friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we -were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our -confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been -almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of -distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of -different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons -were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an -Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the -immigrant car ahead there was a family from "across the water" whose -destination was the same as ours. - -"They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she -can say is 'We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.' She's not much older than you, -twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar. Don't you -want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty brown eyes, -too!" - -This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to -"Jesse James." Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to -get diseases from foreigners. - -I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long -day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so -many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about -Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska. - -I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when -we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled -down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with -lanterns. I could n't see any town, or even distant lights; we were -surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its -long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood -huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew -this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The -woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little -tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old -man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding -oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts. -Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting -and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time -I had ever heard a foreign tongue. - -Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: "Hello, are you -Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for. I'm Otto -Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, -ain't you scared to come so far west?" - - [Illustration: Immigrant family huddled together on the train platform] - -I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might -have stepped out of the pages of "Jesse James." He wore a sombrero hat, -with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache -were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and -ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across -one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top -of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian's. Surely -this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his -high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather -slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a -long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to -a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign -family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the -front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the -wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into -the empty darkness, and we followed them. - -I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon -began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed. -Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and -peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no -fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I -could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: -not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. -No, there was nothing but land--slightly undulating, I knew, because often -our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and -lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was -left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's -jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a -familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of -heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and -mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me -at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to -the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon -jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick. -If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and -that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: -here, I felt, what would be would be. - - - - -II - - -I DO not remember our arrival at my grandfather's farm sometime before -daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. -When I awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely -larger than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was -flapping softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and -black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my -grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes -she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed. - -"Had a good sleep, Jimmy?" she asked briskly. Then in a very different -tone she said, as if to herself, "My, how you do look like your father!" I -remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have -come to wake him like this when he overslept. "Here are your clean -clothes," she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she -talked. "But first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice -warm bath behind the stove. Bring your things; there's nobody about." - -"Down to the kitchen" struck me as curious; it was always "out in the -kitchen" at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her -through the living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This -basement was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a -kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed--the plaster -laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts. The floor -was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling there were little -half-windows with white curtains, and pots of geraniums and wandering Jew -in the deep sills. As I entered the kitchen I sniffed a pleasant smell of -gingerbread baking. The stove was very large, with bright nickel -trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden bench against the wall, -and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and cold water. When -she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was used to taking my -bath without help. - -"Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure? Well, now, I call you a right -smart little boy." - -It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone into my bath-water -through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat came up and rubbed -himself against the tub, watching me curiously. While I scrubbed, my -grandmother busied herself in the dining-room until I called anxiously, -"Grandmother, I'm afraid the cakes are burning!" Then she came laughing, -waving her apron before her as if she were shooing chickens. - -She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and she was apt to carry -her head thrust forward in an attitude of attention, as if she were -looking at something, or listening to something, far away. As I grew -older, I came to believe that it was only because she was so often -thinking of things that were far away. She was quick-footed and energetic -in all her movements. Her voice was high and rather shrill, and she often -spoke with an anxious inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous that -everything should go with due order and decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, -and perhaps a little strident, but there was a lively intelligence in it. -She was then fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance. - -After I was dressed I explored the long cellar next the kitchen. It was -dug out under the wing of the house, was plastered and cemented, with a -stairway and an outside door by which the men came and went. Under one of -the windows there was a place for them to wash when they came in from -work. - -While my grandmother was busy about supper I settled myself on the wooden -bench behind the stove and got acquainted with the cat--he caught not only -rats and mice, but gophers, I was told. The patch of yellow sunlight on -the floor traveled back toward the stairway, and grandmother and I talked -about my journey, and about the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she -said they were to be our nearest neighbors. We did not talk about the farm -in Virginia, which had been her home for so many years. But after the men -came in from the fields, and we were all seated at the supper-table, then -she asked Jake about the old place and about our friends and neighbors -there. - -My grandfather said little. When he first came in he kissed me and spoke -kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt at once his -deliberateness and personal dignity, and was a little in awe of him. The -thing one immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, -snow-white beard. I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of -an Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive. - -Grandfather's eyes were not at all like those of an old man; they were -bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle. His teeth were white and -regular--so sound that he had never been to a dentist in his life. He had a -delicate skin, easily roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man -his hair and beard were red; his eyebrows were still coppery. - -As we sat at the table Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing covert glances at -each other. Grandmother had told me while she was getting supper that he -was an Austrian who came to this country a young boy and had led an -adventurous life in the Far West among mining-camps and cow outfits. His -iron constitution was somewhat broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had -drifted back to live in a milder country for a while. He had relatives in -Bismarck, a German settlement to the north of us, but for a year now he -had been working for grandfather. - -The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the kitchen to whisper to me -about a pony down in the barn that had been bought for me at a sale; he -had been riding him to find out whether he had any bad tricks, but he was -a "perfect gentleman," and his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I -wanted to know: how he had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was -a stage-driver, and how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for -me before sundown next day. He got out his "chaps" and silver spurs to -show them to Jake and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops stitched in -bold design--roses, and true-lover's knots, and undraped female figures. -These, he solemnly explained, were angels. - -Before we went to bed Jake and Otto were called up to the living-room for -prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed spectacles and read several -Psalms. His voice was so sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I -wished he had chosen one of my favorite chapters in the Book of Kings. I -was awed by his intonation of the word "Selah." "_He shall choose our -inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom He loved. Selah._" I had -no idea what the word meant; perhaps he had not. But, as he uttered it, it -became oracular, the most sacred of words. - -Early the next morning I ran out of doors to look about me. I had been -told that ours was the only wooden house west of Black Hawk--until you came -to the Norwegian settlement, where there were several. Our neighbors lived -in sod houses and dugouts--comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame -house, with a story and half-story above the basement, stood at the east -end of what I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the -kitchen door. From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the -barns and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, -and washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, at -the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow -bushes growing about it. The road from the post-office came directly by -our door, crossed the farmyard, and curved round this little pond, beyond -which it began to climb the gentle swell of unbroken prairie to the west. -There, along the western sky-line, it skirted a great cornfield, much -larger than any field I had ever seen. This cornfield, and the sorghum -patch behind the barn, were the only broken land in sight. Everywhere, as -far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but rough, shaggy, red -grass, most of it as tall as I. - -North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks, grew a thick-set -strip of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves already turning -yellow. This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but I had to look -very hard to see it at all. The little trees were insignificant against -the grass. It seemed as if the grass were about to run over them, and over -the plum-patch behind the sod chicken-house. - -As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the country, as the water -is the sea. The red of the grass made all the great prairie the color of -wine-stains, or of certain seaweeds when they are first washed up. And -there was so much motion in it; the whole country seemed, somehow, to be -running. - -I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when she came out, her -sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and asked me if I did not -want to go to the garden with her to dig potatoes for dinner. The garden, -curiously enough, was a quarter of a mile from the house, and the way to -it led up a shallow draw past the cattle corral. Grandmother called my -attention to a stout hickory cane, tipped with copper, which hung by a -leather thong from her belt. This, she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I -must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had -killed a good many rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who -lived on the Black Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all -summer. - -I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my -grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning. -Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more than -anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing -morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort -of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, -galloping {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} - -Alone, I should never have found the garden--except, perhaps, for the big -yellow pumpkins that lay about unprotected by their withering vines--and I -felt very little interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk -straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which -could not be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world -ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a -little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float off -into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow -shadows on the grass. While grandmother took the pitchfork we found -standing in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked them up out -of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag, I kept looking up at -the hawks that were doing what I might so easily do. - -When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like to stay up there in -the garden awhile. - -She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet. "Are n't you afraid of -snakes?" - -"A little," I admitted, "but I'd like to stay anyhow." - -"Well, if you see one, don't have anything to do with him. The big yellow -and brown ones won't hurt you; they're bull-snakes and help to keep the -gophers down. Don't be scared if you see anything look out of that hole in -the bank over there. That's a badger hole. He's about as big as a big -'possum, and his face is striped, black and white. He takes a chicken once -in a while, but I won't let the men harm him. In a new country a body -feels friendly to the animals. I like to have him come out and watch me -when I'm at work." - -Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder and went down the -path, leaning forward a little. The road followed the windings of the -draw; when she came to the first bend she waved at me and disappeared. I -was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content. - -I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely -approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin. There -were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows, full of fruit. I -turned back the papery triangular sheaths that protected the berries and -ate a few. All about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever -seen, were doing acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers -scurried up and down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered -draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I could hear it singing -its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall grasses wave. -The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. -Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. -Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as -I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was -something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did -not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like -that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun -and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be -dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it -comes as naturally as sleep. - - - - -III - - -ON Sunday morning Otto Fuchs was to drive us over to make the acquaintance -of our new Bohemian neighbors. We were taking them some provisions, as -they had come to live on a wild place where there was no garden or -chicken-house, and very little broken land. Fuchs brought up a sack of -potatoes and a piece of cured pork from the cellar, and grandmother packed -some loaves of Saturday's bread, a jar of butter, and several pumpkin pies -in the straw of the wagon-box. We clambered up to the front seat and -jolted off past the little pond and along the road that climbed to the big -cornfield. - -I could hardly wait to see what lay beyond that cornfield; but there was -only red grass like ours, and nothing else, though from the high -wagon-seat one could look off a long way. The road ran about like a wild -thing, avoiding the deep draws, crossing them where they were wide and -shallow. And all along it, wherever it looped or ran, the sunflowers grew; -some of them were as big as little trees, with great rough leaves and many -branches which bore dozens of blossoms. They made a gold ribbon across the -prairie. Occasionally one of the horses would tear off with his teeth a -plant full of blossoms, and walk along munching it, the flowers nodding in -time to his bites as he ate down toward them. - -The Bohemian family, grandmother told me as we drove along, had bought the -homestead of a fellow-countryman, Peter Krajiek, and had paid him more -than it was worth. Their agreement with him was made before they left the -old country, through a cousin of his, who was also a relative of Mrs. -Shimerda. The Shimerdas were the first Bohemian family to come to this -part of the county. Krajiek was their only interpreter, and could tell -them anything he chose. They could not speak enough English to ask for -advice, or even to make their most pressing wants known. One son, Fuchs -said, was well-grown, and strong enough to work the land; but the father -was old and frail and knew nothing about farming. He was a weaver by -trade; had been a skilled workman on tapestries and upholstery materials. -He had brought his fiddle with him, which would n't be of much use here, -though he used to pick up money by it at home. - -"If they're nice people, I hate to think of them spending the winter in -that cave of Krajiek's," said grandmother. "It's no better than a badger -hole; no proper dugout at all. And I hear he's made them pay twenty -dollars for his old cookstove that ain't worth ten." - -"Yes'm," said Otto; "and he's sold 'em his oxen and his two bony old -horses for the price of good work-teams. I'd have interfered about the -horses--the old man can understand some German--if I'd 'a' thought it would -do any good. But Bohemians has a natural distrust of Austrians." - -Grandmother looked interested. "Now, why is that, Otto?" - -Fuchs wrinkled his brow and nose. "Well, ma'm, it's politics. It would -take me a long while to explain." - -The land was growing rougher; I was told that we were approaching Squaw -Creek, which cut up the west half of the Shimerdas' place and made the -land of little value for farming. Soon we could see the broken, grassy -clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering -tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some -of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining -white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales. - -As we approached the Shimerdas' dwelling, I could still see nothing but -rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging -out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those -banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass -that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had -no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a -door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a -woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A -little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same -embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted -from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not -young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little -eyes. She shook grandmother's hand energetically. - -"Very glad, very glad!" she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the -bank out of which she had emerged and said, "House no good, house no -good!" - -Grandmother nodded consolingly. "You'll get fixed up comfortable after -while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house." - -My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they -were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our -visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled -them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, "Much good, -much thank!"--and again she wrung grandmother's hand. - -The oldest son, Ambroz,--they called it Ambrosch,--came out of the cave and -stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and -broad-backed, with a close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His -hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like his mother's, but more sly and -suspicious; they fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on -corncakes and sorghum molasses for three days. - -The little girl was pretty, but An-tonia-- they accented the name thus, -strongly, when they spoke to her--was still prettier. I remembered what the -conductor had said about her eyes. They were big and warm and full of -light, like the sun shining on brown pools in the wood. Her skin was -brown, too, and in her cheeks she had a glow of rich, dark color. Her -brown hair was curly and wild-looking. The little sister, whom they called -Yulka (Julka), was fair, and seemed mild and obedient. While I stood -awkwardly confronting the two girls, Krajiek came up from the barn to see -what was going on. With him was another Shimerda son. Even from a distance -one could see that there was something strange about this boy. As he -approached us, he began to make uncouth noises, and held up his hands to -show us his fingers, which were webbed to the first knuckle, like a duck's -foot. When he saw me draw back, he began to crow delightedly, "Hoo, -hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo!" like a rooster. His mother scowled and said sternly, -"Marek!" then spoke rapidly to Krajiek in Bohemian. - -"She wants me to tell you he won't hurt nobody, Mrs. Burden. He was born -like that. The others are smart. Ambrosch, he make good farmer." He struck -Ambrosch on the back, and the boy smiled knowingly. - -At that moment the father came out of the hole in the bank. He wore no -hat, and his thick, iron-gray hair was brushed straight back from his -forehead. It was so long that it bushed out behind his ears, and made him -look like the old portraits I remembered in Virginia. He was tall and -slender, and his thin shoulders stooped. He looked at us understandingly, -then took grandmother's hand and bent over it. I noticed how white and -well-shaped his own hands were. They looked calm, somehow, and skilled. -His eyes were melancholy, and were set back deep under his brow. His face -was ruggedly formed, but it looked like ashes--like something from which -all the warmth and light had died out. Everything about this old man was -in keeping with his dignified manner. He was neatly dressed. Under his -coat he wore a knitted gray vest, and, instead of a collar, a silk scarf -of a dark bronze-green, carefully crossed and held together by a red coral -pin. While Krajiek was translating for Mr. Shimerda, Antonia came up to me -and held out her hand coaxingly. In a moment we were running up the steep -drawside together, Yulka trotting after us. - -When we reached the level and could see the gold tree-tops, I pointed -toward them, and Antonia laughed and squeezed my hand as if to tell me how -glad she was I had come. We raced off toward Squaw Creek and did not stop -until the ground itself stopped--fell away before us so abruptly that the -next step would have been out into the tree-tops. We stood panting on the -edge of the ravine, looking down at the trees and bushes that grew below -us. The wind was so strong that I had to hold my hat on, and the girls' -skirts were blown out before them. Antonia seemed to like it; she held her -little sister by the hand and chattered away in that language which seemed -to me spoken so much more rapidly than mine. She looked at me, her eyes -fairly blazing with things she could not say. - -"Name? What name?" she asked, touching me on the shoulder. I told her my -name, and she repeated it after me and made Yulka say it. She pointed into -the gold cottonwood tree behind whose top we stood and said again, "What -name?" - -We sat down and made a nest in the long red grass. Yulka curled up like a -baby rabbit and played with a grasshopper. Antonia pointed up to the sky -and questioned me with her glance. I gave her the word, but she was not -satisfied and pointed to my eyes. I told her, and she repeated the word, -making it sound like "ice." She pointed up to the sky, then to my eyes, -then back to the sky, with movements so quick and impulsive that she -distracted me, and I had no idea what she wanted. She got up on her knees -and wrung her hands. She pointed to her own eyes and shook her head, then -to mine and to the sky, nodding violently. - -"Oh," I exclaimed, "blue; blue sky." - -She clapped her hands and murmured, "Blue sky, blue eyes," as if it amused -her. While we snuggled down there out of the wind she learned a score of -words. She was quick, and very eager. We were so deep in the grass that we -could see nothing but the blue sky over us and the gold tree in front of -us. It was wonderfully pleasant. After Antonia had said the new words over -and over, she wanted to give me a little chased silver ring she wore on -her middle finger. When she coaxed and insisted, I repulsed her quite -sternly. I did n't want her ring, and I felt there was something reckless -and extravagant about her wishing to give it away to a boy she had never -seen before. No wonder Krajiek got the better of these people, if this was -how they behaved. - -While we were disputing about the ring, I heard a mournful voice calling, -"An-tonia, An-tonia!" She sprang up like a hare. "Tatinek, Tatinek!" she -shouted, and we ran to meet the old man who was coming toward us. Antonia -reached him first, took his hand and kissed it. When I came up, he touched -my shoulder and looked searchingly down into my face for several seconds. -I became somewhat embarrassed, for I was used to being taken for granted -by my elders. - -We went with Mr. Shimerda back to the dugout, where grandmother was -waiting for me. Before I got into the wagon, he took a book out of his -pocket, opened it, and showed me a page with two alphabets, one English -and the other Bohemian. He placed this book in my grandmother's hands, -looked at her entreatingly, and said with an earnestness which I shall -never forget, "Te-e-ach, te-e-ach my An-tonia!" - - - - -IV - - -ON the afternoon of that same Sunday I took my first long ride on my pony, -under Otto's direction. After that Dude and I went twice a week to the -post-office, six miles east of us, and I saved the men a good deal of time -by riding on errands to our neighbors. When we had to borrow anything, or -to send about word that there would be preaching at the sod schoolhouse, I -was always the messenger. Formerly Fuchs attended to such things after -working hours. - -All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of that first -glorious autumn. The new country lay open before me: there were no fences -in those days, and I could choose my own way over the grass uplands, -trusting the pony to get me home again. Sometimes I followed the -sunflower-bordered roads. Fuchs told me that the sunflowers were -introduced into that country by the Mormons; that at the time of the -persecution, when they left Missouri and struck out into the wilderness to -find a place where they could worship God in their own way, the members of -the first exploring party, crossing the plains to Utah, scattered -sunflower seed as they went. The next summer, when the long trains of -wagons came through with all the women and children, they had the -sunflower trail to follow. I believe that botanists do not confirm Jake's -story, but insist that the sunflower was native to those plains. -Nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind, and sunflower-bordered -roads always seem to me the roads to freedom. - -I used to love to drift along the pale yellow cornfields, looking for the -damp spots one sometimes found at their edges, where the smartweed soon -turned a rich copper color and the narrow brown leaves hung curled like -cocoons about the swollen joints of the stem. Sometimes I went south to -visit our German neighbors and to admire their catalpa grove, or to see -the big elm tree that grew up out of a deep crack in the earth and had a -hawk's nest in its branches. Trees were so rare in that country, and they -had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about -them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the -scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious. - -Sometimes I rode north to the big prairie-dog town to watch the brown, -earth-owls fly home in the late afternoon and go down to their nests -underground with the dogs. Antonia Shimerda liked to go with me, and we -used to wonder a great deal about these birds of subterranean habit. We -had to be on our guard there, for rattlesnakes were always lurking about. -They came to pick up an easy living among the dogs and owls, which were -quite defenseless against them; took possession of their comfortable -houses and ate the eggs and puppies. We felt sorry for the owls. It was -always mournful to see them come flying home at sunset and disappear under -the earth. But, after all, we felt, winged things who would live like that -must be rather degraded creatures. The dog-town was a long way from any -pond or creek. Otto Fuchs said he had seen populous dog-towns in the -desert where there was no surface water for fifty miles; he insisted that -some of the holes must go down to water--nearly two hundred feet, -hereabouts. Antonia said she did n't believe it; that the dogs probably -lapped up the dew in the early morning, like the rabbits. - -Antonia had opinions about everything, and she was soon able to make them -known. Almost every day she came running across the prairie to have her -reading lesson with me. Mrs. Shimerda grumbled, but realized it was -important that one member of the family should learn English. When the -lesson was over, we used to go up to the watermelon patch behind the -garden. I split the melons with an old corn-knife, and we lifted out the -hearts and ate them with the juice trickling through our fingers. The -white Christmas melons we did not touch, but we watched them with -curiosity. They were to be picked late, when the hard frosts had set in, -and put away for winter use. After weeks on the ocean, the Shimerdas were -famished for fruit. The two girls would wander for miles along the edge of -the cornfields, hunting for ground-cherries. - -Antonia loved to help grandmother in the kitchen and to learn about -cooking and housekeeping. She would stand beside her, watching her every -movement. We were willing to believe that Mrs. Shimerda was a good -housewife in her own country, but she managed poorly under new conditions: -the conditions were bad enough, certainly! - -I remember how horrified we were at the sour, ashy-gray bread she gave her -family to eat. She mixed her dough, we discovered, in an old tin -peck-measure that Krajiek had used about the barn. When she took the paste -out to bake it, she left smears of dough sticking to the sides of the -measure, put the measure on the shelf behind the stove, and let this -residue ferment. The next time she made bread, she scraped this sour stuff -down into the fresh dough to serve as yeast. - -During those first months the Shimerdas never went to town. Krajiek -encouraged them in the belief that in Black Hawk they would somehow be -mysteriously separated from their money. They hated Krajiek, but they -clung to him because he was the only human being with whom they could talk -or from whom they could get information. He slept with the old man and the -two boys in the dugout barn, along with the oxen. They kept him in their -hole and fed him for the same reason that the prairie dogs and the brown -owls housed the rattlesnakes--because they did not know how to get rid of -him. - - - - -V - - -WE knew that things were hard for our Bohemian neighbors, but the two -girls were light-hearted and never complained. They were always ready to -forget their troubles at home, and to run away with me over the prairie, -scaring rabbits or starting up flocks of quail. - -I remember Antonia's excitement when she came into our kitchen one -afternoon and announced: "My papa find friends up north, with Russian -mans. Last night he take me for see, and I can understand very much talk. -Nice mans, Mrs. Burden. One is fat and all the time laugh. Everybody -laugh. The first time I see my papa laugh in this kawn-tree. Oh, very -nice!" - -I asked her if she meant the two Russians who lived up by the big -dog-town. I had often been tempted to go to see them when I was riding in -that direction, but one of them was a wild-looking fellow and I was a -little afraid of him. Russia seemed to me more remote than any other -country--farther away than China, almost as far as the North Pole. Of all -the strange, uprooted people among the first settlers, those two men were -the strangest and the most aloof. Their last names were unpronounceable, -so they were called Pavel and Peter. They went about making signs to -people, and until the Shimerdas came they had no friends. Krajiek could -understand them a little, but he had cheated them in a trade, so they -avoided him. Pavel, the tall one, was said to be an anarchist; since he -had no means of imparting his opinions, probably his wild gesticulations -and his generally excited and rebellious manner gave rise to this -supposition. He must once have been a very strong man, but now his great -frame, with big, knotty joints, had a wasted look, and the skin was drawn -tight over his high cheek-bones. His breathing was hoarse, and he always -had a cough. - -Peter, his companion, was a very different sort of fellow; short, -bow-legged, and as fat as butter. He always seemed pleased when he met -people on the road, smiled and took off his cap to every one, men as well -as women. At a distance, on his wagon, he looked like an old man; his hair -and beard were of such a pale flaxen color that they seemed white in the -sun. They were as thick and curly as carded wool. His rosy face, with its -snub nose, set in this fleece, was like a melon among its leaves. He was -usually called "Curly Peter," or "Rooshian Peter." - -The two Russians made good farmhands, and in summer they worked out -together. I had heard our neighbors laughing when they told how Peter -always had to go home at night to milk his cow. Other bachelor -homesteaders used canned milk, to save trouble. Sometimes Peter came to -church at the sod schoolhouse. It was there I first saw him, sitting on a -low bench by the door, his plush cap in his hands, his bare feet tucked -apologetically under the seat. - -After Mr. Shimerda discovered the Russians, he went to see them almost -every evening, and sometimes took Antonia with him. She said they came -from a part of Russia where the language was not very different from -Bohemian, and if I wanted to go to their place, she could talk to them for -me. One afternoon, before the heavy frosts began, we rode up there -together on my pony. - -The Russians had a neat log house built on a grassy slope, with a windlass -well beside the door. As we rode up the draw we skirted a big melon patch, -and a garden where squashes and yellow cucumbers lay about on the sod. We -found Peter out behind his kitchen, bending over a washtub. He was working -so hard that he did not hear us coming. His whole body moved up and down -as he rubbed, and he was a funny sight from the rear, with his shaggy head -and bandy legs. When he straightened himself up to greet us, drops of -perspiration were rolling from his thick nose down on to his curly beard. -Peter dried his hands and seemed glad to leave his washing. He took us -down to see his chickens, and his cow that was grazing on the hillside. He -told Antonia that in his country only rich people had cows, but here any -man could have one who would take care of her. The milk was good for -Pavel, who was often sick, and he could make butter by beating sour cream -with a wooden spoon. Peter was very fond of his cow. He patted her flanks -and talked to her in Russian while he pulled up her lariat pin and set it -in a new place. - -After he had shown us his garden, Peter trundled a load of watermelons up -the hill in his wheelbarrow. Pavel was not at home. He was off somewhere -helping to dig a well. The house I thought very comfortable for two men -who were "batching." Besides the kitchen, there was a living-room, with a -wide double bed built against the wall, properly made up with blue gingham -sheets and pillows. There was a little storeroom, too, with a window, -where they kept guns and saddles and tools, and old coats and boots. That -day the floor was covered with garden things, drying for winter; corn and -beans and fat yellow cucumbers. There were no screens or window-blinds in -the house, and all the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in flies -and sunshine alike. - -Peter put the melons in a row on the oilcloth-covered table and stood over -them, brandishing a butcher knife. Before the blade got fairly into them, -they split of their own ripeness, with a delicious sound. He gave us -knives, but no plates, and the top of the table was soon swimming with -juice and seeds. I had never seen any one eat so many melons as Peter ate. -He assured us that they were good for one--better than medicine; in his -country people lived on them at this time of year. He was very hospitable -and jolly. Once, while he was looking at Antonia, he sighed and told us -that if he had stayed at home in Russia perhaps by this time he would have -had a pretty daughter of his own to cook and keep house for him. He said -he had left his country because of a "great trouble." - -When we got up to go, Peter looked about in perplexity for something that -would entertain us. He ran into the storeroom and brought out a gaudily -painted harmonica, sat down on a bench, and spreading his fat legs apart -began to play like a whole band. The tunes were either very lively or very -doleful, and he sang words to some of them. - -Before we left, Peter put ripe cucumbers into a sack for Mrs. Shimerda and -gave us a lard-pail full of milk to cook them in. I had never heard of -cooking cucumbers, but Antonia assured me they were very good. We had to -walk the pony all the way home to keep from spilling the milk. - - - - -VI - - -ONE afternoon we were having our reading lesson on the warm, grassy bank -where the badger lived. It was a day of amber sunlight, but there was a -shiver of coming winter in the air. I had seen ice on the little -horse-pond that morning, and as we went through the garden we found the -tall asparagus, with its red berries, lying on the ground, a mass of slimy -green. - -Tony was barefooted, and she shivered in her cotton dress and was -comfortable only when we were tucked down on the baked earth, in the full -blaze of the sun. She could talk to me about almost anything by this time. -That afternoon she was telling me how highly esteemed our friend the -badger was in her part of the world, and how men kept a special kind of -dog, with very short legs, to hunt him. Those dogs, she said, went down -into the hole after the badger and killed him there in a terrific struggle -underground; you could hear the barks and yelps outside. Then the dog -dragged himself back, covered with bites and scratches, to be rewarded and -petted by his master. She knew a dog who had a star on his collar for -every badger he had killed. - -The rabbits were unusually spry that afternoon. They kept starting up all -about us, and dashing off down the draw as if they were playing a game of -some kind. But the little buzzing things that lived in the grass were all -dead--all but one. While we were lying there against the warm bank, a -little insect of the palest, frailest green hopped painfully out of the -buffalo grass and tried to leap into a bunch of bluestem. He missed it, -fell back, and sat with his head sunk between his long legs, his antennae -quivering, as if he were waiting for something to come and finish him. -Tony made a warm nest for him in her hands; talked to him gayly and -indulgently in Bohemian. Presently he began to sing for us--a thin, rusty -little chirp. She held him close to her ear and laughed, but a moment -afterward I saw there were tears in her eyes. She told me that in her -village at home there was an old beggar woman who went about selling herbs -and roots she had dug up in the forest. If you took her in and gave her a -warm place by the fire, she sang old songs to the children in a cracked -voice, like this. Old Hata, she was called, and the children loved to see -her coming and saved their cakes and sweets for her. - -When the bank on the other side of the draw began to throw a narrow shelf -of shadow, we knew we ought to be starting homeward; the chill came on -quickly when the sun got low, and Antonia's dress was thin. What were we -to do with the frail little creature we had lured back to life by false -pretenses? I offered my pockets, but Tony shook her head and carefully put -the green insect in her hair, tying her big handkerchief down loosely over -her curls. I said I would go with her until we could see Squaw Creek, and -then turn and run home. We drifted along lazily, very happy, through the -magical light of the late afternoon. - -All those fall afternoons were the same, but I never got used to them. As -far as we could see, the miles of copper-red grass were drenched in -sunlight that was stronger and fiercer than at any other time of the day. -The blond cornfields were red gold, the haystacks turned rosy and threw -long shadows. The whole prairie was like the bush that burned with fire -and was not consumed. That hour always had the exultation of victory, of -triumphant ending, like a hero's death--heroes who died young and -gloriously. It was a sudden transfiguration, a lifting-up of day. - -How many an afternoon Antonia and I have trailed along the prairie under -that magnificence! And always two long black shadows flitted before us or -followed after, dark spots on the ruddy grass. - -We had been silent a long time, and the edge of the sun sank nearer and -nearer the prairie floor, when we saw a figure moving on the edge of the -upland, a gun over his shoulder. He was walking slowly, dragging his feet -along as if he had no purpose. We broke into a run to overtake him. - -"My papa sick all the time," Tony panted as we flew. "He not look good, -Jim." - -As we neared Mr. Shimerda she shouted, and he lifted his head and peered -about. Tony ran up to him, caught his hand and pressed it against her -cheek. She was the only one of his family who could rouse the old man from -the torpor in which he seemed to live. He took the bag from his belt and -showed us three rabbits he had shot, looked at Antonia with a wintry -flicker of a smile and began to tell her something. She turned to me. - -"My tatinek make me little hat with the skins, little hat for win-ter!" -she exclaimed joyfully. "Meat for eat, skin for hat,"--she told off these -benefits on her fingers. - -Her father put his hand on her hair, but she caught his wrist and lifted -it carefully away, talking to him rapidly. I heard the name of old Hata. -He untied the handkerchief, separated her hair with his fingers, and stood -looking down at the green insect. When it began to chirp faintly, he -listened as if it were a beautiful sound. - -I picked up the gun he had dropped; a queer piece from the old country, -short and heavy, with a stag's head on the cock. When he saw me examining -it, he turned to me with his far-away look that always made me feel as if -I were down at the bottom of a well. He spoke kindly and gravely, and -Antonia translated:-- - -"My tatinek say when you are big boy, he give you his gun. Very fine, from -Bohemie. It was belong to a great man, very rich, like what you not got -here; many fields, many forests, many big house. My papa play for his -wedding, and he give my papa fine gun, and my papa give you." - -[Illustration: Mr. Shimerda walking on the upland prairie with a gun over - his shoulder] - -I was glad that this project was one of futurity. There never were such -people as the Shimerdas for wanting to give away everything they had. Even -the mother was always offering me things, though I knew she expected -substantial presents in return. We stood there in friendly silence, while -the feeble minstrel sheltered in Antonia's hair went on with its scratchy -chirp. The old man's smile, as he listened, was so full of sadness, of -pity for things, that I never afterward forgot it. As the sun sank there -came a sudden coolness and the strong smell of earth and drying grass. -Antonia and her father went off hand in hand, and I buttoned up my jacket -and raced my shadow home. - - - - -VII - - -MUCH as I liked Antonia, I hated a superior tone that she sometimes took -with me. She was four years older than I, to be sure, and had seen more of -the world; but I was a boy and she was a girl, and I resented her -protecting manner. Before the autumn was over she began to treat me more -like an equal and to defer to me in other things than reading lessons. -This change came about from an adventure we had together. - -One day when I rode over to the Shimerdas' I found Antonia starting off on -foot for Russian Peter's house, to borrow a spade Ambrosch needed. I -offered to take her on the pony, and she got up behind me. There had been -another black frost the night before, and the air was clear and heady as -wine. Within a week all the blooming roads had been despoiled--hundreds of -miles of yellow sunflowers had been transformed into brown, rattling, -burry stalks. - -We found Russian Peter digging his potatoes. We were glad to go in and get -warm by his kitchen stove and to see his squashes and Christmas melons, -heaped in the storeroom for winter. As we rode away with the spade, -Antonia suggested that we stop at the prairie-dog town and dig into one of -the holes. We could find out whether they ran straight down, or were -horizontal, like mole-holes; whether they had underground connections; -whether the owls had nests down there, lined with feathers. We might get -some puppies, or owl eggs, or snake-skins. - -The dog-town was spread out over perhaps ten acres. The grass had been -nibbled short and even, so this stretch was not shaggy and red like the -surrounding country, but gray and velvety. The holes were several yards -apart, and were disposed with a good deal of regularity, almost as if the -town had been laid out in streets and avenues. One always felt that an -orderly and very sociable kind of life was going on there. I picketed Dude -down in a draw, and we went wandering about, looking for a hole that would -be easy to dig. The dogs were out, as usual, dozens of them, sitting up on -their hind legs over the doors of their houses. As we approached, they -barked, shook their tails at us, and scurried underground. Before the -mouths of the holes were little patches of sand and gravel, scratched up, -we supposed, from a long way below the surface. Here and there, in the -town, we came on larger gravel patches, several yards away from any hole. -If the dogs had scratched the sand up in excavating, how had they carried -it so far? It was on one of these gravel beds that I met my adventure. - -We were examining a big hole with two entrances. The burrow sloped into -the ground at a gentle angle, so that we could see where the two corridors -united, and the floor was dusty from use, like a little highway over which -much travel went. I was walking backward, in a crouching position, when I -heard Antonia scream. She was standing opposite me, pointing behind me and -shouting something in Bohemian. I whirled round, and there, on one of -those dry gravel beds, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. He was -sunning himself, after the cold night, and he must have been asleep when -Antonia screamed. When I turned he was lying in long loose waves, like a -letter "W." He twitched and began to coil slowly. He was not merely a big -snake, I thought--he was a circus monstrosity. His abominable muscularity, -his loathsome, fluid motion, somehow made me sick. He was as thick as my -leg, and looked as if millstones could n't crush the disgusting vitality -out of him. He lifted his hideous little head, and rattled. I did n't run -because I did n't think of it--if my back had been against a stone wall I -could n't have felt more cornered. I saw his coils tighten--now he would -spring, spring his length, I remembered. I ran up and drove at his head -with my spade, struck him fairly across the neck, and in a minute he was -all about my feet in wavy loops. I struck now from hate. Antonia, -barefooted as she was, ran up behind me. Even after I had pounded his ugly -head flat, his body kept on coiling and winding, doubling and falling back -on itself. I walked away and turned my back. I felt seasick. Antonia came -after me, crying, "O Jimmy, he not bite you? You sure? Why you not run -when I say?" - -"What did you jabber Bohunk for? You might have told me there was a snake -behind me!" I said petulantly. - -"I know I am just awful, Jim, I was so scared." She took my handkerchief -from my pocket and tried to wipe my face with it, but I snatched it away -from her. I suppose I looked as sick as I felt. - -"I never know you was so brave, Jim," she went on comfortingly. "You is -just like big mans; you wait for him lift his head and then you go for -him. Ain't you feel scared a bit? Now we take that snake home and show -everybody. Nobody ain't seen in this kawn-tree so big snake like you -kill." - -She went on in this strain until I began to think that I had longed for -this opportunity, and had hailed it with joy. Cautiously we went back to -the snake; he was still groping with his tail, turning up his ugly belly -in the light. A faint, fetid smell came from him, and a thread of green -liquid oozed from his crushed head. - -"Look, Tony, that's his poison," I said. - -I took a long piece of string from my pocket, and she lifted his head with -the spade while I tied a noose around it. We pulled him out straight and -measured him by my riding-quirt; he was about five and a half feet long. -He had twelve rattles, but they were broken off before they began to -taper, so I insisted that he must once have had twenty-four. I explained -to Antonia how this meant that he was twenty-four years old, that he must -have been there when white men first came, left on from buffalo and Indian -times. As I turned him over I began to feel proud of him, to have a kind -of respect for his age and size. He seemed like the ancient, eldest Evil. -Certainly his kind have left horrible unconscious memories in all -warm-blooded life. When we dragged him down into the draw, Dude sprang off -to the end of his tether and shivered all over--would n't let us come near -him. - -We decided that Antonia should ride Dude home, and I would walk. As she -rode along slowly, her bare legs swinging against the pony's sides, she -kept shouting back to me about how astonished everybody would be. I -followed with the spade over my shoulder, dragging my snake. Her -exultation was contagious. The great land had never looked to me so big -and free. If the red grass were full of rattlers, I was equal to them all. -Nevertheless, I stole furtive glances behind me now and then to see that -no avenging mate, older and bigger than my quarry, was racing up from the -rear. - -The sun had set when we reached our garden and went down the draw toward -the house. Otto Fuchs was the first one we met. He was sitting on the edge -of the cattle-pond, having a quiet pipe before supper. Antonia called him -to come quick and look. He did not say anything for a minute, but -scratched his head and turned the snake over with his boot. - -"Where did you run onto that beauty, Jim?" - -"Up at the dog-town," I answered laconically. - -"Kill him yourself? How come you to have a weepon?" - -"We'd been up to Russian Peter's, to borrow a spade for Ambrosch." - -Otto shook the ashes out of his pipe and squatted down to count the -rattles. "It was just luck you had a tool," he said cautiously. "Gosh! I -would n't want to do any business with that fellow myself, unless I had a -fence-post along. Your grandmother's snake-cane would n't more than tickle -him. He could stand right up and talk to you, he could. Did he fight -hard?" - -Antonia broke in: "He fight something awful! He is all over Jimmy's boots. -I scream for him to run, but he just hit and hit that snake like he was -crazy." - -Otto winked at me. After Antonia rode on he said: "Got him in the head -first crack, did n't you? That was just as well." - -We hung him up to the windmill, and when I went down to the kitchen I -found Antonia standing in the middle of the floor, telling the story with -a great deal of color. - -Subsequent experiences with rattlesnakes taught me that my first encounter -was fortunate in circumstance. My big rattler was old, and had led too -easy a life; there was not much fight in him. He had probably lived there -for years, with a fat prairie dog for breakfast whenever he felt like it, -a sheltered home, even an owl-feather bed, perhaps, and he had forgot that -the world does n't owe rattlers a living. A snake of his size, in fighting -trim, would be more than any boy could handle. So in reality it was a mock -adventure; the game was fixed for me by chance, as it probably was for -many a dragon-slayer. I had been adequately armed by Russian Peter; the -snake was old and lazy; and I had Antonia beside me, to appreciate and -admire. - -That snake hung on our corral fence for several days; some of the -neighbors came to see it and agreed that it was the biggest rattler ever -killed in those parts. This was enough for Antonia. She liked me better -from that time on, and she never took a supercilious air with me again. I -had killed a big snake--I was now a big fellow. - - - - -VIII - - -WHILE the autumn color was growing pale on the grass and cornfields, -things went badly with our friends the Russians. Peter told his troubles -to Mr. Shimerda: he was unable to meet a note which fell due on the first -of November; had to pay an exorbitant bonus on renewing it, and to give a -mortgage on his pigs and horses and even his milk cow. His creditor was -Wick Cutter, the merciless Black Hawk money-lender, a man of evil name -throughout the county, of whom I shall have more to say later. Peter could -give no very clear account of his transactions with Cutter. He only knew -that he had first borrowed two hundred dollars, then another hundred, then -fifty--that each time a bonus was added to the principal, and the debt grew -faster than any crop he planted. Now everything was plastered with -mortgages. - -Soon after Peter renewed his note, Pavel strained himself lifting timbers -for a new barn, and fell over among the shavings with such a gush of blood -from the lungs that his fellow-workmen thought he would die on the spot. -They hauled him home and put him into his bed, and there he lay, very ill -indeed. Misfortune seemed to settle like an evil bird on the roof of the -log house, and to flap its wings there, warning human beings away. The -Russians had such bad luck that people were afraid of them and liked to -put them out of mind. - -One afternoon Antonia and her father came over to our house to get -buttermilk, and lingered, as they usually did, until the sun was low. Just -as they were leaving, Russian Peter drove up. Pavel was very bad, he said, -and wanted to talk to Mr. Shimerda and his daughter; he had come to fetch -them. When Antonia and her father got into the wagon, I entreated -grandmother to let me go with them: I would gladly go without my supper, I -would sleep in the Shimerdas' barn and run home in the morning. My plan -must have seemed very foolish to her, but she was often large-minded about -humoring the desires of other people. She asked Peter to wait a moment, -and when she came back from the kitchen she brought a bag of sandwiches -and doughnuts for us. - -Mr. Shimerda and Peter were on the front seat; Antonia and I sat in the -straw behind and ate our lunch as we bumped along. After the sun sank, a -cold wind sprang up and moaned over the prairie. If this turn in the -weather had come sooner, I should not have got away. We burrowed down in -the straw and curled up close together, watching the angry red die out of -the west and the stars begin to shine in the clear, windy sky. Peter kept -sighing and groaning. Tony whispered to me that he was afraid Pavel would -never get well. We lay still and did not talk. Up there the stars grew -magnificently bright. Though we had come from such different parts of the -world, in both of us there was some dusky superstition that those shining -groups have their influence upon what is and what is not to be. Perhaps -Russian Peter, come from farther away than any of us, had brought from his -land, too, some such belief. - -The little house on the hillside was so much the color of the night that -we could not see it as we came up the draw. The ruddy windows guided -us--the light from the kitchen stove, for there was no lamp burning. - -We entered softly. The man in the wide bed seemed to be asleep. Tony and I -sat down on the bench by the wall and leaned our arms on the table in -front of us. The firelight flickered on the hewn logs that supported the -thatch overhead. Pavel made a rasping sound when he breathed, and he kept -moaning. We waited. The wind shook the doors and windows impatiently, then -swept on again, singing through the big spaces. Each gust, as it bore -down, rattled the panes, and swelled off like the others. They made me -think of defeated armies, retreating; or of ghosts who were trying -desperately to get in for shelter, and then went moaning on. Presently, in -one of those sobbing intervals between the blasts, the coyotes tuned up -with their whining howl; one, two, three, then all together--to tell us -that winter was coming. This sound brought an answer from the bed,--a long -complaining cry,--as if Pavel were having bad dreams or were waking to some -old misery. Peter listened, but did not stir. He was sitting on the floor -by the kitchen stove. The coyotes broke out again; yap, yap, yap--then the -high whine. Pavel called for something and struggled up on his elbow. - -"He is scared of the wolves," Antonia whispered to me. "In his country -there are very many, and they eat men and women." We slid closer together -along the bench. - -I could not take my eyes off the man in the bed. His shirt was hanging -open, and his emaciated chest, covered with yellow bristle, rose and fell -horribly. He began to cough. Peter shuffled to his feet, caught up the -tea-kettle and mixed him some hot water and whiskey. The sharp smell of -spirits went through the room. - -Pavel snatched the cup and drank, then made Peter give him the bottle and -slipped it under his pillow, grinning disagreeably, as if he had outwitted -some one. His eyes followed Peter about the room with a contemptuous, -unfriendly expression. It seemed to me that he despised him for being so -simple and docile. - -Presently Pavel began to talk to Mr. Shimerda, scarcely above a whisper. -He was telling a long story, and as he went on, Antonia took my hand under -the table and held it tight. She leaned forward and strained her ears to -hear him. He grew more and more excited, and kept pointing all around his -bed, as if there were things there and he wanted Mr. Shimerda to see them. - -"It's wolves, Jimmy," Antonia whispered. "It's awful, what he says!" - -The sick man raged and shook his fist. He seemed to be cursing people who -had wronged him. Mr. Shimerda caught him by the shoulders, but could -hardly hold him in bed. At last he was shut off by a coughing fit which -fairly choked him. He pulled a cloth from under his pillow and held it to -his mouth. Quickly it was covered with bright red spots--I thought I had -never seen any blood so bright. When he lay down and turned his face to -the wall, all the rage had gone out of him. He lay patiently fighting for -breath, like a child with croup. Antonia's father uncovered one of his -long bony legs and rubbed it rhythmically. From our bench we could see -what a hollow case his body was. His spine and shoulder-blades stood out -like the bones under the hide of a dead steer left in the fields. That -sharp backbone must have hurt him when he lay on it. - -Gradually, relief came to all of us. Whatever it was, the worst was over. -Mr. Shimerda signed to us that Pavel was asleep. Without a word Peter got -up and lit his lantern. He was going out to get his team to drive us home. -Mr. Shimerda went with him. We sat and watched the long bowed back under -the blue sheet, scarcely daring to breathe. - -On the way home, when we were lying in the straw, under the jolting and -rattling Antonia told me as much of the story as she could. What she did -not tell me then, she told later; we talked of nothing else for days -afterward. - - - -When Pavel and Peter were young men, living at home in Russia, they were -asked to be groomsmen for a friend who was to marry the belle of another -village. It was in the dead of winter and the groom's party went over to -the wedding in sledges. Peter and Pavel drove in the groom's sledge, and -six sledges followed with all his relatives and friends. - -After the ceremony at the church, the party went to a dinner given by the -parents of the bride. The dinner lasted all afternoon; then it became a -supper and continued far into the night. There was much dancing and -drinking. At midnight the parents of the bride said good-bye to her and -blessed her. The groom took her up in his arms and carried her out to his -sledge and tucked her under the blankets. He sprang in beside her, and -Pavel and Peter (our Pavel and Peter!) took the front seat. Pavel drove. -The party set out with singing and the jingle of sleigh-bells, the groom's -sledge going first. All the drivers were more or less the worse for -merry-making, and the groom was absorbed in his bride. - -The wolves were bad that winter, and every one knew it, yet when they -heard the first wolf-cry, the drivers were not much alarmed. They had too -much good food and drink inside them. The first howls were taken up and -echoed and with quickening repetitions. The wolves were coming together. -There was no moon, but the starlight was clear on the snow. A black drove -came up over the hill behind the wedding party. The wolves ran like -streaks of shadow; they looked no bigger than dogs, but there were -hundreds of them. - -Something happened to the hindmost sledge: the driver lost control,--he was -probably very drunk,--the horses left the road, the sledge was caught in a -clump of trees, and overturned. The occupants rolled out over the snow, -and the fleetest of the wolves sprang upon them. The shrieks that followed -made everybody sober. The drivers stood up and lashed their horses. The -groom had the best team and his sledge was lightest--all the others carried -from six to a dozen people. - -Another driver lost control. The screams of the horses were more terrible -to hear than the cries of the men and women. Nothing seemed to check the -wolves. It was hard to tell what was happening in the rear; the people who -were falling behind shrieked as piteously as those who were already lost. -The little bride hid her face on the groom's shoulder and sobbed. Pavel -sat still and watched his horses. The road was clear and white, and the -groom's three blacks went like the wind. It was only necessary to be calm -and to guide them carefully. - -At length, as they breasted a long hill, Peter rose cautiously and looked -back. "There are only three sledges left," he whispered. - -"And the wolves?" Pavel asked. - -"Enough! Enough for all of us." - -Pavel reached the brow of the hill, but only two sledges followed him down -the other side. In that moment on the hilltop, they saw behind them a -whirling black group on the snow. Presently the groom screamed. He saw his -father's sledge overturned, with his mother and sisters. He sprang up as -if he meant to jump, but the girl shrieked and held him back. It was even -then too late. The black ground-shadows were already crowding over the -heap in the road, and one horse ran out across the fields, his harness -hanging to him, wolves at his heels. But the groom's movement had given -Pavel an idea. - -They were within a few miles of their village now. The only sledge left -out of six was not very far behind them, and Pavel's middle horse was -failing. Beside a frozen pond something happened to the other sledge; -Peter saw it plainly. Three big wolves got abreast of the horses, and the -horses went crazy. They tried to jump over each other, got tangled up in -the harness, and overturned the sledge. - -When the shrieking behind them died away, Pavel realized that he was alone -upon the familiar road. "They still come?" he asked Peter. - -"Yes." - -"How many?" - -"Twenty, thirty--enough." - -Now his middle horse was being almost dragged by the other two. Pavel gave -Peter the reins and stepped carefully into the back of the sledge. He -called to the groom that they must lighten--and pointed to the bride. The -young man cursed him and held her tighter. Pavel tried to drag her away. -In the struggle, the groom rose. Pavel knocked him over the side of the -sledge and threw the girl after him. He said he never remembered exactly -how he did it, or what happened afterward. Peter, crouching in the front -seat, saw nothing. The first thing either of them noticed was a new sound -that broke into the clear air, louder than they had ever heard it -before--the bell of the monastery of their own village, ringing for early -prayers. - -Pavel and Peter drove into the village alone, and they had been alone ever -since. They were run out of their village. Pavel's own mother would not -look at him. They went away to strange towns, but when people learned -where they came from, they were always asked if they knew the two men who -had fed the bride to the wolves. Wherever they went, the story followed -them. It took them five years to save money enough to come to America. -They worked in Chicago, Des Moines, Fort Wayne, but they were always -unfortunate. When Pavel's health grew so bad, they decided to try farming. - -Pavel died a few days after he unburdened his mind to Mr. Shimerda, and -was buried in the Norwegian graveyard. Peter sold off everything, and left -the country--went to be cook in a railway construction camp where gangs of -Russians were employed. - -At his sale we bought Peter's wheelbarrow and some of his harness. During -the auction he went about with his head down, and never lifted his eyes. -He seemed not to care about anything. The Black Hawk money-lender who held -mortgages on Peter's live-stock was there, and he bought in the sale notes -at about fifty cents on the dollar. Every one said Peter kissed the cow -before she was led away by her new owner. I did not see him do it, but -this I know: after all his furniture and his cook-stove and pots and pans -had been hauled off by the purchasers, when his house was stripped and -bare, he sat down on the floor with his clasp-knife and ate all the melons -that he had put away for winter. When Mr. Shimerda and Krajiek drove up in -their wagon to take Peter to the train, they found him with a dripping -beard, surrounded by heaps of melon rinds. - -The loss of his two friends had a depressing effect upon old Mr. Shimerda. -When he was out hunting, he used to go into the empty log house and sit -there, brooding. This cabin was his hermitage until the winter snows -penned him in his cave. For Antonia and me, the story of the wedding party -was never at an end. We did not tell Pavel's secret to any one, but -guarded it jealously--as if the wolves of the Ukraine had gathered that -night long ago, and the wedding party been sacrificed, to give us a -painful and peculiar pleasure. At night, before I went to sleep, I often -found myself in a sledge drawn by three horses, dashing through a country -that looked something like Nebraska and something like Virginia. - - - - -IX - - -THE first snowfall came early in December. I remember how the world looked -from our sitting-room window as I dressed behind the stove that morning: -the low sky was like a sheet of metal; the blond cornfields had faded out -into ghostliness at last; the little pond was frozen under its stiff -willow bushes. Big white flakes were whirling over everything and -disappearing in the red grass. - -Beyond the pond, on the slope that climbed to the cornfield, there was, -faintly marked in the grass, a great circle where the Indians used to -ride. Jake and Otto were sure that when they galloped round that ring the -Indians tortured prisoners, bound to a stake in the center; but -grandfather thought they merely ran races or trained horses there. -Whenever one looked at this slope against the setting sun, the circle -showed like a pattern in the grass; and this morning, when the first light -spray of snow lay over it, it came out with wonderful distinctness, like -strokes of Chinese white on canvas. The old figure stirred me as it had -never done before and seemed a good omen for the winter. - -As soon as the snow had packed hard I began to drive about the country in -a clumsy sleigh that Otto Fuchs made for me by fastening a wooden -goods-box on bobs. Fuchs had been apprenticed to a cabinet-maker in the -old country and was very handy with tools. He would have done a better job -if I had n't hurried him. My first trip was to the post-office, and the -next day I went over to take Yulka and Antonia for a sleigh-ride. - -It was a bright, cold day. I piled straw and buffalo robes into the box, -and took two hot bricks wrapped in old blankets. When I got to the -Shimerdas' I did not go up to the house, but sat in my sleigh at the -bottom of the draw and called. Antonia and Yulka came running out, wearing -little rabbit-skin hats their father had made for them. They had heard -about my sledge from Ambrosch and knew why I had come. They tumbled in -beside me and we set off toward the north, along a road that happened to -be broken. - -The sky was brilliantly blue, and the sunlight on the glittering white -stretches of prairie was almost blinding. As Antonia said, the whole world -was changed by the snow; we kept looking in vain for familiar landmarks. -The deep arroyo through which Squaw Creek wound was now only a cleft -between snow-drifts--very blue when one looked down into it. The tree-tops -that had been gold all the autumn were dwarfed and twisted, as if they -would never have any life in them again. The few little cedars, which were -so dull and dingy before, now stood out a strong, dusky green. The wind -had the burning taste of fresh snow; my throat and nostrils smarted as if -some one had opened a hartshorn bottle. The cold stung, and at the same -time delighted one. My horse's breath rose like steam, and whenever we -stopped he smoked all over. The cornfields got back a little of their -color under the dazzling light, and stood the palest possible gold in the -sun and snow. All about us the snow was crusted in shallow terraces, with -tracings like ripple-marks at the edges, curly waves that were the actual -impression of the stinging lash in the wind. - -The girls had on cotton dresses under their shawls; they kept shivering -beneath the buffalo robes and hugging each other for warmth. But they were -so glad to get away from their ugly cave and their mother's scolding that -they begged me to go on and on, as far as Russian Peter's house. The great -fresh open, after the stupefying warmth indoors, made them behave like -wild things. They laughed and shouted, and said they never wanted to go -home again. Could n't we settle down and live in Russian Peter's house, -Yulka asked, and could n't I go to town and buy things for us to keep -house with? - -All the way to Russian Peter's we were extravagantly happy, but when we -turned back,--it must have been about four o'clock,--the east wind grew -stronger and began to howl; the sun lost its heartening power and the sky -became gray and somber. I took off my long woolen comforter and wound it -around Yulka's throat. She got so cold that we made her hide her head -under the buffalo robe. Antonia and I sat erect, but I held the reins -clumsily, and my eyes were blinded by the wind a good deal of the time. It -was growing dark when we got to their house, but I refused to go in with -them and get warm. I knew my hands would ache terribly if I went near a -fire. Yulka forgot to give me back my comforter, and I had to drive home -directly against the wind. The next day I came down with an attack of -quinsy, which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks. - -The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in those days--like a -tight little boat in a winter sea. The men were out in the fields all day, -husking corn, and when they came in at noon, with long caps pulled down -over their ears and their feet in red-lined overshoes, I used to think -they were like Arctic explorers. - -In the afternoons, when grandmother sat upstairs darning, or making -husking-gloves, I read "The Swiss Family Robinson" aloud to her, and I -felt that the Swiss family had no advantages over us in the way of an -adventurous life. I was convinced that man's strongest antagonist is the -cold. I admired the cheerful zest with which grandmother went about -keeping us warm and comfortable and well-fed. She often reminded me, when -she was preparing for the return of the hungry men, that this country was -not like Virginia, and that here a cook had, as she said, "very little to -do with." On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as we could eat, and on -other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat. She baked either pies or -cake for us every day, unless, for a change, she made my favorite pudding, -striped with currants and boiled in a bag. - -Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and supper were the most -interesting things we had to think about. Our lives centered around warmth -and food and the return of the men at nightfall. I used to wonder, when -they came in tired from the fields, their feet numb and their hands -cracked and sore, how they could do all the chores so conscientiously: -feed and water and bed the horses, milk the cows, and look after the pigs. -When supper was over, it took them a long while to get the cold out of -their bones. While grandmother and I washed the dishes and grandfather -read his paper upstairs, Jake and Otto sat on the long bench behind the -stove, "easing" their inside boots, or rubbing mutton tallow into their -cracked hands. - -Every Saturday night we popped corn or made taffy, and Otto Fuchs used to -sing, "For I Am a Cowboy and Know I've Done Wrong," or, "Bury Me Not on -the Lone Prairee." He had a good baritone voice and always led the singing -when we went to church services at the sod schoolhouse. - -I can still see those two men sitting on the bench; Otto's close-clipped -head and Jake's shaggy hair slicked flat in front by a wet comb. I can see -the sag of their tired shoulders against the whitewashed wall. What good -fellows they were, how much they knew, and how many things they had kept -faith with! - -Fuchs had been a cowboy, a stage-driver, a bar-tender, a miner; had -wandered all over that great Western country and done hard work -everywhere, though, as grandmother said, he had nothing to show for it. -Jake was duller than Otto. He could scarcely read, wrote even his name -with difficulty, and he had a violent temper which sometimes made him -behave like a crazy man--tore him all to pieces and actually made him ill. -But he was so soft-hearted that any one could impose upon him. If he, as -he said, "forgot himself" and swore before grandmother, he went about -depressed and shamefaced all day. They were both of them jovial about the -cold in winter and the heat in summer, always ready to work overtime and -to meet emergencies. It was a matter of pride with them not to spare -themselves. Yet they were the sort of men who never get on, somehow, or do -anything but work hard for a dollar or two a day. - -On those bitter, starlit nights, as we sat around the old stove that fed -us and warmed us and kept us cheerful, we could hear the coyotes howling -down by the corrals, and their hungry, wintry cry used to remind the boys -of wonderful animal stories; about gray wolves and bears in the Rockies, -wildcats and panthers in the Virginia mountains. Sometimes Fuchs could be -persuaded to talk about the outlaws and desperate characters he had known. -I remember one funny story about himself that made grandmother, who was -working her bread on the bread-board, laugh until she wiped her eyes with -her bare arm, her hands being floury. It was like this:-- - -When Otto left Austria to come to America, he was asked by one of his -relatives to look after a woman who was crossing on the same boat, to join -her husband in Chicago. The woman started off with two children, but it -was clear that her family might grow larger on the journey. Fuchs said he -"got on fine with the kids," and liked the mother, though she played a -sorry trick on him. In mid-ocean she proceeded to have not one baby, but -three! This event made Fuchs the object of undeserved notoriety, since he -was traveling with her. The steerage stewardess was indignant with him, -the doctor regarded him with suspicion. The first-cabin passengers, who -made up a purse for the woman, took an embarrassing interest in Otto, and -often inquired of him about his charge. When the triplets were taken -ashore at New York, he had, as he said, "to carry some of them." The trip -to Chicago was even worse than the ocean voyage. On the train it was very -difficult to get milk for the babies and to keep their bottles clean. The -mother did her best, but no woman, out of her natural resources, could -feed three babies. The husband, in Chicago, was working in a furniture -factory for modest wages, and when he met his family at the station he was -rather crushed by the size of it. He, too, seemed to consider Fuchs in -some fashion to blame. "I was sure glad," Otto concluded, "that he did n't -take his hard feeling out on that poor woman; but he had a sullen eye for -me, all right! Now, did you ever hear of a young feller's having such hard -luck, Mrs. Burden?" - -Grandmother told him she was sure the Lord had remembered these things to -his credit, and had helped him out of many a scrape when he did n't -realize that he was being protected by Providence. - - - - -X - - -FOR several weeks after my sleigh-ride, we heard nothing from the -Shimerdas. My sore throat kept me indoors, and grandmother had a cold -which made the housework heavy for her. When Sunday came she was glad to -have a day of rest. One night at supper Fuchs told us he had seen Mr. -Shimerda out hunting. - -"He's made himself a rabbit-skin cap, Jim, and a rabbit-skin collar that -he buttons on outside his coat. They ain't got but one overcoat among 'em -over there, and they take turns wearing it. They seem awful scared of -cold, and stick in that hole in the bank like badgers." - -"All but the crazy boy," Jake put in. "He never wears the coat. Krajiek -says he's turrible strong and can stand anything. I guess rabbits must be -getting scarce in this locality. Ambrosch come along by the cornfield -yesterday where I was at work and showed me three prairie dogs he'd shot. -He asked me if they was good to eat. I spit and made a face and took on, -to scare him, but he just looked like he was smarter'n me and put 'em back -in his sack and walked off." - -Grandmother looked up in alarm and spoke to grandfather. "Josiah, you -don't suppose Krajiek would let them poor creatures eat prairie dogs, do -you?" - -"You had better go over and see our neighbors to-morrow, Emmaline," he -replied gravely. - -Fuchs put in a cheerful word and said prairie dogs were clean beasts and -ought to be good for food, but their family connections were against them. -I asked what he meant, and he grinned and said they belonged to the rat -family. - -When I went downstairs in the morning, I found grandmother and Jake -packing a hamper basket in the kitchen. - -"Now, Jake," grandmother was saying, "if you can find that old rooster -that got his comb froze, just give his neck a twist, and we'll take him -along. There's no good reason why Mrs. Shimerda could n't have got hens -from her neighbors last fall and had a henhouse going by now. I reckon she -was confused and did n't know where to begin. I've come strange to a new -country myself, but I never forgot hens are a good thing to have, no -matter what you don't have." - -"Just as you say, mam," said Jake, "but I hate to think of Krajiek getting -a leg of that old rooster." He tramped out through the long cellar and -dropped the heavy door behind him. - -After breakfast grandmother and Jake and I bundled ourselves up and -climbed into the cold front wagon-seat. As we approached the Shimerdas' we -heard the frosty whine of the pump and saw Antonia, her head tied up and -her cotton dress blown about her, throwing all her weight on the -pump-handle as it went up and down. She heard our wagon, looked back over -her shoulder, and catching up her pail of water, started at a run for the -hole in the bank. - -Jake helped grandmother to the ground, saying he would bring the -provisions after he had blanketed his horses. We went slowly up the icy -path toward the door sunk in the drawside. Blue puffs of smoke came from -the stovepipe that stuck out through the grass and snow, but the wind -whisked them roughly away. - -Mrs. Shimerda opened the door before we knocked and seized grandmother's -hand. She did not say "How do!" as usual, but at once began to cry, -talking very fast in her own language, pointing to her feet which were -tied up in rags, and looking about accusingly at every one. - -The old man was sitting on a stump behind the stove, crouching over as if -he were trying to hide from us. Yulka was on the floor at his feet, her -kitten in her lap. She peeped out at me and smiled, but, glancing up at -her mother, hid again. Antonia was washing pans and dishes in a dark -corner. The crazy boy lay under the only window, stretched on a gunnysack -stuffed with straw. As soon as we entered he threw a grainsack over the -crack at the bottom of the door. The air in the cave was stifling, and it -was very dark, too. A lighted lantern, hung over the stove, threw out a -feeble yellow glimmer. - -Mrs. Shimerda snatched off the covers of two barrels behind the door, and -made us look into them. In one there were some potatoes that had been -frozen and were rotting, in the other was a little pile of flour. -Grandmother murmured something in embarrassment, but the Bohemian woman -laughed scornfully, a kind of whinny-laugh, and catching up an empty -coffee-pot from the shelf, shook it at us with a look positively -vindictive. - -Grandmother went on talking in her polite Virginia way, not admitting -their stark need or her own remissness, until Jake arrived with the -hamper, as if in direct answer to Mrs. Shimerda's reproaches. Then the -poor woman broke down. She dropped on the floor beside her crazy son, hid -her face on her knees, and sat crying bitterly. Grandmother paid no heed -to her, but called Antonia to come and help empty the basket. Tony left -her corner reluctantly. I had never seen her crushed like this before. - -"You not mind my poor mamenka, Mrs. Burden. She is so sad," she whispered, -as she wiped her wet hands on her skirt and took the things grandmother -handed her. - -The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make soft, gurgling noises and -stroked his stomach. Jake came in again, this time with a sack of -potatoes. Grandmother looked about in perplexity. - -"Have n't you got any sort of cave or cellar outside, Antonia? This is no -place to keep vegetables. How did your potatoes get frozen?" - -"We get from Mr. Bushy, at the post-office,--what he throw out. We got no -potatoes, Mrs. Burden," Tony admitted mournfully. - -When Jake went out, Marek crawled along the floor and stuffed up the -door-crack again. Then, quietly as a shadow, Mr. Shimerda came out from -behind the stove. He stood brushing his hand over his smooth gray hair, as -if he were trying to clear away a fog about his head. He was clean and -neat as usual, with his green neckcloth and his coral pin. He took -grandmother's arm and led her behind the stove, to the back of the room. -In the rear wall was another little cave; a round hole, not much bigger -than an oil barrel, scooped out in the black earth. When I got up on one -of the stools and peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw. -The old man held the lantern. "Yulka," he said in a low, despairing voice, -"Yulka; my Antonia!" - -Grandmother drew back. "You mean they sleep in there,--your girls?" He -bowed his head. - -Tony slipped under his arm. "It is very cold on the floor, and this is -warm like the badger hole. I like for sleep there," she insisted eagerly. -"My mamenka have nice bed, with pillows from our own geese in Bohemie. -See, Jim?" She pointed to the narrow bunk which Krajiek had built against -the wall for himself before the Shimerdas came. - -Grandmother sighed. "Sure enough, where _would_ you sleep, dear! I don't -doubt you're warm there. You'll have a better house after while, Antonia, -and then you'll forget these hard times." - -Mr. Shimerda made grandmother sit down on the only chair and pointed his -wife to a stool beside her. Standing before them with his hand on -Antonia's shoulder, he talked in a low tone, and his daughter translated. -He wanted us to know that they were not beggars in the old country; he -made good wages, and his family were respected there. He left Bohemia with -more than a thousand dollars in savings, after their passage money was -paid. He had in some way lost on exchange in New York, and the railway -fare to Nebraska was more than they had expected. By the time they paid -Krajiek for the land, and bought his horses and oxen and some old farm -machinery, they had very little money left. He wished grandmother to know, -however, that he still had some money. If they could get through until -spring came, they would buy a cow and chickens and plant a garden, and -would then do very well. Ambrosch and Antonia were both old enough to work -in the fields, and they were willing to work. But the snow and the bitter -weather had disheartened them all. - -Antonia explained that her father meant to build a new house for them in -the spring; he and Ambrosch had already split the logs for it, but the -logs were all buried in the snow, along the creek where they had been -felled. - -While grandmother encouraged and gave them advice, I sat down on the floor -with Yulka and let her show me her kitten. Marek slid cautiously toward us -and began to exhibit his webbed fingers. I knew he wanted to make his -queer noises for me--to bark like a dog or whinny like a horse,--but he did -not dare in the presence of his elders. Marek was always trying to be -agreeable, poor fellow, as if he had it on his mind that he must make up -for his deficiencies. - -Mrs. Shimerda grew more calm and reasonable before our visit was over, -and, while Antonia translated, put in a word now and then on her own -account. The woman had a quick ear, and caught up phrases whenever she -heard English spoken. As we rose to go, she opened her wooden chest and -brought out a bag made of bed-ticking, about as long as a flour sack and -half as wide, stuffed full of something. At sight of it, the crazy boy -began to smack his lips. When Mrs. Shimerda opened the bag and stirred the -contents with her hand, it gave out a salty, earthy smell, very pungent, -even among the other odors of that cave. She measured a teacup full, tied -it up in a bit of sacking, and presented it ceremoniously to grandmother. - -"For cook," she announced. "Little now; be very much when cook," spreading -out her hands as if to indicate that the pint would swell to a gallon. -"Very good. You no have in this country. All things for eat better in my -country." - -"Maybe so, Mrs. Shimerda," grandmother said drily. "I can't say but I -prefer our bread to yours, myself." - - [Illustration: Mrs. Shimerda gathering mushrooms in a Bohemian forest] - -Antonia undertook to explain. "This very good, Mrs. Burden,"--she clasped -her hands as if she could not express how good,--"it make very much when -you cook, like what my mama say. Cook with rabbit, cook with chicken, in -the gravy,--oh, so good!" - -All the way home grandmother and Jake talked about how easily good -Christian people could forget they were their brothers' keepers. - -"I will say, Jake, some of our brothers and sisters are hard to keep. -Where's a body to begin, with these people? They're wanting in everything, -and most of all in horse-sense. Nobody can give 'em that, I guess. Jimmy, -here, is about as able to take over a homestead as they are. Do you reckon -that boy Ambrosch has any real push in him?" - -"He's a worker, all right, mam, and he's got some ketch-on about him; but -he's a mean one. Folks can be mean enough to get on in this world; and -then, ag'in, they can be too mean." - -That night, while grandmother was getting supper, we opened the package -Mrs. Shimerda had given her. It was full of little brown chips that looked -like the shavings of some root. They were as light as feathers, and the -most noticeable thing about them was their penetrating, earthy odor. We -could not determine whether they were animal or vegetable. - -"They might be dried meat from some queer beast, Jim. They ain't dried -fish, and they never grew on stalk or vine. I'm afraid of 'em. Anyhow, I -should n't want to eat anything that had been shut up for months with old -clothes and goose pillows." - -She threw the package into the stove, but I bit off a corner of one of the -chips I held in my hand, and chewed it tentatively. I never forgot the -strange taste; though it was many years before I knew that those little -brown shavings, which the Shimerdas had brought so far and treasured so -jealously, were dried mushrooms. They had been gathered, probably, in some -deep Bohemian forest {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} - - - - -XI - - -DURING the week before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of -our household, for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping. -But on the 21st of December, the snow began to fall. The flakes came down -so thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the -windmill--its frame looked dim and gray, unsubstantial like a shadow. The -snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed. The -cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless. The men could -not go farther than the barns and corral. They sat about the house most of -the day as if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their -suspenders, plaiting whiplashes. - -On the morning of the 22d, grandfather announced at breakfast that it -would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for Christmas purchases. Jake was -sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in -saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and -a newcomer in the country would be lost ten times over. Anyway, he would -never allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain. - -We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town. I had -wanted to get some picture-books for Yulka and Antonia; even Yulka was -able to read a little now. Grandmother took me into the ice-cold -storeroom, where she had some bolts of gingham and sheeting. She cut -squares of cotton cloth and we sewed them together into a book. We bound -it between pasteboards, which I covered with brilliant calico, -representing scenes from a circus. For two days I sat at the dining-room -table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka. We had files of those -good old family magazines which used to publish colored lithographs of -popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these. I took -"Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine" for my frontispiece. On the -white pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I -had brought from my "old country." Fuchs got out the old candle-moulds and -made tallow candles. Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake-cutters and -baked gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar -and red cinnamon drops. - -On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the -Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on grandfather's gray gelding. -When he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung -to his belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was -planning a surprise for me. That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from -the sitting-room window. At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west -hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a -coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through. I put on my -cap and ran out to meet Jake. When I got to the pond I could see that he -was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel. He used to help my -father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten -how much I liked them. - -By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling little tree in a corner -of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas Eve. After supper we all -gathered there, and even grandfather, reading his paper by the table, -looked up with friendly interest now and then. The cedar was about five -feet high and very shapely. We hung it with the gingerbread animals, -strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which Fuchs had fitted into -pasteboard sockets. Its real splendors, however, came from the most -unlikely place in the world--from Otto's cowboy trunk. I had never seen -anything in that trunk but old boots and spurs and pistols, and a -fascinating mixture of yellow leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker's -wax. From under the lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly -colored paper figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand -alone. They had been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in -Austria. There was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were -the three kings, gorgeously appareled, and the ox and the ass and the -shepherds; there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, -singing; there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the -three kings. Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends -and stories nestled like birds in its branches. Grandmother said it -reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge. We put sheets of cotton wool under -it for a snow-field, and Jake's pocket-mirror for a frozen lake. - -I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the -lamplight: Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face -seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half-ear and the savage scar -that made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted mustache. As -I remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness -and violence made them defenseless. These boys had no practiced manner -behind which they could retreat and hold people at a distance. They had -only their hard fists to batter at the world with. Otto was already one of -those drifting, case-hardened laborers who never marry or have children of -their own. Yet he was so fond of children! - - - - -XII - - -ON Christmas morning, when I got down to the kitchen, the men were just -coming in from their morning chores--the horses and pigs always had their -breakfast before we did. Jake and Otto shouted "Merry Christmas"! to me, -and winked at each other when they saw the waffle-irons on the stove. -Grandfather came down, wearing a white shirt and his Sunday coat. Morning -prayers were longer than usual. He read the chapters from St. Matthew -about the birth of Christ, and as we listened it all seemed like something -that had happened lately, and near at hand. In his prayer he thanked the -Lord for the first Christmas, and for all that it had meant to the world -ever since. He gave thanks for our food and comfort, and prayed for the -poor and destitute in great cities, where the struggle for life was harder -than it was here with us. Grandfather's prayers were often very -interesting. He had the gift of simple and moving expression. Because he -talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not worn dull -from constant use. His prayers reflected what he was thinking about at the -time, and it was chiefly through them that we got to know his feelings and -his views about things. - -After we sat down to our waffles and sausage, Jake told us how pleased the -Shimerdas had been with their presents; even Ambrosch was friendly and -went to the creek with him to cut the Christmas tree. It was a soft gray -day outside, with heavy clouds working across the sky, and occasional -squalls of snow. There were always odd jobs to be done about the barn on -holidays, and the men were busy until afternoon. Then Jake and I played -dominoes, while Otto wrote a long letter home to his mother. He always -wrote to her on Christmas Day, he said, no matter where he was, and no -matter how long it had been since his last letter. All afternoon he sat in -the dining-room. He would write for a while, then sit idle, his clenched -fist lying on the table, his eyes following the pattern of the oilcloth. -He spoke and wrote his own language so seldom that it came to him -awkwardly. His effort to remember entirely absorbed him. - -At about four o'clock a visitor appeared: Mr. Shimerda, wearing his -rabbit-skin cap and collar, and new mittens his wife had knitted. He had -come to thank us for the presents, and for all grandmother's kindness to -his family. Jake and Otto joined us from the basement and we sat about the -stove, enjoying the deepening gray of the winter afternoon and the -atmosphere of comfort and security in my grandfather's house. This feeling -seemed completely to take possession of Mr. Shimerda. I suppose, in the -crowded clutter of their cave, the old man had come to believe that peace -and order had vanished from the earth, or existed only in the old world he -had left so far behind. He sat still and passive, his head resting against -the back of the wooden rocking-chair, his hands relaxed upon the arms. His -face had a look of weariness and pleasure, like that of sick people when -they feel relief from pain. Grandmother insisted on his drinking a glass -of Virginia apple-brandy after his long walk in the cold, and when a faint -flush came up in his cheeks, his features might have been cut out of a -shell, they were so transparent. He said almost nothing, and smiled -rarely; but as he rested there we all had a sense of his utter content. - - [Illustration: Jake bringing home a Christmas tree] - -As it grew dark, I asked whether I might light the Christmas tree before -the lamp was brought. When the candle ends sent up their conical yellow -flames, all the colored figures from Austria stood out clear and full of -meaning against the green boughs. Mr. Shimerda rose, crossed himself, and -quietly knelt down before the tree, his head sunk forward. His long body -formed a letter "S." I saw grandmother look apprehensively at grandfather. -He was rather narrow in religious matters, and sometimes spoke out and -hurt people's feelings. There had been nothing strange about the tree -before, but now, with some one kneeling before it,--images, candles, {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} -Grandfather merely put his finger-tips to his brow and bowed his venerable -head, thus Protestantizing the atmosphere. - -We persuaded our guest to stay for supper with us. He needed little -urging. As we sat down to the table, it occurred to me that he liked to -look at us, and that our faces were open books to him. When his -deep-seeing eyes rested on me, I felt as if he were looking far ahead into -the future for me, down the road I would have to travel. - -At nine o'clock Mr. Shimerda lighted one of our lanterns and put on his -overcoat and fur collar. He stood in the little entry hall, the lantern -and his fur cap under his arm, shaking hands with us. When he took -grandmother's hand, he bent over it as he always did, and said slowly, -"Good wo-man!" He made the sign of the cross over me, put on his cap and -went off in the dark. As we turned back to the sitting-room, grandfather -looked at me searchingly. "The prayers of all good people are good," he -said quietly. - - - - -XIII - - -THE week following Christmas brought in a thaw, and by New Year's Day all -the world about us was a broth of gray slush, and the guttered slope -between the windmill and the barn was running black water. The soft black -earth stood out in patches along the roadsides. I resumed all my chores, -carried in the cobs and wood and water, and spent the afternoons at the -barn, watching Jake shell corn with a hand-sheller. - -One morning, during this interval of fine weather, Antonia and her mother -rode over on one of their shaggy old horses to pay us a visit. It was the -first time Mrs. Shimerda had been to our house, and she ran about -examining our carpets and curtains and furniture, all the while commenting -upon them to her daughter in an envious, complaining tone. In the kitchen -she caught up an iron pot that stood on the back of the stove and said: -"You got many, Shimerdas no got." I thought it weak-minded of grandmother -to give the pot to her. - -After dinner, when she was helping to wash the dishes, she said, tossing -her head: "You got many things for cook. If I got all things like you, I -make much better." - -She was a conceited, boastful old thing, and even misfortune could not -humble her. I was so annoyed that I felt coldly even toward Antonia and -listened unsympathetically when she told me her father was not well. - -"My papa sad for the old country. He not look good. He never make music -any more. At home he play violin all the time; for weddings and for dance. -Here never. When I beg him for play, he shake his head no. Some days he -take his violin out of his box and make with his fingers on the strings, -like this, but never he make the music. He don't like this kawn-tree." - -"People who don't like this country ought to stay at home," I said -severely. "We don't make them come here." - -"He not want to come, nev-er!" she burst out. "My mamenka make him come. -All the time she say: 'America big country; much money, much land for my -boys, much husband for my girls.' My papa, he cry for leave his old -friends what make music with him. He love very much the man what play the -long horn like this"--she indicated a slide trombone. "They go to school -together and are friends from boys. But my mama, she want Ambrosch for be -rich, with many cattle." - -"Your mama," I said angrily, "wants other people's things." - -"Your grandfather is rich," she retorted fiercely. "Why he not help my -papa? Ambrosch be rich, too, after while, and he pay back. He is very -smart boy. For Ambrosch my mama come here." - -Ambrosch was considered the important person in the family. Mrs. Shimerda -and Antonia always deferred to him, though he was often surly with them -and contemptuous toward his father. Ambrosch and his mother had everything -their own way. Though Antonia loved her father more than she did any one -else, she stood in awe of her elder brother. - -After I watched Antonia and her mother go over the hill on their miserable -horse, carrying our iron pot with them, I turned to grandmother, who had -taken up her darning, and said I hoped that snooping old woman would n't -come to see us any more. - -Grandmother chuckled and drove her bright needle across a hole in Otto's -sock. "She's not old, Jim, though I expect she seems old to you. No, I -would n't mourn if she never came again. But, you see, a body never knows -what traits poverty might bring out in 'em. It makes a woman grasping to -see her children want for things. Now read me a chapter in 'The Prince of -the House of David.' Let's forget the Bohemians." - -We had three weeks of this mild, open weather. The cattle in the corral -ate corn almost as fast as the men could shell it for them, and we hoped -they would be ready for an early market. One morning the two big bulls, -Gladstone and Brigham Young, thought spring had come, and they began to -tease and butt at each other across the barbed wire that separated them. -Soon they got angry. They bellowed and pawed up the soft earth with their -hoofs, rolling their eyes and tossing their heads. Each withdrew to a far -corner of his own corral, and then they made for each other at a gallop. -Thud, thud, we could hear the impact of their great heads, and their -bellowing shook the pans on the kitchen shelves. Had they not been -dehorned, they would have torn each other to pieces. Pretty soon the fat -steers took it up and began butting and horning each other. Clearly, the -affair had to be stopped. We all stood by and watched admiringly while -Fuchs rode into the corral with a pitchfork and prodded the bulls again -and again, finally driving them apart. - -The big storm of the winter began on my eleventh birthday, the 20th of -January. When I went down to breakfast that morning, Jake and Otto came in -white as snow-men, beating their hands and stamping their feet. They began -to laugh boisterously when they saw me, calling:-- - -"You've got a birthday present this time, Jim, and no mistake. They was a -full-grown blizzard ordered for you." - -All day the storm went on. The snow did not fall this time, it simply -spilled out of heaven, like thousands of feather-beds being emptied. That -afternoon the kitchen was a carpenter-shop; the men brought in their tools -and made two great wooden shovels with long handles. Neither grandmother -nor I could go out in the storm, so Jake fed the chickens and brought in a -pitiful contribution of eggs. - -Next day our men had to shovel until noon to reach the barn--and the snow -was still falling! There had not been such a storm in the ten years my -grandfather had lived in Nebraska. He said at dinner that we would not try -to reach the cattle--they were fat enough to go without their corn for a -day or two; but to-morrow we must feed them and thaw out their water-tap -so that they could drink. We could not so much as see the corrals, but we -knew the steers were over there, huddled together under the north bank. -Our ferocious bulls, subdued enough by this time, were probably warming -each other's backs. "This'll take the bile out of 'em!" Fuchs remarked -gleefully. - -At noon that day the hens had not been heard from. After dinner Jake and -Otto, their damp clothes now dried on them, stretched their stiff arms and -plunged again into the drifts. They made a tunnel under the snow to the -henhouse, with walls so solid that grandmother and I could walk back and -forth in it. We found the chickens asleep; perhaps they thought night had -come to stay. One old rooster was stirring about, pecking at the solid -lump of ice in their water-tin. When we flashed the lantern in their eyes, -the hens set up a great cackling and flew about clumsily, scattering -down-feathers. The mottled, pin-headed guinea-hens, always resentful of -captivity, ran screeching out into the tunnel and tried to poke their -ugly, painted faces through the snow walls. By five o'clock the chores -were done--just when it was time to begin them all over again! That was a -strange, unnatural sort of day. - - - - -XIV - - -ON the morning of the 22d I wakened with a start. Before I opened my eyes, -I seemed to know that something had happened. I heard excited voices in -the kitchen--grandmother's was so shrill that I knew she must be almost -beside herself. I looked forward to any new crisis with delight. What -could it be, I wondered, as I hurried into my clothes. Perhaps the barn -had burned; perhaps the cattle had frozen to death; perhaps a neighbor was -lost in the storm. - -Down in the kitchen grandfather was standing before the stove with his -hands behind him. Jake and Otto had taken off their boots and were rubbing -their woolen socks. Their clothes and boots were steaming, and they both -looked exhausted. On the bench behind the stove lay a man, covered up with -a blanket. Grandmother motioned me to the dining-room. I obeyed -reluctantly. I watched her as she came and went, carrying dishes. Her lips -were tightly compressed and she kept whispering to herself: "Oh, dear -Saviour!" "Lord, Thou knowest!" - -Presently grandfather came in and spoke to me: "Jimmy, we will not have -prayers this morning, because we have a great deal to do. Old Mr. Shimerda -is dead, and his family are in great distress. Ambrosch came over here in -the middle of the night, and Jake and Otto went back with him. The boys -have had a hard night, and you must not bother them with questions. That -is Ambrosch, asleep on the bench. Come in to breakfast, boys." - -After Jake and Otto had swallowed their first cup of coffee, they began to -talk excitedly, disregarding grandmother's warning glances. I held my -tongue, but I listened with all my ears. - -"No, sir," Fuchs said in answer to a question from grandfather, "nobody -heard the gun go off. Ambrosch was out with the ox team, trying to break a -road, and the women folks was shut up tight in their cave. When Ambrosch -come in it was dark and he did n't see nothing, but the oxen acted kind of -queer. One of 'em ripped around and got away from him--bolted clean out of -the stable. His hands is blistered where the rope run through. He got a -lantern and went back and found the old man, just as we seen him." - -"Poor soul, poor soul!" grandmother groaned. "I'd like to think he never -done it. He was always considerate and un-wishful to give trouble. How -could he forget himself and bring this on us!" - -"I don't think he was out of his head for a minute, Mrs. Burden," Fuchs -declared. "He done everything natural. You know he was always sort of -fixy, and fixy he was to the last. He shaved after dinner, and washed -hisself all over after the girls was done the dishes. Antonia heated the -water for him. Then he put on a clean shirt and clean socks, and after he -was dressed he kissed her and the little one and took his gun and said he -was going out to hunt rabbits. He must have gone right down to the barn -and done it then. He layed down on that bunk-bed, close to the ox stalls, -where he always slept. When we found him, everything was decent -except,"--Fuchs wrinkled his brow and hesitated,--"except what he could n't -nowise foresee. His coat was hung on a peg, and his boots was under the -bed. He'd took off that silk neckcloth he always wore, and folded it -smooth and stuck his pin through it. He turned back his shirt at the neck -and rolled up his sleeves." - -"I don't see how he could do it!" grandmother kept saying. - -Otto misunderstood her. "Why, mam, it was simple enough; he pulled the -trigger with his big toe. He layed over on his side and put the end of the -barrel in his mouth, then he drew up one foot and felt for the trigger. He -found it all right!" - -"Maybe he did," said Jake grimly. "There's something mighty queer about -it." - -"Now what do you mean, Jake?" grandmother asked sharply. - -"Well, mam, I found Krajiek's axe under the manger, and I picks it up and -carries it over to the corpse, and I take my oath it just fit the gash in -the front of the old man's face. That there Krajiek had been sneakin' -round, pale and quiet, and when he seen me examinin' the axe, he begun -whimperin', 'My God, man, don't do that!' 'I reckon I'm a-goin' to look -into this,' says I. Then he begun to squeal like a rat and run about -wringin' his hands. 'They'll hang me!' says he. 'My God, they'll hang me -sure!'" - -Fuchs spoke up impatiently. "Krajiek's gone silly, Jake, and so have you. -The old man would n't have made all them preparations for Krajiek to -murder him, would he? It don't hang together. The gun was right beside him -when Ambrosch found him." - -"Krajiek could 'a' put it there, could n't he?" Jake demanded. - -Grandmother broke in excitedly: "See here, Jake Marpole, don't you go -trying to add murder to suicide. We're deep enough in trouble. Otto reads -you too many of them detective stories." - -"It will be easy to decide all that, Emmaline," said grandfather quietly. -"If he shot himself in the way they think, the gash will be torn from the -inside outward." - -"Just so it is, Mr. Burden," Otto affirmed. "I seen bunches of hair and -stuff sticking to the poles and straw along the roof. They was blown up -there by gunshot, no question." - -Grandmother told grandfather she meant to go over to the Shimerdas with -him. - -"There is nothing you can do," he said doubtfully. "The body can't be -touched until we get the coroner here from Black Hawk, and that will be a -matter of several days, this weather." - -"Well, I can take them some victuals, anyway, and say a word of comfort to -them poor little girls. The oldest one was his darling, and was like a -right hand to him. He might have thought of her. He's left her alone in a -hard world." She glanced distrustfully at Ambrosch, who was now eating his -breakfast at the kitchen table. - -Fuchs, although he had been up in the cold nearly all night, was going to -make the long ride to Black Hawk to fetch the priest and the coroner. On -the gray gelding, our best horse, he would try to pick his way across the -country with no roads to guide him. - -"Don't you worry about me, Mrs. Burden," he said cheerfully, as he put on -a second pair of socks. "I've got a good nose for directions, and I never -did need much sleep. It's the gray I'm worried about. I'll save him what I -can, but it'll strain him, as sure as I'm telling you!" - -"This is no time to be over-considerate of animals, Otto; do the best you -can for yourself. Stop at the Widow Steavens's for dinner. She's a good -woman, and she'll do well by you." - -After Fuchs rode away, I was left with Ambrosch. I saw a side of him I had -not seen before. He was deeply, even slavishly, devout. He did not say a -word all morning, but sat with his rosary in his hands, praying, now -silently, now aloud. He never looked away from his beads, nor lifted his -hands except to cross himself. Several times the poor boy fell asleep -where he sat, wakened with a start, and began to pray again. - -No wagon could be got to the Shimerdas' until a road was broken, and that -would be a day's job. Grandfather came from the barn on one of our big -black horses, and Jake lifted grandmother up behind him. She wore her -black hood and was bundled up in shawls. Grandfather tucked his bushy -white beard inside his overcoat. They looked very Biblical as they set -off, I thought. Jake and Ambrosch followed them, riding the other black -and my pony, carrying bundles of clothes that we had got together for Mrs. -Shimerda. I watched them go past the pond and over the hill by the drifted -cornfield. Then, for the first time, I realized that I was alone in the -house. - -I felt a considerable extension of power and authority, and was anxious to -acquit myself creditably. I carried in cobs and wood from the long cellar, -and filled both the stoves. I remembered that in the hurry and excitement -of the morning nobody had thought of the chickens, and the eggs had not -been gathered. Going out through the tunnel, I gave the hens their corn, -emptied the ice from their drinking-pan, and filled it with water. After -the cat had had his milk, I could think of nothing else to do, and I sat -down to get warm. The quiet was delightful, and the ticking clock was the -most pleasant of companions. I got "Robinson Crusoe" and tried to read, -but his life on the island seemed dull compared with ours. Presently, as I -looked with satisfaction about our comfortable sitting-room, it flashed -upon me that if Mr. Shimerda's soul were lingering about in this world at -all, it would be here, in our house, which had been more to his liking -than any other in the neighborhood. I remembered his contented face when -he was with us on Christmas Day. If he could have lived with us, this -terrible thing would never have happened. - -I knew it was homesickness that had killed Mr. Shimerda, and I wondered -whether his released spirit would not eventually find its way back to his -own country. I thought of how far it was to Chicago, and then to Virginia, -to Baltimore,--and then the great wintry ocean. No, he would not at once -set out upon that long journey. Surely, his exhausted spirit, so tired of -cold and crowding and the struggle with the ever-falling snow, was resting -now in this quiet house. - -I was not frightened, but I made no noise. I did not wish to disturb him. -I went softly down to the kitchen which, tucked away so snugly -underground, always seemed to me the heart and center of the house. There, -on the bench behind the stove, I thought and thought about Mr. Shimerda. -Outside I could hear the wind singing over hundreds of miles of snow. It -was as if I had let the old man in out of the tormenting winter, and were -sitting there with him. I went over all that Antonia had ever told me -about his life before he came to this country; how he used to play the -fiddle at weddings and dances. I thought about the friends he had mourned -to leave, the trombone-player, the great forest full of game,--belonging, -as Antonia said, to the "nobles,"--from which she and her mother used to -steal wood on moonlight nights. There was a white hart that lived in that -forest, and if any one killed it, he would be hanged, she said. Such vivid -pictures came to me that they might have been Mr. Shimerda's memories, not -yet faded out from the air in which they had haunted him. - -It had begun to grow dark when my household returned, and grandmother was -so tired that she went at once to bed. Jake and I got supper, and while we -were washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of -things over at the Shimerdas'. Nobody could touch the body until the -coroner came. If any one did, something terrible would happen, apparently. -The dead man was frozen through, "just as stiff as a dressed turkey you -hang out to freeze," Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the -barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of -blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there was -no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. -Shimerda's head. Antonia and Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down -to pray beside him. The crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel -the cold. I believed he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to -be thought insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor -Marek! - -Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed -him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and -about his father's soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and -would remain there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal -for him. "As I understand it," Jake concluded, "it will be a matter of -years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he's in torment." - -"I don't believe it," I said stoutly. "I almost know it is n't true." I -did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen -all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I -went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me -crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. -But Mr. Shimerda had not been rich and selfish; he had only been so -unhappy that he could not live any longer. - - - - -XV - - -OTTO FUCHS got back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that -the coroner would reach the Shimerdas' sometime that afternoon, but the -missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred miles -away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few hours' sleep at -the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained -himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip -through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. - -Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a -homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his -fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw -Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, -handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle -in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into -our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks -bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur -cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. - -"I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to -poor strangers from my kawn-tree." - -He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye -when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he -would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk -corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school -by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me -he had a nice "lady-teacher" and that he liked to go to school. - -At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to -strangers. - -"Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?" he asked. - -Jelinek looked serious. "Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father -has done a great sin," he looked straight at grandfather. "Our Lord has -said that." - -Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. "We believe that, too, Jelinek. -But we believe that Mr. Shimerda's soul will come to its Creator as well -off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor." - -The young man shook his head. "I know how you think. My teacher at the -school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the -dead. I have seen too much." - -We asked him what he meant. - -He glanced around the table. "You want I shall tell you? When I was a -little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make -my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By -'n' by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many -soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, -and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give -the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with -the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness -but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because -we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us." He -paused, looking at grandfather. "That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened -to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the -old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on -horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, -pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we -pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, -and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family." - -We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, -manly faith. - -"I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these -things," said grandfather, "and I would never be the one to say you were -not in God's care when you were among the soldiers." - -After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong -black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the -Shimerdas', so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was -the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. - -Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us -that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who "batched" -with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. -From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, -and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was -completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and -the horses would emerge black and shining. - -Our heavy carpenter's bench had to be brought from the barn and carried -down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks -grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for -the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the -doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode -away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas', and Fuchs took off his coat -and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did -not touch his tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of -paper, and measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus -engaged, he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his -half-ear. Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At -last he folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us. - -"The hardest part of my job's done," he announced. "It's the head end of -it that comes hard with me, especially when I'm out of practice. The last -time I made one of these, Mrs. Burden," he continued, as he sorted and -tried his chisels, "was for a fellow in the Black Tiger mine, up above -Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of that mine goes right into the face of -the cliff, and they used to put us in a bucket and run us over on a -trolley and shoot us into the shaft. The bucket traveled across a box -canon three hundred feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes -had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you'll -believe it, they went to work the next day. You can't kill a Swede. But in -my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it turned out -different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, and I happened -to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for him. It's a handy -thing to know, when you knock about like I've done." - -"We'd be hard put to it now, if you did n't know, Otto," grandmother said. - -"Yes, 'm," Fuchs admitted with modest pride. "So few folks does know how -to make a good tight box that'll turn water. I sometimes wonder if -there'll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I'm not at all -particular that way." - -All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting -wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such -cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a -pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so -soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the -boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow -shavings grew higher and higher. I wondered why Fuchs had not stuck to -cabinet-work, he settled down to it with such ease and content. He handled -the tools as if he liked the feel of them; and when he planed, his hands -went back and forth over the boards in an eager, beneficent way as if he -were blessing them. He broke out now and then into German hymns, as if -this occupation brought back old times to him. - -At four o'clock Mr. Bushy, the postmaster, with another neighbor who lived -east of us, stopped in to get warm. They were on their way to the -Shimerdas'. The news of what had happened over there had somehow got -abroad through the snow-blocked country. Grandmother gave the visitors -sugar-cakes and hot coffee. Before these callers were gone, the brother of -the Widow Steavens, who lived on the Black Hawk road, drew up at our door, -and after him came the father of the German family, our nearest neighbors -on the south. They dismounted and joined us in the dining-room. They were -all eager for any details about the suicide, and they were greatly -concerned as to where Mr. Shimerda would be buried. The nearest Catholic -cemetery was at Black Hawk, and it might be weeks before a wagon could get -so far. Besides, Mr. Bushy and grandmother were sure that a man who had -killed himself could not be buried in a Catholic graveyard. There was a -burying-ground over by the Norwegian church, west of Squaw Creek; perhaps -the Norwegians would take Mr. Shimerda in. - -After our visitors rode away in single file over the hill, we returned to -the kitchen. Grandmother began to make the icing for a chocolate cake, and -Otto again filled the house with the exciting, expectant song of the -plane. One pleasant thing about this time was that everybody talked more -than usual. I had never heard the postmaster say anything but "Only -papers, to-day," or, "I've got a sackful of mail for ye," until this -afternoon. Grandmother always talked, dear woman; to herself or to the -Lord, if there was no one else to listen; but grandfather was naturally -taciturn, and Jake and Otto were often so tired after supper that I used -to feel as if I were surrounded by a wall of silence. Now every one seemed -eager to talk. That afternoon Fuchs told me story after story; about the -Black Tiger mine, and about violent deaths and casual buryings, and the -queer fancies of dying men. You never really knew a man, he said, until -you saw him die. Most men were game, and went without a grudge. - -The postmaster, going home, stopped to say that grandfather would bring -the coroner back with him to spend the night. The officers of the -Norwegian church, he told us, had held a meeting and decided that the -Norwegian graveyard could not extend its hospitality to Mr. Shimerda. - -Grandmother was indignant. "If these foreigners are so clannish, Mr. -Bushy, we'll have to have an American graveyard that will be more -liberal-minded. I'll get right after Josiah to start one in the spring. If -anything was to happen to me, I don't want the Norwegians holding -inquisitions over me to see whether I'm good enough to be laid amongst -'em." - -Soon grandfather returned, bringing with him Anton Jelinek, and that -important person, the coroner. He was a mild, flurried old man, a Civil -War veteran, with one sleeve hanging empty. He seemed to find this case -very perplexing, and said if it had not been for grandfather he would have -sworn out a warrant against Krajiek. "The way he acted, and the way his -axe fit the wound, was enough to convict any man." - -Although it was perfectly clear that Mr. Shimerda had killed himself, Jake -and the coroner thought something ought to be done to Krajiek because he -behaved like a guilty man. He was badly frightened, certainly, and perhaps -he even felt some stirrings of remorse for his indifference to the old -man's misery and loneliness. - -At supper the men ate like vikings, and the chocolate cake, which I had -hoped would linger on until to-morrow in a mutilated condition, -disappeared on the second round. They talked excitedly about where they -should bury Mr. Shimerda; I gathered that the neighbors were all disturbed -and shocked about something. It developed that Mrs. Shimerda and Ambrosch -wanted the old man buried on the southwest corner of their own land; -indeed, under the very stake that marked the corner. Grandfather had -explained to Ambrosch that some day, when the country was put under fence -and the roads were confined to section lines, two roads would cross -exactly on that corner. But Ambrosch only said, "It makes no matter." - -Grandfather asked Jelinek whether in the old country there was some -superstition to the effect that a suicide must be buried at the -cross-roads. - -Jelinek said he did n't know; he seemed to remember hearing there had once -been such a custom in Bohemia. "Mrs. Shimerda is made up her mind," he -added. "I try to persuade her, and say it looks bad for her to all the -neighbors; but she say so it must be. 'There I will bury him, if I dig the -grave myself,' she say. I have to promise her I help Ambrosch make the -grave to-morrow." - -Grandfather smoothed his beard and looked judicial. "I don't know whose -wish should decide the matter, if not hers. But if she thinks she will -live to see the people of this country ride over that old man's head, she -is mistaken." - - - - -XVI - - -MR. SHIMERDA lay dead in the barn four days, and on the fifth they buried -him. All day Friday Jelinek was off with Ambrosch digging the grave, -chopping out the frozen earth with old axes. On Saturday we breakfasted -before daylight and got into the wagon with the coffin. Jake and Jelinek -went ahead on horseback to cut the body loose from the pool of blood in -which it was frozen fast to the ground. - -When grandmother and I went into the Shimerdas' house, we found the -women-folk alone; Ambrosch and Marek were at the barn. Mrs. Shimerda sat -crouching by the stove, Antonia was washing dishes. When she saw me she -ran out of her dark corner and threw her arms around me. "Oh, Jimmy," she -sobbed, "what you tink for my lovely papa!" It seemed to me that I could -feel her heart breaking as she clung to me. - -Mrs. Shimerda, sitting on the stump by the stove, kept looking over her -shoulder toward the door while the neighbors were arriving. They came on -horseback, all except the postmaster, who brought his family in a wagon -over the only broken wagon-trail. The Widow Steavens rode up from her farm -eight miles down the Black Hawk road. The cold drove the women into the -cave-house, and it was soon crowded. A fine, sleety snow was beginning to -fall, and every one was afraid of another storm and anxious to have the -burial over with. - -Grandfather and Jelinek came to tell Mrs. Shimerda that it was time to -start. After bundling her mother up in clothes the neighbors had brought, -Antonia put on an old cape from our house and the rabbit-skin hat her -father had made for her. Four men carried Mr. Shimerda's box up the hill; -Krajiek slunk along behind them. The coffin was too wide for the door, so -it was put down on the slope outside. I slipped out from the cave and -looked at Mr. Shimerda. He was lying on his side, with his knees drawn up. -His body was draped in a black shawl, and his head was bandaged in white -muslin, like a mummy's; one of his long, shapely hands lay out on the -black cloth; that was all one could see of him. - -Mrs. Shimerda came out and placed an open prayer-book against the body, -making the sign of the cross on the bandaged head with her fingers. -Ambrosch knelt down and made the same gesture, and after him Antonia and -Marek. Yulka hung back. Her mother pushed her forward, and kept saying -something to her over and over. Yulka knelt down, shut her eyes, and put -out her hand a little way, but she drew it back and began to cry wildly. -She was afraid to touch the bandage. Mrs. Shimerda caught her by the -shoulders and pushed her toward the coffin, but grandmother interfered. - -"No, Mrs. Shimerda," she said firmly, "I won't stand by and see that child -frightened into spasms. She is too little to understand what you want of -her. Let her alone." - -At a look from grandfather, Fuchs and Jelinek placed the lid on the box, -and began to nail it down over Mr. Shimerda. I was afraid to look at -Antonia. She put her arms round Yulka and held the little girl close to -her. - -The coffin was put into the wagon. We drove slowly away, against the fine, -icy snow which cut our faces like a sand-blast. When we reached the grave, -it looked a very little spot in that snow-covered waste. The men took the -coffin to the edge of the hole and lowered it with ropes. We stood about -watching them, and the powdery snow lay without melting on the caps and -shoulders of the men and the shawls of the women. Jelinek spoke in a -persuasive tone to Mrs. Shimerda, and then turned to grandfather. - -"She says, Mr. Burden, she is very glad if you can make some prayer for -him here in English, for the neighbors to understand." - -Grandmother looked anxiously at grandfather. He took off his hat, and the -other men did likewise. I thought his prayer remarkable. I still remember -it. He began, "Oh, great and just God, no man among us knows what the -sleeper knows, nor is it for us to judge what lies between him and Thee." -He prayed that if any man there had been remiss toward the stranger come -to a far country, God would forgive him and soften his heart. He recalled -the promises to the widow and the fatherless, and asked God to smooth the -way before this widow and her children, and to "incline the hearts of men -to deal justly with her." In closing, he said we were leaving Mr. Shimerda -at "Thy judgment seat, which is also Thy mercy seat." - -All the time he was praying, grandmother watched him through the black -fingers of her glove, and when he said "Amen," I thought she looked -satisfied with him. She turned to Otto and whispered, "Can't you start a -hymn, Fuchs? It would seem less heathenish." - -Fuchs glanced about to see if there was general approval of her -suggestion, then began, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul," and all the men and -women took it up after him. Whenever I have heard the hymn since, it has -made me remember that white waste and the little group of people; and the -bluish air, full of fine, eddying snow, like long veils flying:-- - - "While the nearer waters roll, - While the tempest still is high." - - - -Years afterward, when the open-grazing days were over, and the red grass -had been ploughed under and under until it had almost disappeared from the -prairie; when all the fields were under fence, and the roads no longer ran -about like wild things, but followed the surveyed section-lines, Mr. -Shimerda's grave was still there, with a sagging wire fence around it, and -an unpainted wooden cross. As grandfather had predicted, Mrs. Shimerda -never saw the roads going over his head. The road from the north curved a -little to the east just there, and the road from the west swung out a -little to the south; so that the grave, with its tall red grass that was -never mowed, was like a little island; and at twilight, under a new moon -or the clear evening star, the dusty roads used to look like soft gray -rivers flowing past it. I never came upon the place without emotion, and -in all that country it was the spot most dear to me. I loved the dim -superstition, the propitiatory intent, that had put the grave there; and -still more I loved the spirit that could not carry out the sentence--the -error from the surveyed lines, the clemency of the soft earth roads along -which the home-coming wagons rattled after sunset. Never a tired driver -passed the wooden cross, I am sure, without wishing well to the sleeper. - - - - -XVII - - -WHEN spring came, after that hard winter, one could not get enough of the -nimble air. Every morning I wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter -was over. There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch -in Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens. There was only--spring -itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it -everywhere; in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in -the warm, high wind--rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and -playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be petted. If -I had been tossed down blindfold on that red prairie, I should have known -that it was spring. - -Everywhere now there was the smell of burning grass. Our neighbors burned -off their pasture before the new grass made a start, so that the fresh -growth would not be mixed with the dead stand of last year. Those light, -swift fires, running about the country, seemed a part of the same kindling -that was in the air. - -The Shimerdas were in their new log house by then. The neighbors had -helped them to build it in March. It stood directly in front of their old -cave, which they used as a cellar. The family were now fairly equipped to -begin their struggle with the soil. They had four comfortable rooms to -live in, a new windmill,--bought on credit,--a chicken-house and poultry. -Mrs. Shimerda had paid grandfather ten dollars for a milk cow, and was to -give him fifteen more as soon as they harvested their first crop. - -When I rode up to the Shimerdas' one bright windy afternoon in April, -Yulka ran out to meet me. It was to her, now, that I gave reading lessons; -Antonia was busy with other things. I tied my pony and went into the -kitchen where Mrs. Shimerda was baking bread, chewing poppy seeds as she -worked. By this time she could speak enough English to ask me a great many -questions about what our men were doing in the fields. She seemed to think -that my elders withheld helpful information, and that from me she might -get valuable secrets. On this occasion she asked me very craftily when -grandfather expected to begin planting corn. I told her, adding that he -thought we should have a dry spring and that the corn would not be held -back by too much rain, as it had been last year. - -She gave me a shrewd glance. "He not Jesus," she blustered; "he not know -about the wet and the dry." - -I did not answer her; what was the use? As I sat waiting for the hour when -Ambrosch and Antonia would return from the fields, I watched Mrs. Shimerda -at her work. She took from the oven a coffee-cake which she wanted to keep -warm for supper, and wrapped it in a quilt stuffed with feathers. I have -seen her put even a roast goose in this quilt to keep it hot. When the -neighbors were there building the new house they saw her do this, and the -story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their food in their feather beds. - -When the sun was dropping low, Antonia came up the big south draw with her -team. How much older she had grown in eight months! She had come to us a -child, and now she was a tall, strong young girl, although her fifteenth -birthday had just slipped by. I ran out and met her as she brought her -horses up to the windmill to water them. She wore the boots her father had -so thoughtfully taken off before he shot himself, and his old fur cap. Her -outgrown cotton dress switched about her calves, over the boot-tops. She -kept her sleeves rolled up all day, and her arms and throat were burned as -brown as a sailor's. Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like -the bole of a tree out of the turf. One sees that draft-horse neck among -the peasant women in all old countries. - -She greeted me gayly, and began at once to tell me how much ploughing she -had done that day. Ambrosch, she said, was on the north quarter, breaking -sod with the oxen. - -"Jim, you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day. I don't want that Jake get -more done in one day than me. I want we have very much corn this fall." - -While the horses drew in the water, and nosed each other, and then drank -again, Antonia sat down on the windmill step and rested her head on her -hand. "You see the big prairie fire from your place last night? I hope -your grandpa ain't lose no stacks?" - -"No, we did n't. I came to ask you something, Tony. Grandmother wants to -know if you can't go to the term of school that begins next week over at -the sod schoolhouse. She says there's a good teacher, and you'd learn a -lot." - -Antonia stood up, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were -stiff. "I ain't got time to learn. I can work like mans now. My mother -can't say no more how Ambrosch do all and nobody to help him. I can work -as much as him. School is all right for little boys. I help make this land -one good farm." - -She clucked to her team and started for the barn. I walked beside her, -feeling vexed. Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I -wondered? Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her -silence, and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face -from me and looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark -prairie. - -I climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she -unharnessed her team. We walked slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had -come in from the north quarter, and was watering his oxen at the tank. - -Antonia took my hand. "Sometime you will tell me all those nice things you -learn at the school, won't you, Jimmy?" she asked with a sudden rush of -feeling in her voice. "My father, he went much to school. He know a great -deal; how to make the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn -and violin, and he read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to -talk to him. You won't forget my father, Jim?" - -"No," I said, "I will never forget him." - -Mrs. Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After Ambrosch and Antonia had -washed the field dust from their hands and faces at the wash-basin by the -kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered table. Mrs. Shimerda -ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on it. After the mush -we had fresh bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had -been kept warm in the feathers. Antonia and Ambrosch were talking in -Bohemian; disputing about which of them had done more ploughing that day. -Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food. - - [Illustration: Antonia ploughing in the field] - -Presently Ambrosch said sullenly in English: "You take them ox to-morrow -and try the sod plough. Then you not be so smart." - -His sister laughed. "Don't be mad. I know it's awful hard work for break -sod. I milk the cow for you to-morrow, if you want." - -Mrs. Shimerda turned quickly to me. "That cow not give so much milk like -what your grandpa say. If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him -back the cow." - -"He does n't talk about the fifteen dollars," I exclaimed indignantly. "He -does n't find fault with people." - -"He say I break his saw when we build, and I never," grumbled Ambrosch. - -I knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it. I began -to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was disagreeable to me. -Antonia ate so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table -and kept stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother -had said, "Heavy field work'll spoil that girl. She'll lose all her nice -ways and get rough ones." She had lost them already. - -After supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since -winter I had seen very little of Antonia. She was out in the fields from -sun-up until sun-down. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, -she stopped at the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her -plough-handles, clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making -me feel that she was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she -helped her mother make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased -with Antonia. When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, "She -will help some fellow get ahead in the world." - -Nowadays Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much -she could lift and endure. She was too proud of her strength. I knew, too, -that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a girl ought not to do, and that -the farmhands around the country joked in a nasty way about it. Whenever I -saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her -dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to -think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet -managed to say so much when he exclaimed, "My An-tonia!" - - - - -XVIII - - -AFTER I began to go to the country school, I saw less of the Bohemians. We -were sixteen pupils at the sod schoolhouse, and we all came on horseback -and brought our dinner. My schoolmates were none of them very interesting, -but I somehow felt that by making comrades of them I was getting even with -Antonia for her indifference. Since the father's death, Ambrosch was more -than ever the head of the house and he seemed to direct the feelings as -well as the fortunes of his women-folk. Antonia often quoted his opinions -to me, and she let me see that she admired him, while she thought of me -only as a little boy. Before the spring was over, there was a distinct -coldness between us and the Shimerdas. It came about in this way. - -One Sunday I rode over there with Jake to get a horse-collar which -Ambrosch had borrowed from him and had not returned. It was a beautiful -blue morning. The buffalo-peas were blooming in pink and purple masses -along the roadside, and the larks, perched on last year's dried sunflower -stalks, were singing straight at the sun, their heads thrown back and -their yellow breasts a-quiver. The wind blew about us in warm, sweet -gusts. We rode slowly, with a pleasant sense of Sunday indolence. - -We found the Shimerdas working just as if it were a week-day. Marek was -cleaning out the stable, and Antonia and her mother were making garden, -off across the pond in the draw-head. Ambrosch was up on the windmill -tower, oiling the wheel. He came down, not very cordially. When Jake asked -for the collar, he grunted and scratched his head. The collar belonged to -grandfather, of course, and Jake, feeling responsible for it, flared up. - -"Now, don't you say you have n't got it, Ambrosch, because I know you -have, and if you ain't a-going to look for it, I will." - -Ambrosch shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down the hill toward the -stable. I could see that it was one of his mean days. Presently he -returned, carrying a collar that had been badly used--trampled in the dirt -and gnawed by rats until the hair was sticking out of it. - -"This what you want?" he asked surlily. - -Jake jumped off his horse. I saw a wave of red come up under the rough -stubble on his face. "That ain't the piece of harness I loaned you, -Ambrosch; or if it is, you've used it shameful. I ain't a-going to carry -such a looking thing back to Mr. Burden." - -Ambrosch dropped the collar on the ground. "All right," he said coolly, -took up his oil-can, and began to climb the mill. Jake caught him by the -belt of his trousers and yanked him back. Ambrosch's feet had scarcely -touched the ground when he lunged out with a vicious kick at Jake's -stomach. Fortunately Jake was in such a position that he could dodge it. -This was not the sort of thing country boys did when they played at -fisticuffs, and Jake was furious. He landed Ambrosch a blow on the head--it -sounded like the crack of an axe on a cow-pumpkin. Ambrosch dropped over, -stunned. - -We heard squeals, and looking up saw Antonia and her mother coming on the -run. They did not take the path around the pond, but plunged through the -muddy water, without even lifting their skirts. They came on, screaming -and clawing the air. By this time Ambrosch had come to his senses and was -sputtering with nose-bleed. Jake sprang into his saddle. "Let's get out of -this, Jim," he called. - -Mrs. Shimerda threw her hands over her head and clutched as if she were -going to pull down lightning. "Law, law!" she shrieked after us. "Law for -knock my Ambrosch down!" - -"I never like you no more, Jake and Jim Burden," Antonia panted. "No -friends any more!" - -Jake stopped and turned his horse for a second. "Well, you're a damned -ungrateful lot, the whole pack of you," he shouted back. "I guess the -Burdens can get along without you. You've been a sight of trouble to them, -anyhow!" - -We rode away, feeling so outraged that the fine morning was spoiled for -us. I had n't a word to say, and poor Jake was white as paper and -trembling all over. It made him sick to get so angry. "They ain't the -same, Jimmy," he kept saying in a hurt tone. "These foreigners ain't the -same. You can't trust 'em to be fair. It's dirty to kick a feller. You -heard how the women turned on you--and after all we went through on account -of 'em last winter! They ain't to be trusted. I don't want to see you get -too thick with any of 'em." - -"I'll never be friends with them again, Jake," I declared hotly. "I -believe they are all like Krajiek and Ambrosch underneath." - -Grandfather heard our story with a twinkle in his eye. He advised Jake to -ride to town to-morrow, go to a justice of the peace, tell him he had -knocked young Shimerda down, and pay his fine. Then if Mrs. Shimerda was -inclined to make trouble--her son was still under age--she would be -forestalled. Jake said he might as well take the wagon and haul to market -the pig he had been fattening. On Monday, about an hour after Jake had -started, we saw Mrs. Shimerda and her Ambrosch proudly driving by, looking -neither to the right nor left. As they rattled out of sight down the Black -Hawk road, grandfather chuckled, saying he had rather expected she would -follow the matter up. - -Jake paid his fine with a ten-dollar bill grandfather had given him for -that purpose. But when the Shimerdas found that Jake sold his pig in town -that day, Ambrosch worked it out in his shrewd head that Jake had to sell -his pig to pay his fine. This theory afforded the Shimerdas great -satisfaction, apparently. For weeks afterward, whenever Jake and I met -Antonia on her way to the post-office, or going along the road with her -work-team, she would clap her hands and call to us in a spiteful, crowing -voice:-- - -"Jake-y, Jake-y, sell the pig and pay the slap!" - -Otto pretended not to be surprised at Antonia's behavior. He only lifted -his brows and said, "You can't tell me anything new about a Czech; I'm an -Austrian." - -Grandfather was never a party to what Jake called our feud with the -Shimerdas. Ambrosch and Antonia always greeted him respectfully, and he -asked them about their affairs and gave them advice as usual. He thought -the future looked hopeful for them. Ambrosch was a far-seeing fellow; he -soon realized that his oxen were too heavy for any work except breaking -sod, and he succeeded in selling them to a newly arrived German. With the -money he bought another team of horses, which grandfather selected for -him. Marek was strong, and Ambrosch worked him hard; but he could never -teach him to cultivate corn, I remember. The one idea that had ever got -through poor Marek's thick head was that all exertion was meritorious. He -always bore down on the handles of the cultivator and drove the blades so -deep into the earth that the horses were soon exhausted. - -In June Ambrosch went to work at Mr. Bushy's for a week, and took Marek -with him at full wages. Mrs. Shimerda then drove the second cultivator; -she and Antonia worked in the fields all day and did the chores at night. -While the two women were running the place alone, one of the new horses -got colic and gave them a terrible fright. - -Antonia had gone down to the barn one night to see that all was well -before she went to bed, and she noticed that one of the roans was swollen -about the middle and stood with its head hanging. She mounted another -horse, without waiting to saddle him, and hammered on our door just as we -were going to bed. Grandfather answered her knock. He did not send one of -his men, but rode back with her himself, taking a syringe and an old piece -of carpet he kept for hot applications when our horses were sick. He found -Mrs. Shimerda sitting by the horse with her lantern, groaning and wringing -her hands. It took but a few moments to release the gases pent up in the -poor beast, and the two women heard the rush of wind and saw the roan -visibly diminish in girth. - -"If I lose that horse, Mr. Burden," Antonia exclaimed, "I never stay here -till Ambrosch come home! I go drown myself in the pond before morning." - -When Ambrosch came back from Mr. Bushy's, we learned that he had given -Marek's wages to the priest at Black Hawk, for masses for their father's -soul. Grandmother thought Antonia needed shoes more than Mr. Shimerda -needed prayers, but grandfather said tolerantly, "If he can spare six -dollars, pinched as he is, it shows he believes what he professes." - -It was grandfather who brought about a reconciliation with the Shimerdas. -One morning he told us that the small grain was coming on so well, he -thought he would begin to cut his wheat on the first of July. He would -need more men, and if it were agreeable to every one he would engage -Ambrosch for the reaping and thrashing, as the Shimerdas had no small -grain of their own. - -"I think, Emmaline," he concluded, "I will ask Antonia to come over and -help you in the kitchen. She will be glad to earn something, and it will -be a good time to end misunderstandings. I may as well ride over this -morning and make arrangements. Do you want to go with me, Jim?" His tone -told me that he had already decided for me. - -After breakfast we set off together. When Mrs. Shimerda saw us coming, she -ran from her door down into the draw behind the stable, as if she did not -want to meet us. Grandfather smiled to himself while he tied his horse, -and we followed her. - -Behind the barn we came upon a funny sight. The cow had evidently been -grazing somewhere in the draw. Mrs. Shimerda had run to the animal, pulled -up the lariat pin, and, when we came upon her, she was trying to hide the -cow in an old cave in the bank. As the hole was narrow and dark, the cow -held back, and the old woman was slapping and pushing at her hind -quarters, trying to spank her into the draw-side. - -Grandfather ignored her singular occupation and greeted her politely. -"Good-morning, Mrs. Shimerda. Can you tell me where I will find Ambrosch? -Which field?" - -"He with the sod corn." She pointed toward the north, still standing in -front of the cow as if she hoped to conceal it. - -"His sod corn will be good for fodder this winter," said grandfather -encouragingly. "And where is Antonia?" - -"She go with." Mrs. Shimerda kept wiggling her bare feet about nervously -in the dust. - -"Very well. I will ride up there. I want them to come over and help me cut -my oats and wheat next month. I will pay them wages. Good-morning. By the -way, Mrs. Shimerda," he said as he turned up the path, "I think we may as -well call it square about the cow." - -She started and clutched the rope tighter. Seeing that she did not -understand, grandfather turned back. "You need not pay me anything more; -no more money. The cow is yours." - -"Pay no more, keep cow?" she asked in a bewildered tone, her narrow eyes -snapping at us in the sunlight. - -"Exactly. Pay no more, keep cow." He nodded. - -Mrs. Shimerda dropped the rope, ran after us, and crouching down beside -grandfather, she took his hand and kissed it. I doubt if he had ever been -so much embarrassed before. I was a little startled, too. Somehow, that -seemed to bring the Old World very close. - -We rode away laughing, and grandfather said: "I expect she thought we had -come to take the cow away for certain, Jim. I wonder if she would n't have -scratched a little if we'd laid hold of that lariat rope!" - -Our neighbors seemed glad to make peace with us. The next Sunday Mrs. -Shimerda came over and brought Jake a pair of socks she had knitted. She -presented them with an air of great magnanimity, saying, "Now you not come -any more for knock my Ambrosch down?" - -Jake laughed sheepishly. "I don't want to have no trouble with Ambrosch. -If he'll let me alone, I'll let him alone." - -"If he slap you, we ain't got no pig for pay the fine," she said -insinuatingly. - -Jake was not at all disconcerted. "Have the last word, mam," he said -cheerfully. "It's a lady's privilege." - - - - -XIX - - -JULY came on with that breathless, brilliant heat which makes the plains -of Kansas and Nebraska the best corn country in the world. It seemed as if -we could hear the corn growing in the night; under the stars one caught a -faint crackling in the dewy, heavy-odored cornfields where the feathered -stalks stood so juicy and green. If all the great plain from the Missouri -to the Rocky Mountains had been under glass, and the heat regulated by a -thermometer, it could not have been better for the yellow tassels that -were ripening and fertilizing each other day by day. The cornfields were -far apart in those times, with miles of wild grazing land between. It took -a clear, meditative eye like my grandfather's to foresee that they would -enlarge and multiply until they would be, not the Shimerdas' cornfields, -or Mr. Bushy's, but the world's cornfields; that their yield would be one -of the great economic facts, like the wheat crop of Russia, which underlie -all the activities of men, in peace or war. - -The burning sun of those few weeks, with occasional rains at night, -secured the corn. After the milky ears were once formed, we had little to -fear from dry weather. The men were working so hard in the wheatfields -that they did not notice the heat,--though I was kept busy carrying water -for them,--and grandmother and Antonia had so much to do in the kitchen -that they could not have told whether one day was hotter than another. -Each morning, while the dew was still on the grass, Antonia went with me -up to the garden to get early vegetables for dinner. Grandmother made her -wear a sunbonnet, but as soon as we reached the garden she threw it on the -grass and let her hair fly in the breeze. I remember how, as we bent over -the pea-vines, beads of perspiration used to gather on her upper lip like -a little mustache. - -"Oh, better I like to work out of doors than in a house!" she used to sing -joyfully. "I not care that your grandmother say it makes me like a man. I -like to be like a man." She would toss her head and ask me to feel the -muscles swell in her brown arm. - -We were glad to have her in the house. She was so gay and responsive that -one did not mind her heavy, running step, or her clattery way with pans. -Grandmother was in high spirits during the weeks that Antonia worked for -us. - - [Illustration: Jim and Antonia in the garden] - -All the nights were close and hot during that harvest season. The -harvesters slept in the hayloft because it was cooler there than in the -house. I used to lie in my bed by the open window, watching the heat -lightning play softly along the horizon, or looking up at the gaunt frame -of the windmill against the blue night sky. One night there was a -beautiful electric storm, though not enough rain fell to damage the cut -grain. The men went down to the barn immediately after supper, and when -the dishes were washed Antonia and I climbed up on the slanting roof of -the chicken-house to watch the clouds. The thunder was loud and metallic, -like the rattle of sheet iron, and the lightning broke in great zigzags -across the heavens, making everything stand out and come close to us for a -moment. Half the sky was checkered with black thunderheads, but all the -west was luminous and clear: in the lightning-flashes it looked like deep -blue water, with the sheen of moonlight on it; and the mottled part of the -sky was like marble pavement, like the quay of some splendid sea-coast -city, doomed to destruction. Great warm splashes of rain fell on our -upturned faces. One black cloud, no bigger than a little boat, drifted out -into the clear space unattended, and kept moving westward. All about us we -could hear the felty beat of the raindrops on the soft dust of the -farmyard. Grandmother came to the door and said it was late, and we would -get wet out there. - -"In a minute we come," Antonia called back to her. "I like your -grandmother, and all things here," she sighed. "I wish my papa live to see -this summer. I wish no winter ever come again." - -"It will be summer a long while yet," I reassured her. "Why are n't you -always nice like this, Tony?" - -"How nice?" - -"Why, just like this; like yourself. Why do you all the time try to be -like Ambrosch?" - -She put her arms under her head and lay back, looking up at the sky. "If I -live here, like you, that is different. Things will be easy for you. But -they will be hard for us." - - - - - -BOOK II--THE HIRED GIRLS - - - - -I - - -I HAD been living with my grandfather for nearly three years when he -decided to move to Black Hawk. He and grandmother were getting old for the -heavy work of a farm, and as I was now thirteen they thought I ought to be -going to school. Accordingly our homestead was rented to "that good woman, -the Widow Steavens," and her bachelor brother, and we bought Preacher -White's house, at the north end of Black Hawk. This was the first town -house one passed driving in from the farm, a landmark which told country -people their long ride was over. - -We were to move to Black Hawk in March, and as soon as grandfather had -fixed the date he let Jake and Otto know of his intention. Otto said he -would not be likely to find another place that suited him so well; that he -was tired of farming and thought he would go back to what he called the -"wild West." Jake Marpole, lured by Otto's stories of adventure, decided -to go with him. We did our best to dissuade Jake. He was so handicapped by -illiteracy and by his trusting disposition that he would be an easy prey -to sharpers. Grandmother begged him to stay among kindly, Christian -people, where he was known; but there was no reasoning with him. He wanted -to be a prospector. He thought a silver mine was waiting for him in -Colorado. - -Jake and Otto served us to the last. They moved us into town, put down the -carpets in our new house, made shelves and cupboards for grandmother's -kitchen, and seemed loath to leave us. But at last they went, without -warning. Those two fellows had been faithful to us through sun and storm, -had given us things that cannot be bought in any market in the world. With -me they had been like older brothers; had restrained their speech and -manners out of care for me, and given me so much good comradeship. Now -they got on the west-bound train one morning, in their Sunday clothes, -with their oilcloth valises--and I never saw them again. Months afterward -we got a card from Otto, saying that Jake had been down with mountain -fever, but now they were both working in the Yankee Girl mine, and were -doing well. I wrote to them at that address, but my letter was returned to -me, "unclaimed." After that we never heard from them. - -Black Hawk, the new world in which we had come to live, was a clean, -well-planted little prairie town, with white fences and good green yards -about the dwellings, wide, dusty streets, and shapely little trees growing -along the wooden sidewalks. In the center of the town there were two rows -of new brick "store" buildings, a brick schoolhouse, the courthouse, and -four white churches. Our own house looked down over the town, and from our -upstairs windows we could see the winding line of the river bluffs, two -miles south of us. That river was to be my compensation for the lost -freedom of the farming country. - -We came to Black Hawk in March, and by the end of April we felt like town -people. Grandfather was a deacon in the new Baptist Church, grandmother -was busy with church suppers and missionary societies, and I was quite -another boy, or thought I was. Suddenly put down among boys of my own age, -I found I had a great deal to learn. Before the spring term of school was -over I could fight, play "keeps," tease the little girls, and use -forbidden words as well as any boy in my class. I was restrained from -utter savagery only by the fact that Mrs. Harling, our nearest neighbor, -kept an eye on me, and if my behavior went beyond certain bounds I was not -permitted to come into her yard or to play with her jolly children. - -We saw more of our country neighbors now than when we lived on the farm. -Our house was a convenient stopping-place for them. We had a big barn -where the farmers could put up their teams, and their women-folk more -often accompanied them, now that they could stay with us for dinner, and -rest and set their bonnets right before they went shopping. The more our -house was like a country hotel, the better I liked it. I was glad, when I -came home from school at noon, to see a farm wagon standing in the back -yard, and I was always ready to run downtown to get beefsteak or baker's -bread for unexpected company. All through that first spring and summer I -kept hoping that Ambrosch would bring Antonia and Yulka to see our new -house. I wanted to show them our red plush furniture, and the -trumpet-blowing cherubs the German paper-hanger had put on our parlor -ceiling. - -When Ambrosch came to town, however, he came alone, and though he put his -horses in our barn, he would never stay for dinner, or tell us anything -about his mother and sisters. If we ran out and questioned him as he was -slipping through the yard, he would merely work his shoulders about in his -coat and say, "They all right, I guess." - -Mrs. Steavens, who now lived on our farm, grew as fond of Antonia as we -had been, and always brought us news of her. All through the wheat season, -she told us, Ambrosch hired his sister out like a man, and she went from -farm to farm, binding sheaves or working with the thrashers. The farmers -liked her and were kind to her; said they would rather have her for a hand -than Ambrosch. When fall came she was to husk corn for the neighbors until -Christmas, as she had done the year before; but grandmother saved her from -this by getting her a place to work with our neighbors, the Harlings. - - - - -II - - -GRANDMOTHER often said that if she had to live in town, she thanked God -she lived next the Harlings. They had been farming people, like ourselves, -and their place was like a little farm, with a big barn and a garden, and -an orchard and grazing lots,--even a windmill. The Harlings were -Norwegians, and Mrs. Harling had lived in Christiania until she was ten -years old. Her husband was born in Minnesota. He was a grain merchant and -cattle buyer, and was generally considered the most enterprising business -man in our county. He controlled a line of grain elevators in the little -towns along the railroad to the west of us, and was away from home a great -deal. In his absence his wife was the head of the household. - -Mrs. Harling was short and square and sturdy-looking, like her house. -Every inch of her was charged with an energy that made itself felt the -moment she entered a room. Her face was rosy and solid, with bright, -twinkling eyes and a stubborn little chin. She was quick to anger, quick -to laughter, and jolly from the depths of her soul. How well I remember -her laugh; it had in it the same sudden recognition that flashed into her -eyes, was a burst of humor, short and intelligent. Her rapid footsteps -shook her own floors, and she routed lassitude and indifference wherever -she came. She could not be negative or perfunctory about anything. Her -enthusiasm, and her violent likes and dislikes, asserted themselves in all -the every-day occupations of life. Wash-day was interesting, never dreary, -at the Harlings'. Preserving-time was a prolonged festival, and -house-cleaning was like a revolution. When Mrs. Harling made garden that -spring, we could feel the stir of her undertaking through the willow hedge -that separated our place from hers. - -Three of the Harling children were near me in age. Charley, the only -son,--they had lost an older boy,--was sixteen; Julia, who was known as the -musical one, was fourteen when I was; and Sally, the tomboy with short -hair, was a year younger. She was nearly as strong as I, and uncannily -clever at all boys' sports. Sally was a wild thing, with sunburned yellow -hair, bobbed about her ears, and a brown skin, for she never wore a hat. -She raced all over town on one roller skate, often cheated at "keeps," but -was such a quick shot one could n't catch her at it. - -The grown-up daughter, Frances, was a very important person in our world. -She was her father's chief clerk, and virtually managed his Black Hawk -office during his frequent absences. Because of her unusual business -ability, he was stern and exacting with her. He paid her a good salary, -but she had few holidays and never got away from her responsibilities. -Even on Sundays she went to the office to open the mail and read the -markets. With Charley, who was not interested in business, but was already -preparing for Annapolis, Mr. Harling was very indulgent; bought him guns -and tools and electric batteries, and never asked what he did with them. - -Frances was dark, like her father, and quite as tall. In winter she wore a -sealskin coat and cap, and she and Mr. Harling used to walk home together -in the evening, talking about grain-cars and cattle, like two men. -Sometimes she came over to see grandfather after supper, and her visits -flattered him. More than once they put their wits together to rescue some -unfortunate farmer from the clutches of Wick Cutter, the Black Hawk -money-lender. Grandfather said Frances Harling was as good a judge of -credits as any banker in the county. The two or three men who had tried to -take advantage of her in a deal acquired celebrity by their defeat. She -knew every farmer for miles about; how much land he had under cultivation, -how many cattle he was feeding, what his liabilities were. Her interest in -these people was more than a business interest. She carried them all in -her mind as if they were characters in a book or a play. - -When Frances drove out into the country on business, she would go miles -out of her way to call on some of the old people, or to see the women who -seldom got to town. She was quick at understanding the grandmothers who -spoke no English, and the most reticent and distrustful of them would tell -her their story without realizing they were doing so. She went to country -funerals and weddings in all weathers. A farmer's daughter who was to be -married could count on a wedding present from Frances Harling. - -In August the Harlings' Danish cook had to leave them. Grandmother -entreated them to try Antonia. She cornered Ambrosch the next time he came -to town, and pointed out to him that any connection with Christian Harling -would strengthen his credit and be of advantage to him. One Sunday Mrs. -Harling took the long ride out to the Shimerdas' with Frances. She said -she wanted to see "what the girl came from" and to have a clear -understanding with her mother. I was in our yard when they came driving -home, just before sunset. They laughed and waved to me as they passed, and -I could see they were in great good humor. After supper, when grandfather -set off to church, grandmother and I took my short cut through the willow -hedge and went over to hear about the visit to the Shimerdas. - -We found Mrs. Harling with Charley and Sally on the front porch, resting -after her hard drive. Julia was in the hammock--she was fond of repose--and -Frances was at the piano, playing without a light and talking to her -mother through the open window. - -Mrs. Harling laughed when she saw us coming. "I expect you left your -dishes on the table to-night, Mrs. Burden," she called. Frances shut the -piano and came out to join us. - -They had liked Antonia from their first glimpse of her; felt they knew -exactly what kind of girl she was. As for Mrs. Shimerda, they found her -very amusing. Mrs. Harling chuckled whenever she spoke of her. "I expect I -am more at home with that sort of bird than you are, Mrs. Burden. They're -a pair, Ambrosch and that old woman!" - -They had had a long argument with Ambrosch about Antonia's allowance for -clothes and pocket-money. It was his plan that every cent of his sister's -wages should be paid over to him each month, and he would provide her with -such clothing as he thought necessary. When Mrs. Harling told him firmly -that she would keep fifty dollars a year for Antonia's own use, he -declared they wanted to take his sister to town and dress her up and make -a fool of her. Mrs. Harling gave us a lively account of Ambrosch's -behavior throughout the interview; how he kept jumping up and putting on -his cap as if he were through with the whole business, and how his mother -tweaked his coat-tail and prompted him in Bohemian. Mrs. Harling finally -agreed to pay three dollars a week for Antonia's services--good wages in -those days--and to keep her in shoes. There had been hot dispute about the -shoes, Mrs. Shimerda finally saying persuasively that she would send Mrs. -Harling three fat geese every year to "make even." Ambrosch was to bring -his sister to town next Saturday. - -"She'll be awkward and rough at first, like enough," grandmother said -anxiously, "but unless she's been spoiled by the hard life she's led, she -has it in her to be a real helpful girl." - -Mrs. Harling laughed her quick, decided laugh. "Oh, I'm not worrying, Mrs. -Burden! I can bring something out of that girl. She's barely seventeen, -not too old to learn new ways. She's good-looking, too!" she added warmly. - -Frances turned to grandmother. "Oh, yes, Mrs. Burden, you did n't tell us -that! She was working in the garden when we got there, barefoot and -ragged. But she has such fine brown legs and arms, and splendid color in -her cheeks--like those big dark red plums." - -We were pleased at this praise. Grandmother spoke feelingly. "When she -first came to this country, Frances, and had that genteel old man to watch -over her, she was as pretty a girl as ever I saw. But, dear me, what a -life she's led, out in the fields with those rough thrashers! Things would -have been very different with poor Antonia if her father had lived." - -The Harlings begged us to tell them about Mr. Shimerda's death and the big -snowstorm. By the time we saw grandfather coming home from church we had -told them pretty much all we knew of the Shimerdas. - -"The girl will be happy here, and she'll forget those things," said Mrs. -Harling confidently, as we rose to take our leave. - - - - -III - - -ON Saturday Ambrosch drove up to the back gate, and Antonia jumped down -from the wagon and ran into our kitchen just as she used to do. She was -wearing shoes and stockings, and was breathless and excited. She gave me a -playful shake by the shoulders. "You ain't forget about me, Jim?" - -Grandmother kissed her. "God bless you, child! Now you've come, you must -try to do right and be a credit to us." - -Antonia looked eagerly about the house and admired everything. "Maybe I be -the kind of girl you like better, now I come to town," she suggested -hopefully. - -How good it was to have Antonia near us again; to see her every day and -almost every night! Her greatest fault, Mrs. Harling found, was that she -so often stopped her work and fell to playing with the children. She would -race about the orchard with us, or take sides in our hay-fights in the -barn, or be the old bear that came down from the mountain and carried off -Nina. Tony learned English so quickly that by the time school began she -could speak as well as any of us. - -I was jealous of Tony's admiration for Charley Harling. Because he was -always first in his classes at school, and could mend the water-pipes or -the door-bell and take the clock to pieces, she seemed to think him a sort -of prince. Nothing that Charley wanted was too much trouble for her. She -loved to put up lunches for him when he went hunting, to mend his -ball-gloves and sew buttons on his shooting-coat, baked the kind of -nut-cake he liked, and fed his setter dog when he was away on trips with -his father. Antonia had made herself cloth working-slippers out of Mr. -Harling's old coats, and in these she went padding about after Charley, -fairly panting with eagerness to please him. - -Next to Charley, I think she loved Nina best. Nina was only six, and she -was rather more complex than the other children. She was fanciful, had all -sorts of unspoken preferences, and was easily offended. At the slightest -disappointment or displeasure her velvety brown eyes filled with tears, -and she would lift her chin and walk silently away. If we ran after her -and tried to appease her, it did no good. She walked on unmollified. I -used to think that no eyes in the world could grow so large or hold so -many tears as Nina's. Mrs. Harling and Antonia invariably took her part. -We were never given a chance to explain. The charge was simply: "You have -made Nina cry. Now, Jimmy can go home, and Sally must get her arithmetic." -I liked Nina, too; she was so quaint and unexpected, and her eyes were -lovely; but I often wanted to shake her. - -We had jolly evenings at the Harlings when the father was away. If he was -at home, the children had to go to bed early, or they came over to my -house to play. Mr. Harling not only demanded a quiet house, he demanded -all his wife's attention. He used to take her away to their room in the -west ell, and talk over his business with her all evening. Though we did -not realize it then, Mrs. Harling was our audience when we played, and we -always looked to her for suggestions. Nothing flattered one like her quick -laugh. - -Mr. Harling had a desk in his bedroom, and his own easy-chair by the -window, in which no one else ever sat. On the nights when he was at home, -I could see his shadow on the blind, and it seemed to me an arrogant -shadow. Mrs. Harling paid no heed to any one else if he was there. Before -he went to bed she always got him a lunch of smoked salmon or anchovies -and beer. He kept an alcohol lamp in his room, and a French coffee-pot, -and his wife made coffee for him at any hour of the night he happened to -want it. - -Most Black Hawk fathers had no personal habits outside their domestic -ones; they paid the bills, pushed the baby carriage after office hours, -moved the sprinkler about over the lawn, and took the family driving on -Sunday. Mr. Harling, therefore, seemed to me autocratic and imperial in -his ways. He walked, talked, put on his gloves, shook hands, like a man -who felt that he had power. He was not tall, but he carried his head so -haughtily that he looked a commanding figure, and there was something -daring and challenging in his eyes. I used to imagine that the "nobles" of -whom Antonia was always talking probably looked very much like Christian -Harling, wore caped overcoats like his, and just such a glittering diamond -upon the little finger. - -Except when the father was at home, the Harling house was never quiet. -Mrs. Harling and Nina and Antonia made as much noise as a houseful of -children, and there was usually somebody at the piano. Julia was the only -one who was held down to regular hours of practicing, but they all played. -When Frances came home at noon, she played until dinner was ready. When -Sally got back from school, she sat down in her hat and coat and drummed -the plantation melodies that negro minstrel troupes brought to town. Even -Nina played the Swedish Wedding March. - -Mrs. Harling had studied the piano under a good teacher, and somehow she -managed to practice every day. I soon learned that if I were sent over on -an errand and found Mrs. Harling at the piano, I must sit down and wait -quietly until she turned to me. I can see her at this moment; her short, -square person planted firmly on the stool, her little fat hands moving -quickly and neatly over the keys, her eyes fixed on the music with -intelligent concentration. - - - - -IV - - - "I won't have none of your weevily wheat, and I won't have none of your - barley, - But I'll take a measure of fine white flour, to make a cake for - Charley." - -WE were singing rhymes to tease Antonia while she was beating up one of -Charley's favorite cakes in her big mixing-bowl. It was a crisp autumn -evening, just cold enough to make one glad to quit playing tag in the -yard, and retreat into the kitchen. We had begun to roll popcorn balls -with syrup when we heard a knock at the back door, and Tony dropped her -spoon and went to open it. A plump, fair-skinned girl was standing in the -doorway. She looked demure and pretty, and made a graceful picture in her -blue cashmere dress and little blue hat, with a plaid shawl drawn neatly -about her shoulders and a clumsy pocketbook in her hand. - -"Hello, Tony. Don't you know me?" she asked in a smooth, low voice, -looking in at us archly. - -Antonia gasped and stepped back. "Why, it's Lena! Of course I did n't know -you, so dressed up!" - -Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for -a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head--or -with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was, -brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with -perfect composure. - -"Hello, Jim," she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and -looked about her. "I've come to town to work, too, Tony." - -"Have you, now? Well, ain't that funny!" Antonia stood ill at ease, and -did n't seem to know just what to do with her visitor. - -The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting -and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them. - -"You are Lena Lingard, are n't you? I've been to see your mother, but you -were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard's oldest -girl." - -Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen -eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances -pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on -her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Antonia hung back--said she had -to get her cake into the oven. - -"So you have come to town," said Mrs. Harling, her eyes still fixed on -Lena. "Where are you working?" - -"For Mrs. Thomas, the dressmaker. She is going to teach me to sew. She -says I have quite a knack. I'm through with the farm. There ain't any end -to the work on a farm, and always so much trouble happens. I'm going to be -a dressmaker." - -"Well, there have to be dressmakers. It's a good trade. But I would n't -run down the farm, if I were you," said Mrs. Harling rather severely. "How -is your mother?" - -"Oh, mother's never very well; she has too much to do. She'd get away from -the farm, too, if she could. She was willing for me to come. After I learn -to do sewing, I can make money and help her." - -"See that you don't forget to," said Mrs. Harling skeptically, as she took -up her crocheting again and sent the hook in and out with nimble fingers. - -"No, 'm, I won't," said Lena blandly. She took a few grains of the popcorn -we pressed upon her, eating them discreetly and taking care not to get her -fingers sticky. - -Frances drew her chair up nearer to the visitor. "I thought you were going -to be married, Lena," she said teasingly. "Did n't I hear that Nick -Svendsen was rushing you pretty hard?" - -Lena looked up with her curiously innocent smile. "He did go with me quite -a while. But his father made a fuss about it and said he would n't give -Nick any land if he married me, so he's going to marry Annie Iverson. I -would n't like to be her; Nick's awful sullen, and he'll take it out on -her. He ain't spoke to his father since he promised." - -Frances laughed. "And how do you feel about it?" - -"I don't want to marry Nick, or any other man," Lena murmured. "I've seen -a good deal of married life, and I don't care for it. I want to be so I -can help my mother and the children at home, and not have to ask lief of -anybody." - -"That's right," said Frances. "And Mrs. Thomas thinks you can learn -dressmaking?" - -"Yes, 'm. I've always liked to sew, but I never had much to do with. Mrs. -Thomas makes lovely things for all the town ladies. Did you know Mrs. -Gardener is having a purple velvet made? The velvet came from Omaha. My, -but it's lovely!" Lena sighed softly and stroked her cashmere folds. "Tony -knows I never did like out-of-door work," she added. - -Mrs. Harling glanced at her. "I expect you'll learn to sew all right, -Lena, if you'll only keep your head and not go gadding about to dances all -the time and neglect your work, the way some country girls do." - -"Yes, 'm. Tiny Soderball is coming to town, too. She's going to work at -the Boys' Home Hotel. She'll see lots of strangers," Lena added wistfully. - -"Too many, like enough," said Mrs. Harling. "I don't think a hotel is a -good place for a girl; though I guess Mrs. Gardener keeps an eye on her -waitresses." - -Lena's candid eyes, that always looked a little sleepy under their long -lashes, kept straying about the cheerful rooms with naive admiration. -Presently she drew on her cotton gloves. "I guess I must be leaving," she -said irresolutely. - -Frances told her to come again, whenever she was lonesome or wanted advice -about anything. Lena replied that she did n't believe she would ever get -lonesome in Black Hawk. - -She lingered at the kitchen door and begged Antonia to come and see her -often. "I've got a room of my own at Mrs. Thomas's, with a carpet." - -Tony shuffled uneasily in her cloth slippers. "I'll come sometime, but -Mrs. Harling don't like to have me run much," she said evasively. - -"You can do what you please when you go out, can't you?" Lena asked in a -guarded whisper. "Ain't you crazy about town, Tony? I don't care what -anybody says, I'm done with the farm!" She glanced back over her shoulder -toward the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat. - -When Lena was gone, Frances asked Antonia why she had n't been a little -more cordial to her. - -"I did n't know if your mother would like her coming here," said Antonia, -looking troubled. "She was kind of talked about, out there." - -"Yes, I know. But mother won't hold it against her if she behaves well -here. You need n't say anything about that to the children. I guess Jim -has heard all that gossip?" - -When I nodded, she pulled my hair and told me I knew too much, anyhow. We -were good friends, Frances and I. - -I ran home to tell grandmother that Lena Lingard had come to town. We were -glad of it, for she had a hard life on the farm. - -Lena lived in the Norwegian settlement west of Squaw Creek, and she used -to herd her father's cattle in the open country between his place and the -Shimerdas'. Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among -her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered -clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I -thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, -because I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a -ruddy thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in -spite of constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which -somehow made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily -clad. The first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her -soft voice and easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough -and mannish after they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get -off our horses and stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a -house and were accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by -her ragged clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even -then I noticed the unusual color of her eyes--a shade of deep violet--and -their soft, confiding expression. - -Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family. -Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and -even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a -good daughter to her mother. As Tony said, she had been talked about. She -was accused of making Ole Benson lose the little sense he had--and that at -an age when she should still have been in pinafores. - - [Illustration: Lena Lingard knitting stockings] - -Ole lived in a leaky dugout somewhere at the edge of the settlement. He -was fat and lazy and discouraged, and bad luck had become a habit with -him. After he had had every other kind of misfortune, his wife, "Crazy -Mary," tried to set a neighbor's barn on fire, and was sent to the asylum -at Lincoln. She was kept there for a few months, then escaped and walked -all the way home, nearly two hundred miles, traveling by night and hiding -in barns and haystacks by day. When she got back to the Norwegian -settlement, her poor feet were as hard as hoofs. She promised to be good, -and was allowed to stay at home--though every one realized she was as crazy -as ever, and she still ran about barefooted through the snow, telling her -domestic troubles to her neighbors. - -Not long after Mary came back from the asylum, I heard a young Dane, who -was helping us to thrash, tell Jake and Otto that Chris Lingard's oldest -girl had put Ole Benson out of his head, until he had no more sense than -his crazy wife. When Ole was cultivating his corn that summer, he used to -get discouraged in the field, tie up his team, and wander off to wherever -Lena Lingard was herding. There he would sit down on the draw-side and -help her watch her cattle. All the settlement was talking about it. The -Norwegian preacher's wife went to Lena and told her she ought not to allow -this; she begged Lena to come to church on Sundays. Lena said she had n't -a dress in the world any less ragged than the one on her back. Then the -minister's wife went through her old trunks and found some things she had -worn before her marriage. - -The next Sunday Lena appeared at church, a little late, with her hair done -up neatly on her head, like a young woman, wearing shoes and stockings, -and the new dress, which she had made over for herself very becomingly. -The congregation stared at her. Until that morning no one--unless it were -Ole--had realized how pretty she was, or that she was growing up. The -swelling lines of her figure had been hidden under the shapeless rags she -wore in the fields. After the last hymn had been sung, and the -congregation was dismissed, Ole slipped out to the hitch-bar and lifted -Lena on her horse. That, in itself, was shocking; a married man was not -expected to do such things. But it was nothing to the scene that followed. -Crazy Mary darted out from the group of women at the church door, and ran -down the road after Lena, shouting horrible threats. - -"Look out, you Lena Lingard, look out! I'll come over with a corn-knife -one day and trim some of that shape off you. Then you won't sail round so -fine, making eyes at the men! {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}" - -The Norwegian women did n't know where to look. They were formal -housewives, most of them, with a severe sense of decorum. But Lena Lingard -only laughed her lazy, good-natured laugh and rode on, gazing back over -her shoulder at Ole's infuriated wife. - -The time came, however, when Lena did n't laugh. More than once Crazy Mary -chased her across the prairie and round and round the Shimerdas' -cornfield. Lena never told her father; perhaps she was ashamed; perhaps -she was more afraid of his anger than of the corn-knife. I was at the -Shimerdas' one afternoon when Lena came bounding through the red grass as -fast as her white legs could carry her. She ran straight into the house -and hid in Antonia's feather-bed. Mary was not far behind; she came right -up to the door and made us feel how sharp her blade was, showing us very -graphically just what she meant to do to Lena. Mrs. Shimerda, leaning out -of the window, enjoyed the situation keenly, and was sorry when Antonia -sent Mary away, mollified by an apronful of bottle-tomatoes. Lena came out -from Tony's room behind the kitchen, very pink from the heat of the -feathers, but otherwise calm. She begged Antonia and me to go with her, -and help get her cattle together; they were scattered and might be gorging -themselves in somebody's cornfield. - -"Maybe you lose a steer and learn not to make somethings with your eyes at -married men," Mrs. Shimerda told her hectoringly. - -Lena only smiled her sleepy smile. "I never made anything to him with my -eyes. I can't help it if he hangs around, and I can't order him off. It -ain't my prairie." - - - - -V - - -AFTER Lena came to Black Hawk I often met her downtown, where she would be -matching sewing silk or buying "findings" for Mrs. Thomas. If I happened -to walk home with her, she told me all about the dresses she was helping -to make, or about what she saw and heard when she was with Tiny Soderball -at the hotel on Saturday nights. - -The Boys' Home was the best hotel on our branch of the Burlington, and all -the commercial travelers in that territory tried to get into Black Hawk -for Sunday. They used to assemble in the parlor after supper on Saturday -nights. Marshall Field's man, Anson Kirkpatrick, played the piano and sang -all the latest sentimental songs. After Tiny had helped the cook wash the -dishes, she and Lena sat on the other side of the double doors between the -parlor and the dining-room, listening to the music and giggling at the -jokes and stories. Lena often said she hoped I would be a traveling man -when I grew up. They had a gay life of it; nothing to do but ride about on -trains all day and go to theaters when they were in big cities. Behind the -hotel there was an old store building, where the salesmen opened their big -trunks and spread out their samples on the counters. The Black Hawk -merchants went to look at these things and order goods, and Mrs. Thomas, -though she was "retail trade," was permitted to see them and to "get -ideas." They were all generous, these traveling men; they gave Tiny -Soderball handkerchiefs and gloves and ribbons and striped stockings, and -so many bottles of perfume and cakes of scented soap that she bestowed -some of them on Lena. - -One afternoon in the week before Christmas I came upon Lena and her funny, -square-headed little brother Chris, standing before the drug-store, gazing -in at the wax dolls and blocks and Noah's arks arranged in the frosty show -window. The boy had come to town with a neighbor to do his Christmas -shopping, for he had money of his own this year. He was only twelve, but -that winter he had got the job of sweeping out the Norwegian church and -making the fire in it every Sunday morning. A cold job it must have been, -too! - -We went into Duckford's dry-goods store, and Chris unwrapped all his -presents and showed them to me--something for each of the six younger than -himself, even a rubber pig for the baby. Lena had given him one of Tiny -Soderball's bottles of perfume for his mother, and he thought he would get -some handkerchiefs to go with it. They were cheap, and he had n't much -money left. We found a tableful of handkerchiefs spread out for view at -Duckford's. Chris wanted those with initial letters in the corner, because -he had never seen any before. He studied them seriously, while Lena looked -over his shoulder, telling him she thought the red letters would hold -their color best. He seemed so perplexed that I thought perhaps he had n't -enough money, after all. Presently he said gravely,-- - -"Sister, you know mother's name is Berthe. I don't know if I ought to get -B for Berthe, or M for Mother." - -Lena patted his bristly head. "I'd get the B, Chrissy. It will please her -for you to think about her name. Nobody ever calls her by it now." - -That satisfied him. His face cleared at once, and he took three reds and -three blues. When the neighbor came in to say that it was time to start, -Lena wound Chris's comforter about his neck and turned up his jacket -collar--he had no overcoat--and we watched him climb into the wagon and -start on his long, cold drive. As we walked together up the windy street, -Lena wiped her eyes with the back of her woolen glove. "I get awful -homesick for them, all the same," she murmured, as if she were answering -some remembered reproach. - - - - -VI - - -WINTER comes down savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind -that sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screens -that hide one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw -closer together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the green -tree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier than -when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs. - -In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against the wind, I -could n't see anything but the road in front of me; but in the late -afternoon, when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate to -me. The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify--it was like -the light of truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and -the red sun went down behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs -and the blue drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter -song, as if it said: "This is reality, whether you like it or not. All -those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of -green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was -underneath. This is the truth." It was as if we were being punished for -loving the loveliness of summer. - -If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-office -for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, it -would be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the -frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining -pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as I -passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of them was hurrying toward a -fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were like magnets. When one passed -an old man, one could see nothing of his face but a red nose sticking out -between a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young men capered along -with their hands in their pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icy -sidewalk. The children, in their bright hoods and comforters, never -walked, but always ran from the moment they left their door, beating their -mittens against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, I -was about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was when there happened -to be a light in the church, and the painted glass window shone out at us -as we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for -color came over people, like the Laplander's craving for fats and sugar. -Without knowing why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the church -when the lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting, -shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude -reds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there. - -On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings' windows drew me like the -painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was color, too. After -supper I used to catch up my cap, stick my hands in my pockets, and dive -through the willow hedge as if witches were after me. Of course, if Mr. -Harling was at home, if his shadow stood out on the blind of the west -room, I did not go in, but turned and walked home by the long way, through -the street, wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two -old people. - -Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted -charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlor, with Sally always -dressed like a boy. Frances taught us to dance that winter, and she said, -from the first lesson, that Antonia would make the best dancer among us. -On Saturday nights, Mrs. Harling used to play the old operas for -us,--"Martha," "Norma," "Rigoletto,"--telling us the story while she played. -Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, and -the dining-room were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs -and sofas, and gay pictures on the walls. One always felt at ease there. -Antonia brought her sewing and sat with us--she was already beginning to -make pretty clothes for herself. After the long winter evenings on the -prairie, with Ambrosch's sullen silences and her mother's complaints, the -Harlings' house seemed, as she said, "like Heaven" to her. She was never -too tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in -her ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchen -and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three meals -that day. - -While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffy -to cool, Nina used to coax Antonia to tell her stories--about the calf that -broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowning in the -freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Nina -interpreted the stories about the creche fancifully, and in spite of our -derision she cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a short -time before the Shimerdas left that country. We all liked Tony's stories. -Her voice had a peculiarly engaging quality; it was deep, a little husky, -and one always heard the breath vibrating behind it. Everything she said -seemed to come right out of her heart. - -One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy, Tony told -us a new story. - -"Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the Norwegian -settlement last summer, when I was thrashing there? We were at Iversons', -and I was driving one of the grain wagons." - -Mrs. Harling came out and sat down among us. "Could you throw the wheat -into the bin yourself, Tony?" She knew what heavy work it was. - -"Yes, mam, I did. I could shovel just as fast as that fat Andern boy that -drove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to -the field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the -horses and got the machine going, and Ole Iverson was up on the deck, -cutting bands. I was sitting against a straw stack, trying to get some -shade. My wagon was n't going out first, and somehow I felt the heat awful -that day. The sun was so hot like it was going to burn the world up. After -a while I see a man coming across the stubble, and when he got close I see -it was a tramp. His toes stuck out of his shoes, and he had n't shaved for -a long while, and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had some -sickness. He comes right up and begins to talk like he knows me already. -He says: 'The ponds in this country is done got so low a man could n't -drownd himself in one of 'em.' - -"I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we did n't have -rain soon we'd have to pump water for the cattle. - -"'Oh, cattle,' he says, 'you'll all take care of your cattle! Ain't you -got no beer here?' I told him he'd have to go to the Bohemians for beer; -the Norwegians did n't have none when they thrashed. 'My God!' he says, -'so it's Norwegians now, is it? I thought this was Americy.' - -"Then he goes up to the machine and yells out to Ole Iverson, 'Hello, -partner, let me up there. I can cut bands, and I'm tired of trampin'. I -won't go no farther.' - -"I tried to make signs to Ole, 'cause I thought that man was crazy and -might get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down out of -the sun and chaff--it gets down your neck and sticks to you something awful -when it's hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the -wagons for shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right -for a few minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his hand to me and -jumped head-first right into the thrashing machine after the wheat. - -"I begun to scream, and the men run to stop the horses, but the belt had -sucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped he was all beat and -cut to pieces. He was wedged in so tight it was a hard job to get him out, -and the machine ain't never worked right since." - -"Was he clear dead, Tony?" we cried. - -"Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There, now, Nina's all upset. We won't -talk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you while -Tony's here." - -Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. "Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always send you -upstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out -where he came from, Antonia?" - -"Never, mam. He had n't been seen nowhere except in a little town they -call Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there was n't any saloon. -Maybe he came in on a freight, but the brakeman had n't seen him. They -could n't find no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife -in his pocket and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of -paper, and some poetry." - -"Some poetry?" we exclaimed. - -"I remember," said Frances. "It was 'The Old Oaken Bucket,' cut out of a -newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and -showed it to me." - -"Now, was n't that strange, Miss Frances?" Tony asked thoughtfully. "What -would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In thrashing time, -too! It's nice everywhere then." - -"So it is, Antonia," said Mrs. Harling heartily. "Maybe I'll go home and -help you thrash next summer. Is n't that taffy nearly ready to eat? I've -been smelling it a long while." - -There was a basic harmony between Antonia and her mistress. They had -strong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, and -were not always trying to imitate other people. They loved children and -animals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked to -prepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft white -beds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people -and were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there -was a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but -very invigorating. I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly -conscious of it. I could not imagine Antonia's living for a week in any -other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings'. - - - - -VII - - -WINTER lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and -shabby, old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and -men's affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice. -But in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and -pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk. - -Through January and February I went to the river with the Harlings on -clear nights, and we skated up to the big island and made bonfires on the -frozen sand. But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the snow on -the river bluffs was gray and mournful-looking. I was tired of school, -tired of winter clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty drifts and -the piles of cinders that had lain in the yards so long. There was only -one break in the dreary monotony of that month; when Blind d'Arnault, the -negro pianist, came to town. He gave a concert at the Opera House on -Monday night, and he and his manager spent Saturday and Sunday at our -comfortable hotel. Mrs. Harling had known d'Arnault for years. She told -Antonia she had better go to see Tiny that Saturday evening, as there -would certainly be music at the Boys' Home. - -Saturday night after supper I ran downtown to the hotel and slipped -quietly into the parlor. The chairs and sofas were already occupied, and -the air smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke. The parlor had once been two -rooms, and the floor was sway-backed where the partition had been cut -away. The wind from without made waves in the long carpet. A coal stove -glowed at either end of the room, and the grand piano in the middle stood -open. - -There was an atmosphere of unusual freedom about the house that night, for -Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha for a week. Johnnie had been having drinks -with the guests until he was rather absent-minded. It was Mrs. Gardener -who ran the business and looked after everything. Her husband stood at the -desk and welcomed incoming travelers. He was a popular fellow, but no -manager. - -Mrs. Gardener was admittedly the best-dressed woman in Black Hawk, drove -the best horse, and had a smart trap and a little white-and-gold sleigh. -She seemed indifferent to her possessions, was not half so solicitous -about them as her friends were. She was tall, dark, severe, with something -Indian-like in the rigid immobility of her face. Her manner was cold, and -she talked little. Guests felt that they were receiving, not conferring, a -favor when they stayed at her house. Even the smartest traveling men were -flattered when Mrs. Gardener stopped to chat with them for a moment. The -patrons of the hotel were divided into two classes; those who had seen -Mrs. Gardener's diamonds, and those who had not. - -When I stole into the parlor Anson Kirkpatrick, Marshall Field's man, was -at the piano, playing airs from a musical comedy then running in Chicago. -He was a dapper little Irishman, very vain, homely as a monkey, with -friends everywhere, and a sweetheart in every port, like a sailor. I did -not know all the men who were sitting about, but I recognized a furniture -salesman from Kansas City, a drug man, and Willy O'Reilly, who traveled -for a jewelry house and sold musical instruments. The talk was all about -good and bad hotels, actors and actresses and musical prodigies. I learned -that Mrs. Gardener had gone to Omaha to hear Booth and Barrett, who were -to play there next week, and that Mary Anderson was having a great success -in "A Winter's Tale," in London. - -The door from the office opened, and Johnnie Gardener came in, directing -Blind d'Arnault,--he would never consent to be led. He was a heavy, bulky -mulatto, on short legs, and he came tapping the floor in front of him with -his gold-headed cane. His yellow face was lifted in the light, with a show -of white teeth, all grinning, and his shrunken, papery eyelids lay -motionless over his blind eyes. - -"Good evening, gentlemen. No ladies here? Good-evening, gentlemen. We -going to have a little music? Some of you gentlemen going to play for me -this evening?" It was the soft, amiable negro voice, like those I -remembered from early childhood, with the note of docile subservience in -it. He had the negro head, too; almost no head at all; nothing behind the -ears but folds of neck under close-clipped wool. He would have been -repulsive if his face had not been so kindly and happy. It was the -happiest face I had seen since I left Virginia. - -He felt his way directly to the piano. The moment he sat down, I noticed -the nervous infirmity of which Mrs. Harling had told me. When he was -sitting, or standing still, he swayed back and forth incessantly, like a -rocking toy. At the piano, he swayed in time to the music, and when he was -not playing, his body kept up this motion, like an empty mill grinding on. -He found the pedals and tried them, ran his yellow hands up and down the -keys a few times, tinkling off scales, then turned to the company. - -"She seems all right, gentlemen. Nothing happened to her since the last -time I was here. Mrs. Gardener, she always has this piano tuned up before -I come. Now, gentlemen, I expect you've all got grand voices. Seems like -we might have some good old plantation songs to-night." - -The men gathered round him, as he began to play "My Old Kentucky Home." -They sang one negro melody after another, while the mulatto sat rocking -himself, his head thrown back, his yellow face lifted, its shriveled -eyelids never fluttering. - -He was born in the Far South, on the d'Arnault plantation, where the -spirit if not the fact of slavery persisted. When he was three weeks old -he had an illness which left him totally blind. As soon as he was old -enough to sit up alone and toddle about, another affliction, the nervous -motion of his body, became apparent. His mother, a buxom young negro wench -who was laundress for the d'Arnaults, concluded that her blind baby was -"not right" in his head, and she was ashamed of him. She loved him -devotedly, but he was so ugly, with his sunken eyes and his "fidgets," -that she hid him away from people. All the dainties she brought down from -the "Big House" were for the blind child, and she beat and cuffed her -other children whenever she found them teasing him or trying to get his -chicken-bone away from him. He began to talk early, remembered everything -he heard, and his mammy said he "was n't all wrong." She named him Samson, -because he was blind, but on the plantation he was known as "yellow -Martha's simple child." He was docile and obedient, but when he was six -years old he began to run away from home, always taking the same -direction. He felt his way through the lilacs, along the boxwood hedge, up -to the south wing of the "Big House," where Miss Nellie d'Arnault -practiced the piano every morning. This angered his mother more than -anything else he could have done; she was so ashamed of his ugliness that -she could n't bear to have white folks see him. Whenever she caught him -slipping away from the cabin, she whipped him unmercifully, and told him -what dreadful things old Mr. d'Arnault would do to him if he ever found -him near the "Big House." But the next time Samson had a chance, he ran -away again. If Miss d'Arnault stopped practicing for a moment and went -toward the window, she saw this hideous little pickaninny, dressed in an -old piece of sacking, standing in the open space between the hollyhock -rows, his body rocking automatically, his blind face lifted to the sun and -wearing an expression of idiotic rapture. Often she was tempted to tell -Martha that the child must be kept at home, but somehow the memory of his -foolish, happy face deterred her. She remembered that his sense of hearing -was nearly all he had,--though it did not occur to her that he might have -more of it than other children. - -One day Samson was standing thus while Miss Nellie was playing her lesson -to her music-master. The windows were open. He heard them get up from the -piano, talk a little while, and then leave the room. He heard the door -close after them. He crept up to the front windows and stuck his head in: -there was no one there. He could always detect the presence of any one in -a room. He put one foot over the window sill and straddled it. His mother -had told him over and over how his master would give him to the big -mastiff if he ever found him "meddling." Samson had got too near the -mastiff's kennel once, and had felt his terrible breath in his face. He -thought about that, but he pulled in his other foot. - -Through the dark he found his way to the Thing, to its mouth. He touched -it softly, and it answered softly, kindly. He shivered and stood still. -Then he began to feel it all over, ran his finger tips along the slippery -sides, embraced the carved legs, tried to get some conception of its shape -and size, of the space it occupied in primeval night. It was cold and -hard, and like nothing else in his black universe. He went back to its -mouth, began at one end of the keyboard and felt his way down into the -mellow thunder, as far as he could go. He seemed to know that it must be -done with the fingers, not with the fists or the feet. He approached this -highly artificial instrument through a mere instinct, and coupled himself -to it, as if he knew it was to piece him out and make a whole creature of -him. After he had tried over all the sounds, he began to finger out -passages from things Miss Nellie had been practicing, passages that were -already his, that lay under the bones of his pinched, conical little -skull, definite as animal desires. The door opened; Miss Nellie and her -music-master stood behind it, but blind Samson, who was so sensitive to -presences, did not know they were there. He was feeling out the pattern -that lay all ready-made on the big and little keys. When he paused for a -moment, because the sound was wrong and he wanted another, Miss Nellie -spoke softly. He whirled about in a spasm of terror, leaped forward in the -dark, struck his head on the open window, and fell screaming and bleeding -to the floor. He had what his mother called a fit. The doctor came and -gave him opium. - -When Samson was well again, his young mistress led him back to the piano. -Several teachers experimented with him. They found he had absolute pitch, -and a remarkable memory. As a very young child he could repeat, after a -fashion, any composition that was played for him. No matter how many wrong -notes he struck, he never lost the intention of a passage, he brought the -substance of it across by irregular and astonishing means. He wore his -teachers out. He could never learn like other people, never acquired any -finish. He was always a negro prodigy who played barbarously and -wonderfully. As piano playing, it was perhaps abominable, but as music it -was something real, vitalized by a sense of rhythm that was stronger than -his other physical senses,--that not only filled his dark mind, but worried -his body incessantly. To hear him, to watch him, was to see a negro -enjoying himself as only a negro can. It was as if all the agreeable -sensations possible to creatures of flesh and blood were heaped up on -those black and white keys, and he were gloating over them and trickling -them through his yellow fingers. - -In the middle of a crashing waltz d'Arnault suddenly began to play softly, -and, turning to one of the men who stood behind him, whispered, "Somebody -dancing in there." He jerked his bullet head toward the dining-room. "I -hear little feet,--girls, I 'spect." - -Anson Kirkpatrick mounted a chair and peeped over the transom. Springing -down, he wrenched open the doors and ran out into the dining-room. Tiny -and Lena, Antonia and Mary Dusak, were waltzing in the middle of the -floor. They separated and fled toward the kitchen, giggling. - -Kirkpatrick caught Tiny by the elbows. "What's the matter with you girls? -Dancing out here by yourselves, when there's a roomful of lonesome men on -the other side of the partition! Introduce me to your friends, Tiny." - -The girls, still laughing, were trying to escape. Tiny looked alarmed. -"Mrs. Gardener would n't like it," she protested. "She'd be awful mad if -you was to come out here and dance with us." - -"Mrs. Gardener's in Omaha, girl. Now, you're Lena, are you?--and you're -Tony and you're Mary. Have I got you all straight?" - -O'Reilly and the others began to pile the chairs on the tables. Johnnie -Gardener ran in from the office. - -"Easy, boys, easy!" he entreated them. "You'll wake the cook, and there'll -be the devil to pay for me. She won't hear the music, but she'll be down -the minute anything's moved in the dining-room." - -"Oh, what do you care, Johnnie? Fire the cook and wire Molly to bring -another. Come along, nobody'll tell tales." - -Johnnie shook his head. "'S a fact, boys," he said confidentially. "If I -take a drink in Black Hawk, Molly knows it in Omaha!" - -His guests laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Oh, we'll make it all -right with Molly. Get your back up, Johnnie." - -Molly was Mrs. Gardener's name, of course. "Molly Bawn" was painted in -large blue letters on the glossy white side of the hotel bus, and "Molly" -was engraved inside Johnnie's ring and on his watch-case--doubtless on his -heart, too. He was an affectionate little man, and he thought his wife a -wonderful woman; he knew that without her he would hardly be more than a -clerk in some other man's hotel. - -At a word from Kirkpatrick, d'Arnault spread himself out over the piano, -and began to draw the dance music out of it, while the perspiration shone -on his short wool and on his uplifted face. He looked like some glistening -African god of pleasure, full of strong, savage blood. Whenever the -dancers paused to change partners or to catch breath, he would boom out -softly, "Who's that goin' back on me? One of these city gentlemen, I bet! -Now, you girls, you ain't goin' to let that floor get cold?" - -Antonia seemed frightened at first, and kept looking questioningly at Lena -and Tiny over Willy O'Reilly's shoulder. Tiny Soderball was trim and -slender, with lively little feet and pretty ankles--she wore her dresses -very short. She was quicker in speech, lighter in movement and manner than -the other girls. Mary Dusak was broad and brown of countenance, slightly -marked by smallpox, but handsome for all that. She had beautiful chestnut -hair, coils of it; her forehead was low and smooth, and her commanding -dark eyes regarded the world indifferently and fearlessly. She looked bold -and resourceful and unscrupulous, and she was all of these. They were -handsome girls, had the fresh color of their country up-bringing, and in -their eyes that brilliancy which is called,--by no metaphor, alas!--"the -light of youth." - -D'Arnault played until his manager came and shut the piano. Before he left -us, he showed us his gold watch which struck the hours, and a topaz ring, -given him by some Russian nobleman who delighted in negro melodies, and -had heard d'Arnault play in New Orleans. At last he tapped his way -upstairs, after bowing to everybody, docile and happy. I walked home with -Antonia. We were so excited that we dreaded to go to bed. We lingered a -long while at the Harlings' gate, whispering in the cold until the -restlessness was slowly chilled out of us. - - - - -VIII - - -THE Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented -and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter. We -were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break -the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up -vines and clip the hedges. Every morning, before I was up, I could hear -Tony singing in the garden rows. After the apple and cherry trees broke -into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds -were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek -with Nina. Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer -every day. When boys and girls are growing up, life can't stand still, not -even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether -they will or no. That is what their elders are always forgetting. - -It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Antonia were preserving -cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion -had come to town. I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted -poles up from the depot. - -That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, -looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a -long gold watch chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol. -They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots. When I -overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and -confiding. They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in -summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught -dancing. When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another. - -The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot -surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees. It was very much like a -merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles. -Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their -children to the afternoon dancing class. At three o'clock one met little -girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the -time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent. Mrs. Vanni -received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great -deal of black lace, her important watch chain lying on her bosom. She wore -her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral -combs. When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow -teeth. She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the -harpist, taught the older ones. - -Often the mothers brought their fancy-work and sat on the shady side of -the tent during the lesson. The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under -the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good -trade when the dancing was over. Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used -to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot. Some ragged -little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white -umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came -to dance. That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town. -Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and -the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in -the sun. Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman's garden, -and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them. - -The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour -suggested by the City Council. When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the -harp struck up "Home, Sweet Home," all Black Hawk knew it was ten o'clock. -You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the Round House -whistle. - -At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, -when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the -boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks--northward to the -edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the -post-office, the ice-cream parlor, the butcher shop. Now there was a place -where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh -aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence. That silence seemed -to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple -trees with the bats and shadows. Now it was broken by light-hearted -sounds. First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni's harp came in silvery ripples -through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell -in--one of them was almost like a flute. They called so archly, so -seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves. Why had -n't we had a tent before? - -Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer -before. The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the -exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights. At other times -any one could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, -the Round House mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farmhands -who lived near enough to ride into town after their day's work was over. - -I never missed a Saturday night dance. The tent was open until midnight -then. The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and -all the country girls were on the floor,--Antonia and Lena and Tiny, and -the Danish laundry girls and their friends. I was not the only boy who -found these dances gayer than the others. The young men who belonged to -the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with -their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with "the hired -girls." - - - - -IX - - -THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt -the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town -to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle -out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family -to go to school. - -Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got -little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for -whom they made such sacrifices and who have had "advantages," never seem -to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The -older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from -life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all, -like Antonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender -age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country -girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived -there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of -them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had -given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming -to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and -made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women. - -That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk -more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court -in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the -daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly -and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in -summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never -moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing--not -to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom, -gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like -cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put -there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested. - -The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief -that they were "refined," and that the country girls, who "worked out," -were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as -their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with -little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had -borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the -Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters -go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they -sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get -positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the -language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from -debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after -they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they -had been when they ploughed and herded on their father's farm. Others, -like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth -they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and -sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping -to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten. - -One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our -county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of -debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,--usually of like -nationality,--and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are -to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children -are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve. - -I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid. -If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard's grandfather was a clergyman, -and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it -matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n't speak English. -There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation, -much less the personal distinction, of Antonia's father. Yet people saw no -difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all -"hired girls." - -I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into -their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant -can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to -the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian -girls are now the mistresses. - -The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and -living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat -upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young -fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his -father's bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the -window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in -her short skirt and striped stockings. - -The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their -beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious -mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons. -The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk -youth. - -Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who -swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the -jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor -where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in -and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home -from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the -sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their -long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only -made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to -see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at -him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there -were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with -their white throats and their pink cheeks. - -The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which -the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the -drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from -Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire -from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the -place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The -three Marys were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about -the kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers -that they never had to look for a place. - -The Vannis' tent brought the town boys and the country girls together on -neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was cashier in his father's bank, -always found his way to the tent on Saturday night. He took all the dances -Lena Lingard would give him, and even grew bold enough to walk home with -her. If his sisters or their friends happened to be among the onlookers on -"popular nights," Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood -trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several times -I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry for him. He -reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the draw-side and watch Lena -herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when Lena went home for a week to -visit her mother, I heard from Antonia that young Lovett drove all the way -out there to see her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I -hoped that Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls -a better position in the town. - -Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make mistakes in his work; -had to stay at the bank until after dark to make his books balance. He was -daft about her, and every one knew it. To escape from his predicament he -ran away with a widow six years older than himself, who owned a -half-section. This remedy worked, apparently. He never looked at Lena -again, nor lifted his eyes as he ceremoniously tipped his hat when he -happened to meet her on the sidewalk. - -So that was what they were like, I thought, these white-handed, -high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at young Lovett from -a distance and only wished I had some way of showing my contempt for him. - - - - -X - - -IT was at the Vannis' tent that Antonia was discovered. Hitherto she had -been looked upon more as a ward of the Harlings than as one of the "hired -girls." She had lived in their house and yard and garden; her thoughts -never seemed to stray outside that little kingdom. But after the tent came -to town she began to go about with Tiny and Lena and their friends. The -Vannis often said that Antonia was the best dancer of them all. I -sometimes heard murmurs in the crowd outside the pavilion that Mrs. -Harling would soon have her hands full with that girl. The young men began -to joke with each other about "the Harlings' Tony" as they did about "the -Marshalls' Anna" or "the Gardeners' Tiny." - -Antonia talked and thought of nothing but the tent. She hummed the dance -tunes all day. When supper was late, she hurried with her dishes, dropped -and smashed them in her excitement. At the first call of the music, she -became irresponsible. If she had n't time to dress, she merely flung off -her apron and shot out of the kitchen door. Sometimes I went with her; the -moment the lighted tent came into view she would break into a run, like a -boy. There were always partners waiting for her; she began to dance before -she got her breath. - -Antonia's success at the tent had its consequences. The iceman lingered -too long now, when he came into the covered porch to fill the -refrigerator. The delivery boys hung about the kitchen when they brought -the groceries. Young farmers who were in town for Saturday came tramping -through the yard to the back door to engage dances, or to invite Tony to -parties and picnics. Lena and Norwegian Anna dropped in to help her with -her work, so that she could get away early. The boys who brought her home -after the dances sometimes laughed at the back gate and wakened Mr. -Harling from his first sleep. A crisis was inevitable. - -One Saturday night Mr. Harling had gone down to the cellar for beer. As he -came up the stairs in the dark, he heard scuffling on the back porch, and -then the sound of a vigorous slap. He looked out through the side door in -time to see a pair of long legs vaulting over the picket fence. Antonia -was standing there, angry and excited. Young Harry Paine, who was to marry -his employer's daughter on Monday, had come to the tent with a crowd of -friends and danced all evening. Afterward, he begged Antonia to let him -walk home with her. She said she supposed he was a nice young man, as he -was one of Miss Frances's friends, and she did n't mind. On the back porch -he tried to kiss her, and when she protested,--because he was going to be -married on Monday,--he caught her and kissed her until she got one hand -free and slapped him. - -Mr. Harling put his beer bottles down on the table. "This is what I've -been expecting, Antonia. You've been going with girls who have a -reputation for being free and easy, and now you've got the same -reputation. I won't have this and that fellow tramping about my back yard -all the time. This is the end of it, to-night. It stops, short. You can -quit going to these dances, or you can hunt another place. Think it over." - -The next morning when Mrs. Harling and Frances tried to reason with -Antonia, they found her agitated but determined. "Stop going to the tent?" -she panted. "I would n't think of it for a minute! My own father could n't -make me stop! Mr. Harling ain't my boss outside my work. I won't give up -my friends, either. The boys I go with are nice fellows. I thought Mr. -Paine was all right, too, because he used to come here. I guess I gave him -a red face for his wedding, all right!" she blazed out indignantly. - -"You'll have to do one thing or the other, Antonia," Mrs. Harling told her -decidedly. "I can't go back on what Mr. Harling has said. This is his -house." - -"Then I'll just leave, Mrs. Harling. Lena's been wanting me to get a place -closer to her for a long while. Mary Svoboda's going away from the -Cutters' to work at the hotel, and I can have her place." - -Mrs. Harling rose from her chair. "Antonia, if you go to the Cutters to -work, you cannot come back to this house again. You know what that man is. -It will be the ruin of you." - -Tony snatched up the tea-kettle and began to pour boiling water over the -glasses, laughing excitedly. "Oh, I can take care of myself! I'm a lot -stronger than Cutter is. They pay four dollars there, and there's no -children. The work's nothing; I can have every evening, and be out a lot -in the afternoons." - -"I thought you liked children. Tony, what's come over you?" - -"I don't know, something has." Antonia tossed her head and set her jaw. "A -girl like me has got to take her good times when she can. Maybe there -won't be any tent next year. I guess I want to have my fling, like the -other girls." - -Mrs. Harling gave a short, harsh laugh. "If you go to work for the -Cutters, you're likely to have a fling that you won't get up from in a -hurry." - -Frances said, when she told grandmother and me about this scene, that -every pan and plate and cup on the shelves trembled when her mother walked -out of the kitchen. Mrs. Harling declared bitterly that she wished she had -never let herself get fond of Antonia. - - - - -XI - - -WICK CUTTER was the money-lender who had fleeced poor Russian Peter. When -a farmer once got into the habit of going to Cutter, it was like gambling -or the lottery; in an hour of discouragement he went back. - -Cutter's first name was Wycliffe, and he liked to talk about his pious -bringing-up. He contributed regularly to the Protestant churches, "for -sentiment's sake," as he said with a flourish of the hand. He came from a -town in Iowa where there were a great many Swedes, and could speak a -little Swedish, which gave him a great advantage with the early -Scandinavian settlers. - -In every frontier settlement there are men who have come there to escape -restraint. Cutter was one of the "fast set" of Black Hawk business men. He -was an inveterate gambler, though a poor loser. When we saw a light -burning in his office late at night, we knew that a game of poker was -going on. Cutter boasted that he never drank anything stronger than -sherry, and he said he got his start in life by saving the money that -other young men spent for cigars. He was full of moral maxims for boys. -When he came to our house on business, he quoted "Poor Richard's Almanack" -to me, and told me he was delighted to find a town boy who could milk a -cow. He was particularly affable to grandmother, and whenever they met he -would begin at once to talk about "the good old times" and simple living. -I detested his pink, bald head, and his yellow whiskers, always soft and -glistening. It was said he brushed them every night, as a woman does her -hair. His white teeth looked factory-made. His skin was red and rough, as -if from perpetual sunburn; he often went away to hot springs to take mud -baths. He was notoriously dissolute with women. Two Swedish girls who had -lived in his house were the worse for the experience. One of them he had -taken to Omaha and established in the business for which he had fitted -her. He still visited her. - -Cutter lived in a state of perpetual warfare with his wife, and yet, -apparently, they never thought of separating. They dwelt in a fussy, -scroll-work house, painted white and buried in thick evergreens, with a -fussy white fence and barn. Cutter thought he knew a great deal about -horses, and usually had a colt which he was training for the track. On -Sunday mornings one could see him out at the fair grounds, speeding around -the race-course in his trotting-buggy, wearing yellow gloves and a -black-and-white-check traveling cap, his whiskers blowing back in the -breeze. If there were any boys about, Cutter would offer one of them a -quarter to hold the stop-watch, and then drive off, saying he had no -change and would "fix it up next time." No one could cut his lawn or wash -his buggy to suit him. He was so fastidious and prim about his place that -a boy would go to a good deal of trouble to throw a dead cat into his back -yard, or to dump a sackful of tin cans in his alley. It was a peculiar -combination of old-maidishness and licentiousness that made Cutter seem so -despicable. - -He had certainly met his match when he married Mrs. Cutter. She was a -terrifying-looking person; almost a giantess in height, raw-boned, with -iron-gray hair, a face always flushed, and prominent, hysterical eyes. -When she meant to be entertaining and agreeable, she nodded her head -incessantly and snapped her eyes at one. Her teeth were long and curved, -like a horse's; people said babies always cried if she smiled at them. Her -face had a kind of fascination for me; it was the very color and shape of -anger. There was a gleam of something akin to insanity in her full, -intense eyes. She was formal in manner, and made calls in rustling, -steel-gray brocades and a tall bonnet with bristling aigrettes. - -Mrs. Cutter painted china so assiduously that even her washbowls and -pitchers, and her husband's shaving-mug, were covered with violets and -lilies. Once when Cutter was exhibiting some of his wife's china to a -caller, he dropped a piece. Mrs. Cutter put her handkerchief to her lips -as if she were going to faint and said grandly: "Mr. Cutter, you have -broken all the Commandments--spare the finger-bowls!" - -They quarreled from the moment Cutter came into the house until they went -to bed at night, and their hired girls reported these scenes to the town -at large. Mrs. Cutter had several times cut paragraphs about unfaithful -husbands out of the newspapers and mailed them to Cutter in a disguised -handwriting. Cutter would come home at noon, find the mutilated journal in -the paper-rack, and triumphantly fit the clipping into the space from -which it had been cut. Those two could quarrel all morning about whether -he ought to put on his heavy or his light underwear, and all evening about -whether he had taken cold or not. - -The Cutters had major as well as minor subjects for dispute. The chief of -these was the question of inheritance: Mrs. Cutter told her husband it was -plainly his fault they had no children. He insisted that Mrs. Cutter had -purposely remained childless, with the determination to outlive him and to -share his property with her "people," whom he detested. To this she would -reply that unless he changed his mode of life, she would certainly outlive -him. After listening to her insinuations about his physical soundness, -Cutter would resume his dumb-bell practice for a month, or rise daily at -the hour when his wife most liked to sleep, dress noisily, and drive out -to the track with his trotting-horse. - -Once when they had quarreled about household expenses, Mrs. Cutter put on -her brocade and went among their friends soliciting orders for painted -china, saying that Mr. Cutter had compelled her "to live by her brush." -Cutter was n't shamed as she had expected; he was delighted! - -Cutter often threatened to chop down the cedar trees which half-buried the -house. His wife declared she would leave him if she were stripped of the -"privacy" which she felt these trees afforded her. That was his -opportunity, surely; but he never cut down the trees. The Cutters seemed -to find their relations to each other interesting and stimulating, and -certainly the rest of us found them so. Wick Cutter was different from any -other rascal I have ever known, but I have found Mrs. Cutters all over the -world; sometimes founding new religions, sometimes being forcibly -fed--easily recognizable, even when superficially tamed. - - - - -XII - - -AFTER Antonia went to live with the Cutters, she seemed to care about -nothing but picnics and parties and having a good time. When she was not -going to a dance, she sewed until midnight. Her new clothes were the -subject of caustic comment. Under Lena's direction she copied Mrs. -Gardener's new party dress and Mrs. Smith's street costume so ingeniously -in cheap materials that those ladies were greatly annoyed, and Mrs. -Cutter, who was jealous of them, was secretly pleased. - -Tony wore gloves now, and high-heeled shoes and feathered bonnets, and she -went downtown nearly every afternoon with Tiny and Lena and the Marshalls' -Norwegian Anna. We High-School boys used to linger on the playground at -the afternoon recess to watch them as they came tripping down the hill -along the board sidewalk, two and two. They were growing prettier every -day, but as they passed us, I used to think with pride that Antonia, like -Snow-White in the fairy tale, was still "fairest of them all." - -Being a Senior now, I got away from school early. Sometimes I overtook the -girls downtown and coaxed them into the ice-cream parlor, where they would -sit chattering and laughing, telling me all the news from the country. I -remember how angry Tiny Soderball made me one afternoon. She declared she -had heard grandmother was going to make a Baptist preacher of me. "I guess -you'll have to stop dancing and wear a white necktie then. Won't he look -funny, girls?" - -Lena laughed. "You'll have to hurry up, Jim. If you're going to be a -preacher, I want you to marry me. You must promise to marry us all, and -then baptize the babies." - -Norwegian Anna, always dignified, looked at her reprovingly. - -"Baptists don't believe in christening babies, do they, Jim?" - -I told her I did n't know what they believed, and did n't care, and that I -certainly was n't going to be a preacher. - -"That's too bad," Tiny simpered. She was in a teasing mood. "You'd make -such a good one. You're so studious. Maybe you'd like to be a professor. -You used to teach Tony, did n't you?" - -Antonia broke in. "I've set my heart on Jim being a doctor. You'd be good -with sick people, Jim. Your grandmother's trained you up so nice. My papa -always said you were an awful smart boy." - -I said I was going to be whatever I pleased. "Won't you be surprised, Miss -Tiny, if I turn out to be a regular devil of a fellow?" - -They laughed until a glance from Norwegian Anna checked them; the -High-School Principal had just come into the front part of the shop to buy -bread for supper. Anna knew the whisper was going about that I was a sly -one. People said there must be something queer about a boy who showed no -interest in girls of his own age, but who could be lively enough when he -was with Tony and Lena or the three Marys. - - - -The enthusiasm for the dance, which the Vannis had kindled, did not at -once die out. After the tent left town, the Euchre Club became the Owl -Club, and gave dances in the Masonic Hall once a week. I was invited to -join, but declined. I was moody and restless that winter, and tired of the -people I saw every day. Charley Harling was already at Annapolis, while I -was still sitting in Black Hawk, answering to my name at roll-call every -morning, rising from my desk at the sound of a bell and marching out like -the grammar-school children. Mrs. Harling was a little cool toward me, -because I continued to champion Antonia. What was there for me to do after -supper? Usually I had learned next day's lessons by the time I left the -school building, and I could n't sit still and read forever. - -In the evening I used to prowl about, hunting for diversion. There lay the -familiar streets, frozen with snow or liquid with mud. They led to the -houses of good people who were putting the babies to bed, or simply -sitting still before the parlor stove, digesting their supper. Black Hawk -had two saloons. One of them was admitted, even by the church people, to -be as respectable as a saloon could be. Handsome Anton Jelinek, who had -rented his homestead and come to town, was the proprietor. In his saloon -there were long tables where the Bohemian and German farmers could eat the -lunches they brought from home while they drank their beer. Jelinek kept -rye bread on hand, and smoked fish and strong imported cheeses to please -the foreign palate. I liked to drop into his bar-room and listen to the -talk. But one day he overtook me on the street and clapped me on the -shoulder. - -"Jim," he said, "I am good friends with you and I always like to see you. -But you know how the church people think about saloons. Your grandpa has -always treated me fine, and I don't like to have you come into my place, -because I know he don't like it, and it puts me in bad with him." - -So I was shut out of that. - -One could hang about the drug-store, and listen to the old men who sat -there every evening, talking politics and telling raw stories. One could -go to the cigar factory and chat with the old German who raised canaries -for sale, and look at his stuffed birds. But whatever you began with him, -the talk went back to taxidermy. There was the depot, of course; I often -went down to see the night train come in, and afterward sat awhile with -the disconsolate telegrapher who was always hoping to be transferred to -Omaha or Denver, "where there was some life." He was sure to bring out his -pictures of actresses and dancers. He got them with cigarette coupons, and -nearly smoked himself to death to possess these desired forms and faces. -For a change, one could talk to the station agent; but he was another -malcontent; spent all his spare time writing letters to officials -requesting a transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming where he could go -trout-fishing on Sundays. He used to say "there was nothing in life for -him but trout streams, ever since he'd lost his twins." - -These were the distractions I had to choose from. There were no other -lights burning downtown after nine o'clock. On starlight nights I used to -pace up and down those long, cold streets, scowling at the little, -sleeping houses on either side, with their storm-windows and covered back -porches. They were flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of light -wood, with spindle porch-posts horribly mutilated by the turning-lathe. -Yet for all their frailness, how much jealousy and envy and unhappiness -some of them managed to contain! The life that went on in them seemed to -me made up of evasions and negations; shifts to save cooking, to save -washing and cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of gossip. This -guarded mode of existence was like living under a tyranny. People's -speech, their voices, their very glances, became furtive and repressed. -Every individual taste, every natural appetite, was bridled by caution. -The people asleep in those houses, I thought, tried to live like the mice -in their own kitchens; to make no noise, to leave no trace, to slip over -the surface of things in the dark. The growing piles of ashes and cinders -in the back yards were the only evidence that the wasteful, consuming -process of life went on at all. On Tuesday nights the Owl Club danced; -then there was a little stir in the streets, and here and there one could -see a lighted window until midnight. But the next night all was dark -again. - -After I refused to join "the Owls," as they were called, I made a bold -resolve to go to the Saturday night dances at Firemen's Hall. I knew it -would be useless to acquaint my elders with any such plan. Grandfather did -n't approve of dancing anyway; he would only say that if I wanted to dance -I could go to the Masonic Hall, among "the people we knew." It was just my -point that I saw altogether too much of the people we knew. - -My bedroom was on the ground floor, and as I studied there, I had a stove -in it. I used to retire to my room early on Saturday night, change my -shirt and collar and put on my Sunday coat. I waited until all was quiet -and the old people were asleep, then raised my window, climbed out, and -went softly through the yard. The first time I deceived my grandparents I -felt rather shabby, perhaps even the second time, but I soon ceased to -think about it. - -The dance at the Firemen's Hall was the one thing I looked forward to all -the week. There I met the same people I used to see at the Vannis' tent. -Sometimes there were Bohemians from Wilber, or German boys who came down -on the afternoon freight from Bismarck. Tony and Lena and Tiny were always -there, and the three Bohemian Marys, and the Danish laundry girls. - -The four Danish girls lived with the laundryman and his wife in their -house behind the laundry, with a big garden where the clothes were hung -out to dry. The laundryman was a kind, wise old fellow, who paid his girls -well, looked out for them, and gave them a good home. He told me once that -his own daughter died just as she was getting old enough to help her -mother, and that he had been "trying to make up for it ever since." On -summer afternoons he used to sit for hours on the sidewalk in front of his -laundry, his newspaper lying on his knee, watching his girls through the -big open window while they ironed and talked in Danish. The clouds of -white dust that blew up the street, the gusts of hot wind that withered -his vegetable garden, never disturbed his calm. His droll expression -seemed to say that he had found the secret of contentment. Morning and -evening he drove about in his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed -clothes, and collecting bags of linen that cried out for his suds and -sunny drying-lines. His girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they -did standing by the ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine -pieces, their white arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the -brightest wild roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and -curling in little damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much -English, and were not so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were kind, -simple girls and they were always happy. When one danced with them, one -smelled their clean, freshly ironed clothes that had been put away with -rosemary leaves from Mr. Jensen's garden. - -There were never girls enough to go round at those dances, but every one -wanted a turn with Tony and Lena. Lena moved without exertion, rather -indolently, and her hand often accented the rhythm softly on her partner's -shoulder. She smiled if one spoke to her, but seldom answered. The music -seemed to put her into a soft, waking dream, and her violet-colored eyes -looked sleepily and confidingly at one from under her long lashes. When -she sighed she exhaled a heavy perfume of sachet powder. To dance "Home, -Sweet Home," with Lena was like coming in with the tide. She danced every -dance like a waltz, and it was always the same waltz--the waltz of coming -home to something, of inevitable, fated return. After a while one got -restless under it, as one does under the heat of a soft, sultry summer -day. - -When you spun out into the floor with Tony, you did n't return to -anything. You set out every time upon a new adventure. I liked to -schottische with her; she had so much spring and variety, and was always -putting in new steps and slides. She taught me to dance against and around -the hard-and-fast beat of the music. If, instead of going to the end of -the railroad, old Mr. Shimerda had stayed in New York and picked up a -living with his fiddle, how different Antonia's life might have been! - -Antonia often went to the dances with Larry Donovan, a passenger conductor -who was a kind of professional ladies' man, as we said. I remember how -admiringly all the boys looked at her the night she first wore her -velveteen dress, made like Mrs. Gardener's black velvet. She was lovely to -see, with her eyes shining, and her lips always a little parted when she -danced. That constant, dark color in her cheeks never changed. - -One evening when Donovan was out on his run, Antonia came to the hall with -Norwegian Anna and her young man, and that night I took her home. When we -were in the Cutter's yard, sheltered by the evergreens, I told her she -must kiss me good-night. - -"Why, sure, Jim." A moment later she drew her face away and whispered -indignantly, "Why, Jim! You know you ain't right to kiss me like that. -I'll tell your grandmother on you!" - -"Lena Lingard lets me kiss her," I retorted, "and I'm not half as fond of -her as I am of you." - -"Lena does?" Tony gasped. "If she's up to any of her nonsense with you, -I'll scratch her eyes out!" She took my arm again and we walked out of the -gate and up and down the sidewalk. "Now, don't you go and be a fool like -some of these town boys. You're not going to sit around here and whittle -store-boxes and tell stories all your life. You are going away to school -and make something of yourself. I'm just awful proud of you. You won't go -and get mixed up with the Swedes, will you?" - -"I don't care anything about any of them but you," I said. "And you'll -always treat me like a kid, I suppose." - -She laughed and threw her arms around me. "I expect I will, but you're a -kid I'm awful fond of, anyhow! You can like me all you want to, but if I -see you hanging round with Lena much, I'll go to your grandmother, as sure -as your name's Jim Burden! Lena's all right, only--well, you know yourself -she's soft that way. She can't help it. It's natural to her." - -If she was proud of me, I was so proud of her that I carried my head high -as I emerged from the dark cedars and shut the Cutters' gate softly behind -me. Her warm, sweet face, her kind arms, and the true heart in her; she -was, oh, she was still my Antonia! I looked with contempt at the dark, -silent little houses about me as I walked home, and thought of the stupid -young men who were asleep in some of them. I knew where the real women -were, though I was only a boy; and I would not be afraid of them, either! - -I hated to enter the still house when I went home from the dances, and it -was long before I could get to sleep. Toward morning I used to have -pleasant dreams: sometimes Tony and I were out in the country, sliding -down straw-stacks as we used to do; climbing up the yellow mountains over -and over, and slipping down the smooth sides into soft piles of chaff. - -One dream I dreamed a great many times, and it was always the same. I was -in a harvest-field full of shocks, and I was lying against one of them. -Lena Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a -curved reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a -kind of luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to -me with a soft sigh and said, "Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you -as much as I like." - -I used to wish I could have this flattering dream about Antonia, but I -never did. - - - - -XIII - - -I NOTICED one afternoon that grandmother had been crying. Her feet seemed -to drag as she moved about the house, and I got up from the table where I -was studying and went to her, asking if she did n't feel well, and if I -could n't help her with her work. - -"No, thank you, Jim. I'm troubled, but I guess I'm well enough. Getting a -little rusty in the bones, maybe," she added bitterly. - -I stood hesitating. "What are you fretting about, grandmother? Has -grandfather lost any money?" - -"No, it ain't money. I wish it was. But I've heard things. You must 'a' -known it would come back to me sometime." She dropped into a chair, and -covering her face with her apron, began to cry. "Jim," she said, "I was -never one that claimed old folks could bring up their grandchildren. But -it came about so; there was n't any other way for you, it seemed like." - -I put my arms around her. I could n't bear to see her cry. - -"What is it, grandmother? Is it the Firemen's dances?" - -She nodded. - -"I'm sorry I sneaked off like that. But there's nothing wrong about the -dances, and I have n't done anything wrong. I like all those country -girls, and I like to dance with them. That's all there is to it." - -"But it ain't right to deceive us, son, and it brings blame on us. People -say you are growing up to be a bad boy, and that ain't just to us." - -"I don't care what they say about me, but if it hurts you, that settles -it. I won't go to the Firemen's Hall again." - -I kept my promise, of course, but I found the spring months dull enough. I -sat at home with the old people in the evenings now, reading Latin that -was not in our High-School course. I had made up my mind to do a lot of -college requirement work in the summer, and to enter the freshman class at -the University without conditions in the fall. I wanted to get away as -soon as possible. - -Disapprobation hurt me, I found,--even that of people whom I did not -admire. As the spring came on, I grew more and more lonely, and fell back -on the telegrapher and the cigar-maker and his canaries for companionship. -I remember I took a melancholy pleasure in hanging a May-basket for Nina -Harling that spring. I bought the flowers from an old German woman who -always had more window plants than any one else, and spent an afternoon -trimming a little work-basket. When dusk came on, and the new moon hung in -the sky, I went quietly to the Harlings' front door with my offering, rang -the bell, and then ran away as was the custom. Through the willow hedge I -could hear Nina's cries of delight, and I felt comforted. - -On those warm, soft spring evenings I often lingered downtown to walk home -with Frances, and talked to her about my plans and about the reading I was -doing. One evening she said she thought Mrs. Harling was not seriously -offended with me. - -"Mama is as broad-minded as mothers ever are, I guess. But you know she -was hurt about Antonia, and she can't understand why you like to be with -Tiny and Lena better than with the girls of your own set." - -"Can you?" I asked bluntly. - -Frances laughed. "Yes, I think I can. You knew them in the country, and -you like to take sides. In some ways you're older than boys of your age. -It will be all right with mama after you pass your college examinations -and she sees you're in earnest." - -"If you were a boy," I persisted, "you would n't belong to the Owl Club, -either. You'd be just like me." - -She shook her head. "I would and I would n't. I expect I know the country -girls better than you do. You always put a kind of glamour over them. The -trouble with you, Jim, is that you're romantic. Mama's going to your -Commencement. She asked me the other day if I knew what your oration is to -be about. She wants you to do well." - -I thought my oration very good. It stated with fervor a great many things -I had lately discovered. Mrs. Harling came to the Opera House to hear the -Commencement exercises, and I looked at her most of the time while I made -my speech. Her keen, intelligent eyes never left my face. Afterward she -came back to the dressing-room where we stood, with our diplomas in our -hands, walked up to me, and said heartily: "You surprised me, Jim. I did -n't believe you could do as well as that. You did n't get that speech out -of books." Among my graduation presents there was a silk umbrella from -Mrs. Harling, with my name on the handle. - -I walked home from the Opera House alone. As I passed the Methodist -Church, I saw three white figures ahead of me, pacing up and down under -the arching maple trees, where the moonlight filtered through the lush -June foliage. They hurried toward me; they were waiting for me--Lena and -Tony and Anna Hansen. - -"Oh, Jim, it was splendid!" Tony was breathing hard, as she always did -when her feelings outran her language. "There ain't a lawyer in Black Hawk -could make a speech like that. I just stopped your grandpa and said so to -him. He won't tell you, but he told us he was awful surprised himself, did -n't he, girls?" - -Lena sidled up to me and said teasingly: "What made you so solemn? I -thought you were scared. I was sure you'd forget." - -Anna spoke wistfully. "It must make you happy, Jim, to have fine thoughts -like that in your mind all the time, and to have words to put them in. I -always wanted to go to school, you know." - -"Oh, I just sat there and wished my papa could hear you! Jim,"--Antonia -took hold of my coat lapels,--"there was something in your speech that made -me think so about my papa!" - -"I thought about your papa when I wrote my speech, Tony," I said. "I -dedicated it to him." - -She threw her arms around me, and her dear face was all wet with tears. - -I stood watching their white dresses glimmer smaller and smaller down the -sidewalk as they went away. I have had no other success that pulled at my -heartstrings like that one. - - - - -XIV - - -THE day after Commencement I moved my books and desk upstairs, to an empty -room where I should be undisturbed, and I fell to studying in earnest. I -worked off a year's trigonometry that summer, and began Virgil alone. -Morning after morning I used to pace up and down my sunny little room, -looking off at the distant river bluffs and the roll of the blond pastures -between, scanning the AEneid aloud and committing long passages to memory. -Sometimes in the evening Mrs. Harling called to me as I passed her gate, -and asked me to come in and let her play for me. She was lonely for -Charley, she said, and liked to have a boy about. Whenever my grandparents -had misgivings, and began to wonder whether I was not too young to go off -to college alone, Mrs. Harling took up my cause vigorously. Grandfather -had such respect for her judgment that I knew he would not go against her. - -I had only one holiday that summer. It was in July. I met Antonia downtown -on Saturday afternoon, and learned that she and Tiny and Lena were going -to the river next day with Anna Hansen--the elder was all in bloom now, and -Anna wanted to make elder-blow wine. - -"Anna's to drive us down in the Marshalls' delivery wagon, and we'll take -a nice lunch and have a picnic. Just us; nobody else. Could n't you happen -along, Jim? It would be like old times." - -I considered a moment. "Maybe I can, if I won't be in the way." - -On Sunday morning I rose early and got out of Black Hawk while the dew was -still heavy on the long meadow grasses. It was the high season for summer -flowers. The pink bee-bush stood tall along the sandy roadsides, and the -cone-flowers and rose mallow grew everywhere. Across the wire fence, in -the long grass, I saw a clump of flaming orange-colored milkweed, rare in -that part of the State. I left the road and went around through a stretch -of pasture that was always cropped short in summer, where the gaillardia -came up year after year and matted over the ground with the deep, velvety -red that is in Bokhara carpets. The country was empty and solitary except -for the larks that Sunday morning, and it seemed to lift itself up to me -and to come very close. - -The river was running strong for midsummer; heavy rains to the west of us -had kept it full. I crossed the bridge and went upstream along the wooded -shore to a pleasant dressing-room I knew among the dogwood bushes, all -overgrown with wild grapevines. I began to undress for a swim. The girls -would not be along yet. For the first time it occurred to me that I would -be homesick for that river after I left it. The sandbars, with their clean -white beaches and their little groves of willows and cottonwood seedlings, -were a sort of No Man's Land, little newly-created worlds that belonged to -the Black Hawk boys. Charley Harling and I had hunted through these woods, -fished from the fallen logs, until I knew every inch of the river shores -and had a friendly feeling for every bar and shallow. - -After my swim, while I was playing about indolently in the water, I heard -the sound of hoofs and wheels on the bridge. I struck downstream and -shouted, as the open spring wagon came into view on the middle span. They -stopped the horse, and the two girls in the bottom of the cart stood up, -steadying themselves by the shoulders of the two in front, so that they -could see me better. They were charming up there, huddled together in the -cart and peering down at me like curious deer when they come out of the -thicket to drink. I found bottom near the bridge and stood up, waving to -them. - -"How pretty you look!" I called. - -"So do you!" they shouted altogether, and broke into peals of laughter. -Anna Hansen shook the reins and they drove on, while I zigzagged back to -my inlet and clambered up behind an overhanging elm. I dried myself in the -sun, and dressed slowly, reluctant to leave that green enclosure where the -sunlight flickered so bright through the grapevine leaves and the -woodpecker hammered away in the crooked elm that trailed out over the -water. As I went along the road back to the bridge I kept picking off -little pieces of scaly chalk from the dried water gullies, and breaking -them up in my hands. - -When I came upon the Marshalls' delivery horse, tied in the shade, the -girls had already taken their baskets and gone down the east road which -wound through the sand and scrub. I could hear them calling to each other. -The elder bushes did not grow back in the shady ravines between the -bluffs, but in the hot, sandy bottoms along the stream, where their roots -were always in moisture and their tops in the sun. The blossoms were -unusually luxuriant and beautiful that summer. - -I followed a cattle path through the thick underbrush until I came to a -slope that fell away abruptly to the water's edge. A great chunk of the -shore had been bitten out by some spring freshet, and the scar was masked -by elder bushes, growing down to the water in flowery terraces. I did not -touch them. I was overcome by content and drowsiness and by the warm -silence about me. There was no sound but the high, sing-song buzz of wild -bees and the sunny gurgle of the water underneath. I peeped over the edge -of the bank to see the little stream that made the noise; it flowed along -perfectly clear over the sand and gravel, cut off from the muddy main -current by a long sandbar. Down there, on the lower shelf of the bank, I -saw Antonia, seated alone under the pagoda-like elders. She looked up when -she heard me, and smiled, but I saw that she had been crying. I slid down -into the soft sand beside her and asked her what was the matter. - -"It makes me homesick, Jimmy, this flower, this smell," she said softly. -"We have this flower very much at home, in the old country. It always grew -in our yard and my papa had a green bench and a table under the bushes. In -summer, when they were in bloom, he used to sit there with his friend that -played the trombone. When I was little I used to go down there to hear -them talk--beautiful talk, like what I never hear in this country." - -"What did they talk about?" I asked her. - -She sighed and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know! About music, and the -woods, and about God, and when they were young." She turned to me suddenly -and looked into my eyes. "You think, Jimmy, that maybe my father's spirit -can go back to those old places?" - -I told her about the feeling of her father's presence I had on that winter -day when my grandparents had gone over to see his dead body and I was left -alone in the house. I said I felt sure then that he was on his way back to -his own country, and that even now, when I passed his grave, I always -thought of him as being among the woods and fields that were so dear to -him. - -Antonia had the most trusting, responsive eyes in the world; love and -credulousness seemed to look out of them with open faces. "Why did n't you -ever tell me that before? It makes me feel more sure for him." After a -while she said: "You know, Jim, my father was different from my mother. He -did not have to marry my mother, and all his brothers quarreled with him -because he did. I used to hear the old people at home whisper about it. -They said he could have paid my mother money, and not married her. But he -was older than she was, and he was too kind to treat her like that. He -lived in his mother's house, and she was a poor girl come in to do the -work. After my father married her, my grandmother never let my mother come -into her house again. When I went to my grandmother's funeral was the only -time I was ever in my grandmother's house. Don't that seem strange?" - -While she talked, I lay back in the hot sand and looked up at the blue sky -between the flat bouquets of elder. I could hear the bees humming and -singing, but they stayed up in the sun above the flowers and did not come -down into the shadow of the leaves. Antonia seemed to me that day exactly -like the little girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda. - -"Some day, Tony, I am going over to your country, and I am going to the -little town where you lived. Do you remember all about it?" - -"Jim," she said earnestly, "if I was put down there in the middle of the -night, I could find my way all over that little town; and along the river -to the next town, where my grandmother lived. My feet remember all the -little paths through the woods, and where the big roots stick out to trip -you. I ain't never forgot my own country." - -There was a crackling in the branches above us, and Lena Lingard peered -down over the edge of the bank. - -"You lazy things!" she cried. "All this elder, and you two lying there! -Did n't you hear us calling you?" Almost as flushed as she had been in my -dream, she leaned over the edge of the bank and began to demolish our -flowery pagoda. I had never seen her so energetic; she was panting with -zeal, and the perspiration stood in drops on her short, yielding upper -lip. I sprang to my feet and ran up the bank. - -It was noon now, and so hot that the dogwoods and scrub-oaks began to turn -up the silvery under-side of their leaves, and all the foliage looked soft -and wilted. I carried the lunch-basket to the top of one of the chalk -bluffs, where even on the calmest days there was always a breeze. The -flat-topped, twisted little oaks threw light shadows on the grass. Below -us we could see the windings of the river, and Black Hawk, grouped among -its trees, and, beyond, the rolling country, swelling gently until it met -the sky. We could recognize familiar farmhouses and windmills. Each of the -girls pointed out to me the direction in which her father's farm lay, and -told me how many acres were in wheat that year and how many in corn. - -"My old folks," said Tiny Soderball, "have put in twenty acres of rye. -They get it ground at the mill, and it makes nice bread. It seems like my -mother ain't been so homesick, ever since father's raised rye flour for -her." - -"It must have been a trial for our mothers," said Lena, "coming out here -and having to do everything different. My mother had always lived in town. -She says she started behind in farm-work, and never has caught up." - -"Yes, a new country's hard on the old ones, sometimes," said Anna -thoughtfully. "My grandmother's getting feeble now, and her mind wanders. -She's forgot about this country, and thinks she's at home in Norway. She -keeps asking mother to take her down to the waterside and the fish market. -She craves fish all the time. Whenever I go home I take her canned salmon -and mackerel." - -"Mercy, it's hot!" Lena yawned. She was supine under a little oak, resting -after the fury of her elder-hunting, and had taken off the high-heeled -slippers she had been silly enough to wear. "Come here, Jim. You never got -the sand out of your hair." She began to draw her fingers slowly through -my hair. - -Antonia pushed her away. "You'll never get it out like that," she said -sharply. She gave my head a rough touzling and finished me off with -something like a box on the ear. "Lena, you ought n't to try to wear those -slippers any more. They're too small for your feet. You'd better give them -to me for Yulka." - -"All right," said Lena good-naturedly, tucking her white stockings under -her skirt. "You get all Yulka's things, don't you? I wish father did n't -have such bad luck with his farm machinery; then I could buy more things -for my sisters. I'm going to get Mary a new coat this fall, if the sulky -plough's never paid for!" - -Tiny asked her why she did n't wait until after Christmas, when coats -would be cheaper. "What do you think of poor me?" she added; "with six at -home, younger than I am? And they all think I'm rich, because when I go -back to the country I'm dressed so fine!" She shrugged her shoulders. -"But, you know, my weakness is playthings. I like to buy them playthings -better than what they need." - -"I know how that is," said Anna. "When we first came here, and I was -little, we were too poor to buy toys. I never got over the loss of a doll -somebody gave me before we left Norway. A boy on the boat broke her, and I -still hate him for it." - -"I guess after you got here you had plenty of live dolls to nurse, like -me!" Lena remarked cynically. - -"Yes, the babies came along pretty fast, to be sure. But I never minded. I -was fond of them all. The youngest one, that we did n't any of us want, is -the one we love best now." - -Lena sighed. "Oh, the babies are all right; if only they don't come in -winter. Ours nearly always did. I don't see how mother stood it. I tell -you what girls," she sat up with sudden energy; "I'm going to get my -mother out of that old sod house where she's lived so many years. The men -will never do it. Johnnie, that's my oldest brother, he's wanting to get -married now, and build a house for his girl instead of his mother. Mrs. -Thomas says she thinks I can move to some other town pretty soon, and go -into business for myself. If I don't get into business, I'll maybe marry a -rich gambler." - -"That would be a poor way to get on," said Anna sarcastically. "I wish I -could teach school, like Selma Kronn. Just think! She'll be the first -Scandinavian girl to get a position in the High School. We ought to be -proud of her." - -Selma was a studious girl, who had not much tolerance for giddy things -like Tiny and Lena; but they always spoke of her with admiration. - -Tiny moved about restlessly, fanning herself with her straw hat. "If I was -smart like her, I'd be at my books day and night. But she was born -smart--and look how her father's trained her! He was something high up in -the old country." - -"So was my mother's father," murmured Lena, "but that's all the good it -does us! My father's father was smart, too, but he was wild. He married a -Lapp. I guess that's what's the matter with me; they say Lapp blood will -out." - -"A real Lapp, Lena?" I exclaimed. "The kind that wear skins?" - -"I don't know if she wore skins, but she was a Lapp all right, and his -folks felt dreadful about it. He was sent up north on some Government job -he had, and fell in with her. He would marry her." - -"But I thought Lapland women were fat and ugly, and had squint eyes, like -Chinese?" I objected. - -"I don't know, maybe. There must be something mighty taking about the Lapp -girls, though; mother says the Norwegians up north are always afraid their -boys will run after them." - -In the afternoon, when the heat was less oppressive, we had a lively game -of "Pussy Wants a Corner," on the flat bluff-top, with the little trees -for bases. Lena was Pussy so often that she finally said she would n't -play any more. We threw ourselves down on the grass, out of breath. - -"Jim," Antonia said dreamily, "I want you to tell the girls about how the -Spanish first came here, like you and Charley Harling used to talk about. -I've tried to tell them, but I leave out so much." - -They sat under a little oak, Tony resting against the trunk and the other -girls leaning against her and each other, and listened to the little I was -able to tell them about Coronado and his search for the Seven Golden -Cities. At school we were taught that he had not got so far north as -Nebraska, but had given up his quest and turned back somewhere in Kansas. -But Charley Harling and I had a strong belief that he had been along this -very river. A farmer in the county north of ours, when he was breaking -sod, had turned up a metal stirrup of fine workmanship, and a sword with a -Spanish inscription on the blade. He lent these relics to Mr. Harling, who -brought them home with him. Charley and I scoured them, and they were on -exhibition in the Harling office all summer. Father Kelly, the priest, had -found the name of the Spanish maker on the sword, and an abbreviation that -stood for the city of Cordova. - -"And that I saw with my own eyes," Antonia put in triumphantly. "So Jim -and Charley were right, and the teachers were wrong!" - -The girls began to wonder among themselves. Why had the Spaniards come so -far? What must this country have been like, then? Why had Coronado never -gone back to Spain, to his riches and his castles and his king? I could -n't tell them. I only knew the school books said he "died in the -wilderness, of a broken heart." - -"More than him has done that," said Antonia sadly, and the girls murmured -assent. - -We sat looking off across the country, watching the sun go down. The curly -grass about us was on fire now. The bark of the oaks turned red as copper. -There was a shimmer of gold on the brown river. Out in the stream the -sandbars glittered like glass, and the light trembled in the willow -thickets as if little flames were leaping among them. The breeze sank to -stillness. In the ravine a ringdove mourned plaintively, and somewhere off -in the bushes an owl hooted. The girls sat listless, leaning against each -other. The long fingers of the sun touched their foreheads. - -Presently we saw a curious thing: There were no clouds, the sun was going -down in a limpid, gold-washed sky. Just as the lower edge of the red disc -rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure -suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining -our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland -farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking -just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it -stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the -disc; the handles, the tongue, the share--black against the molten red. -There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun. - -Even while we whispered about it, our vision disappeared; the ball dropped -and dropped until the red tip went beneath the earth. The fields below us -were dark, the sky was growing pale, and that forgotten plough had sunk -back to its own littleness somewhere on the prairie. - - - - -XV - - -LATE in August the Cutters went to Omaha for a few days, leaving Antonia -in charge of the house. Since the scandal about the Swedish girl, Wick -Cutter could never get his wife to stir out of Black Hawk without him. - -The day after the Cutters left, Antonia came over to see us. Grandmother -noticed that she seemed troubled and distracted. "You've got something on -your mind, Antonia," she said anxiously. - -"Yes, Mrs. Burden. I could n't sleep much last night." She hesitated, and -then told us how strangely Mr. Cutter had behaved before he went away. He -put all the silver in a basket and placed it under her bed, and with it a -box of papers which he told her were valuable. He made her promise that -she would not sleep away from the house, or be out late in the evening, -while he was gone. He strictly forbade her to ask any of the girls she -knew to stay with her at night. She would be perfectly safe, he said, as -he had just put a new Yale lock on the front door. - -Cutter had been so insistent in regard to these details that now she felt -uncomfortable about staying there alone. She had n't liked the way he kept -coming into the kitchen to instruct her, or the way he looked at her. "I -feel as if he is up to some of his tricks again, and is going to try to -scare me, somehow." - -Grandmother was apprehensive at once. "I don't think it's right for you to -stay there, feeling that way. I suppose it would n't be right for you to -leave the place alone, either, after giving your word. Maybe Jim would be -willing to go over there and sleep, and you could come here nights. I'd -feel safer, knowing you were under my own roof. I guess Jim could take -care of their silver and old usury notes as well as you could." - -Antonia turned to me eagerly. "Oh, would you, Jim? I'd make up my bed nice -and fresh for you. It's a real cool room, and the bed's right next the -window. I was afraid to leave the window open last night." - -I liked my own room, and I did n't like the Cutters' house under any -circumstances; but Tony looked so troubled that I consented to try this -arrangement. I found that I slept there as well as anywhere, and when I -got home in the morning, Tony had a good breakfast waiting for me. After -prayers she sat down at the table with us, and it was like old times in -the country. - -The third night I spent at the Cutters', I awoke suddenly with the -impression that I had heard a door open and shut. Everything was still, -however, and I must have gone to sleep again immediately. - -The next thing I knew, I felt some one sit down on the edge of the bed. I -was only half awake, but I decided that he might take the Cutters' silver, -whoever he was. Perhaps if I did not move, he would find it and get out -without troubling me. I held my breath and lay absolutely still. A hand -closed softly on my shoulder, and at the same moment I felt something -hairy and cologne-scented brushing my face. If the room had suddenly been -flooded with electric light, I could n't have seen more clearly the -detestable bearded countenance that I knew was bending over me. I caught a -handful of whiskers and pulled, shouting something. The hand that held my -shoulder was instantly at my throat. The man became insane; he stood over -me, choking me with one fist and beating me in the face with the other, -hissing and chuckling and letting out a flood of abuse. - -"So this is what she's up to when I'm away, is it? Where is she, you nasty -whelp, where is she? Under the bed, are you, hussy? I know your tricks! -Wait till I get at you! I'll fix this rat you've got in here. He's caught, -all right!" - -So long as Cutter had me by the throat, there was no chance for me at all. -I got hold of his thumb and bent it back, until he let go with a yell. In -a bound, I was on my feet, and easily sent him sprawling to the floor. -Then I made a dive for the open window, struck the wire screen, knocked it -out, and tumbled after it into the yard. - -Suddenly I found myself running across the north end of Black Hawk in my -nightshirt, just as one sometimes finds one's self behaving in bad dreams. -When I got home I climbed in at the kitchen window. I was covered with -blood from my nose and lip, but I was too sick to do anything about it. I -found a shawl and an overcoat on the hatrack, lay down on the parlor sofa, -and in spite of my hurts, went to sleep. - -Grandmother found me there in the morning. Her cry of fright awakened me. -Truly, I was a battered object. As she helped me to my room, I caught a -glimpse of myself in the mirror. My lip was cut and stood out like a -snout. My nose looked like a big blue plum, and one eye was swollen shut -and hideously discolored. Grandmother said we must have the doctor at -once, but I implored her, as I had never begged for anything before, not -to send for him. I could stand anything, I told her, so long as nobody saw -me or knew what had happened to me. I entreated her not to let -grandfather, even, come into my room. She seemed to understand, though I -was too faint and miserable to go into explanations. When she took off my -nightshirt, she found such bruises on my chest and shoulders that she -began to cry. She spent the whole morning bathing and poulticing me, and -rubbing me with arnica. I heard Antonia sobbing outside my door, but I -asked grandmother to send her away. I felt that I never wanted to see her -again. I hated her almost as much as I hated Cutter. She had let me in for -all this disgustingness. Grandmother kept saying how thankful we ought to -be that I had been there instead of Antonia. But I lay with my disfigured -face to the wall and felt no particular gratitude. My one concern was that -grandmother should keep every one away from me. If the story once got -abroad, I would never hear the last of it. I could well imagine what the -old men down at the drug-store would do with such a theme. - -While grandmother was trying to make me comfortable, grandfather went to -the depot and learned that Wick Cutter had come home on the night express -from the east, and had left again on the six o'clock train for Denver that -morning. The agent said his face was striped with court-plaster, and he -carried his left hand in a sling. He looked so used up, that the agent -asked him what had happened to him since ten o'clock the night before; -whereat Cutter began to swear at him and said he would have him discharged -for incivility. - -That afternoon, while I was asleep, Antonia took grandmother with her, and -went over to the Cutters' to pack her trunk. They found the place locked -up, and they had to break the window to get into Antonia's bedroom. There -everything was in shocking disorder. Her clothes had been taken out of her -closet, thrown into the middle of the room, and trampled and torn. My own -garments had been treated so badly that I never saw them again; -grandmother burned them in the Cutters' kitchen range. - -While Antonia was packing her trunk and putting her room in order, to -leave it, the front-door bell rang violently. There stood Mrs. -Cutter,--locked out, for she had no key to the new lock--her head trembling -with rage. "I advised her to control herself, or she would have a stroke," -grandmother said afterwards. - -Grandmother would not let her see Antonia at all, but made her sit down in -the parlor while she related to her just what had occurred the night -before. Antonia was frightened, and was going home to stay for a while, -she told Mrs. Cutter; it would be useless to interrogate the girl, for she -knew nothing of what had happened. - -Then Mrs. Cutter told her story. She and her husband had started home from -Omaha together the morning before. They had to stop over several hours at -Waymore Junction to catch the Black Hawk train. During the wait, Cutter -left her at the depot and went to the Waymore bank to attend to some -business. When he returned, he told her that he would have to stay -overnight there, but she could go on home. He bought her ticket and put -her on the train. She saw him slip a twenty-dollar bill into her handbag -with her ticket. That bill, she said, should have aroused her suspicions -at once--but did not. - -The trains are never called at little junction towns; everybody knows when -they come in. Mr. Cutter showed his wife's ticket to the conductor, and -settled her in her seat before the train moved off. It was not until -nearly nightfall that she discovered she was on the express bound for -Kansas City, that her ticket was made out to that point, and that Cutter -must have planned it so. The conductor told her the Black Hawk train was -due at Waymore twelve minutes after the Kansas City train left. She saw at -once that her husband had played this trick in order to get back to Black -Hawk without her. She had no choice but to go on to Kansas City and take -the first fast train for home. - -Cutter could have got home a day earlier than his wife by any one of a -dozen simpler devices; he could have left her in the Omaha hotel, and said -he was going on to Chicago for a few days. But apparently it was part of -his fun to outrage her feelings as much as possible. - -"Mr. Cutter will pay for this, Mrs. Burden. He will pay!" Mrs. Cutter -avouched, nodding her horselike head and rolling her eyes. - -Grandmother said she had n't a doubt of it. - -Certainly Cutter liked to have his wife think him a devil. In some way he -depended upon the excitement he could arouse in her hysterical nature. -Perhaps he got the feeling of being a rake more from his wife's rage and -amazement than from any experiences of his own. His zest in debauchery -might wane, but never Mrs. Cutter's belief in it. The reckoning with his -wife at the end of an escapade was something he counted on--like the last -powerful liqueur after a long dinner. The one excitement he really could -n't do without was quarreling with Mrs. Cutter! - - - - - -BOOK III--LENA LINGARD - - - - -I - - -AT the University I had the good fortune to come immediately under the -influence of a brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had -arrived in Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as -head of the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his -physicians, his health having been enfeebled by a long illness in Italy. -When I took my entrance examinations he was my examiner, and my course was -arranged under his supervision. - -I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but stayed in Lincoln, -working off a year's Greek, which had been my only condition on entering -the Freshman class. Cleric's doctor advised against his going back to New -England, and except for a few weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln -all that summer. We played tennis, read, and took long walks together. I -shall always look back on that time of mental awakening as one of the -happiest in my life. Gaston Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas; -when one first enters that world everything else fades for a time, and all -that went before is as if it had not been. Yet I found curious survivals; -some of the figures of my old life seemed to be waiting for me in the new. - -In those days there were many serious young men among the students who had -come up to the University from the farms and the little towns scattered -over the thinly settled State. Some of those boys came straight from the -cornfields with only a summer's wages in their pockets, hung on through -the four years, shabby and underfed, and completed the course by really -heroic self-sacrifice. Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering -pioneer school-teachers, stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few -enthusiastic young men just out of graduate schools. There was an -atmosphere of endeavor, of expectancy and bright hopefulness about the -young college that had lifted its head from the prairie only a few years -before. - -Our personal life was as free as that of our instructors. There were no -college dormitories; we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms -with an old couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their -children and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near -the open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and -on that account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom, -originally a linen closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to -contain my cot bed, but it enabled me to call the other room my study. The -dresser, and the great walnut wardrobe which held all my clothes, even my -hats and shoes, I had pushed out of the way, and I considered them -non-existent, as children eliminate incongruous objects when they are -playing house. I worked at a commodious green-topped table placed directly -in front of the west window which looked out over the prairie. In the -corner at my right were all my books, in shelves I had made and painted -myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark, old-fashioned wall-paper -was covered by a large map of ancient Rome, the work of some German -scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he was sending for books from -abroad. Over the bookcase hung a photograph of the Tragic Theater at -Pompeii, which he had given me from his collection. - -When I sat at work I half faced a deep, upholstered chair which stood at -the end of my table, its high back against the wall. I had bought it with -great care. My instructor sometimes looked in upon me when he was out for -an evening tramp, and I noticed that he was more likely to linger and -become talkative if I had a comfortable chair for him to sit in, and if he -found a bottle of Benedictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he -liked, at his elbow. He was, I had discovered, parsimonious about small -expenditures--a trait absolutely inconsistent with his general character. -Sometimes when he came he was silent and moody, and after a few sarcastic -remarks went away again, to tramp the streets of Lincoln, which were -almost as quiet and oppressively domestic as those of Black Hawk. Again, -he would sit until nearly midnight, talking about Latin and English -poetry, or telling me about his long stay in Italy. - -I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and vividness of his talk. In a -crowd he was nearly always silent. Even for his classroom he had no -platitudes, no stock of professorial anecdotes. When he was tired his -lectures were clouded, obscure, elliptical; but when he was interested -they were wonderful. I believe that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a -great poet, and I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative -talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of -personal communication. How often I have seen him draw his dark brows -together, fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the -carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his -brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before one out of the -shadows--white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never forget his -face as it looked one night when he told me about the solitary day he -spent among the sea temples at Paestum: the soft wind blowing through the -roofless columns, the birds flying low over the flowering marsh grasses, -the changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung mountains. He had willfully -stayed the short summer night there, wrapped in his coat and rug, watching -the constellations on their path down the sky until "the bride of old -Tithonus" rose out of the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn. -It was there he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his -departure for Greece and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was -still, indeed, doing penance for it. - -I remember vividly another evening, when something led us to talk of -Dante's veneration for Virgil. Cleric went through canto after canto of -the "Commedia," repeating the discourse between Dante and his "sweet -teacher," while his cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long -fingers. I can hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who -spoke for Dante: "_I was famous on earth with the name which endures -longest and honors most. The seeds of my ardor were the sparks from that -divine flame whereby more than a thousand have kindled; I speak of the -AEneid, mother to me and nurse to me in poetry._" - -Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I was not deceived about -myself; I knew that I should never be a scholar. I could never lose myself -for long among impersonal things. Mental excitement was apt to send me -with a rush back to my own naked land and the figures scattered upon it. -While I was in the very act of yearning toward the new forms that Cleric -brought up before me, my mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found -myself thinking of the places and people of my own infinitesimal past. -They stood out strengthened and simplified now, like the image of the -plough against the sun. They were all I had for an answer to the new -appeal. I begrudged the room that Jake and Otto and Russian Peter took up -in my memory, which I wanted to crowd with other things. But whenever my -consciousness was quickened, all those early friends were quickened within -it, and in some strange way they accompanied me through all my new -experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely stopped to -wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how. - - - - -II - - -ONE March evening in my Sophomore year I was sitting alone in my room -after supper. There had been a warm thaw all day, with mushy yards and -little streams of dark water gurgling cheerfully into the streets out of -old snow-banks. My window was open, and the earthy wind blowing through -made me indolent. On the edge of the prairie, where the sun had gone down, -the sky was turquoise blue, like a lake, with gold light throbbing in it. -Higher up, in the utter clarity of the western slope, the evening star -hung like a lamp suspended by silver chains--like the lamp engraved upon -the title-page of old Latin texts, which is always appearing in new -heavens, and waking new desires in men. It reminded me, at any rate, to -shut my window and light my wick in answer. I did so regretfully, and the -dim objects in the room emerged from the shadows and took their place -about me with the helpfulness which custom breeds. - -I propped my book open and stared listlessly at the page of the Georgics -where to-morrow's lesson began. It opened with the melancholy reflection -that, in the lives of mortals, the best days are the first to flee. -"Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit." I turned back to the beginning of the third -book, which we had read in class that morning. "Primus ego in patriam -mecum {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} deducam Musas"; "for I shall be the first, if I live, to bring the -Muse into my country." Cleric had explained to us that "patria" here -meant, not a nation or even a province, but the little rural neighborhood -on the Mincio where the poet was born. This was not a boast, but a hope, -at once bold and devoutly humble, that he might bring the Muse (but lately -come to Italy from her cloudy Grecian mountains), not to the capital, the -palatia Romana, but to his own little "country"; to his father's fields, -"sloping down to the river and to the old beech trees with broken tops." - -Cleric said he thought Virgil, when he was dying at Brindisi, must have -remembered that passage. After he had faced the bitter fact that he was to -leave the AEneid unfinished, and had decreed that the great canvas, crowded -with figures of gods and men, should be burned rather than survive him -unperfected, then his mind must have gone back to the perfect utterance of -the Georgics, where the pen was fitted to the matter as the plough is to -the furrow; and he must have said to himself with the thankfulness of a -good man, "I was the first to bring the Muse into my country." - -We left the classroom quietly, conscious that we had been brushed by the -wing of a great feeling, though perhaps I alone knew Cleric intimately -enough to guess what that feeling was. In the evening, as I sat staring at -my book, the fervor of his voice stirred through the quantities on the -page before me. I was wondering whether that particular rocky strip of New -England coast about which he had so often told me was Cleric's patria. -Before I had got far with my reading I was disturbed by a knock. I hurried -to the door and when I opened it saw a woman standing in the dark hall. - -"I expect you hardly know me, Jim." - -The voice seemed familiar, but I did not recognize her until she stepped -into the light of my doorway and I beheld--Lena Lingard! She was so quietly -conventionalized by city clothes that I might have passed her on the -street without seeing her. Her black suit fitted her figure smoothly, and -a black lace hat, with pale-blue forget-me-nots, sat demurely on her -yellow hair. - -I led her toward Cleric's chair, the only comfortable one I had, -questioning her confusedly. - -She was not disconcerted by my embarrassment. She looked about her with -the naive curiosity I remembered so well. "You are quite comfortable here, -are n't you? I live in Lincoln now, too, Jim. I'm in business for myself. -I have a dressmaking shop in the Raleigh Block, out on O Street. I've made -a real good start." - -"But, Lena, when did you come?" - -"Oh, I've been here all winter. Did n't your grandmother ever write you? -I've thought about looking you up lots of times. But we've all heard what -a studious young man you've got to be, and I felt bashful. I did n't know -whether you'd be glad to see me." She laughed her mellow, easy laugh, that -was either very artless or very comprehending, one never quite knew which. -"You seem the same, though,--except you're a young man, now, of course. Do -you think I've changed?" - -"Maybe you're prettier--though you were always pretty enough. Perhaps it's -your clothes that make a difference." - -"You like my new suit? I have to dress pretty well in my business." She -took off her jacket and sat more at ease in her blouse, of some soft, -flimsy silk. She was already at home in my place, had slipped quietly into -it, as she did into everything. She told me her business was going well, -and she had saved a little money. - -"This summer I'm going to build the house for mother I've talked about so -long. I won't be able to pay up on it at first, but I want her to have it -before she is too old to enjoy it. Next summer I'll take her down new -furniture and carpets, so she'll have something to look forward to all -winter." - -I watched Lena sitting there so smooth and sunny and well cared-for, and -thought of how she used to run barefoot over the prairie until after the -snow began to fly, and how Crazy Mary chased her round and round the -cornfields. It seemed to me wonderful that she should have got on so well -in the world. Certainly she had no one but herself to thank for it. - -"You must feel proud of yourself, Lena," I said heartily. "Look at me; -I've never earned a dollar, and I don't know that I'll ever be able to." - -"Tony says you're going to be richer than Mr. Harling some day. She's -always bragging about you, you know." - -"Tell me, how _is_ Tony?" - -"She's fine. She works for Mrs. Gardener at the hotel now. She's -housekeeper. Mrs. Gardener's health is n't what it was, and she can't see -after everything like she used to. She has great confidence in Tony. -Tony's made it up with the Harlings, too. Little Nina is so fond of her -that Mrs. Harling kind of overlooked things." - -"Is she still going with Larry Donovan?" - -"Oh, that's on, worse than ever! I guess they're engaged. Tony talks about -him like he was president of the railroad. Everybody laughs about it, -because she was never a girl to be soft. She won't hear a word against -him. She's so sort of innocent." - -I said I did n't like Larry, and never would. - -Lena's face dimpled. "Some of us could tell her things, but it would n't -do any good. She'd always believe him. That's Antonia's failing, you know; -if she once likes people, she won't hear anything against them." - -"I think I'd better go home and look after Antonia," I said. - -"I think you had." Lena looked up at me in frank amusement. "It's a good -thing the Harlings are friendly with her again. Larry's afraid of them. -They ship so much grain, they have influence with the railroad people. -What are you studying?" She leaned her elbows on the table and drew my -book toward her. I caught a faint odor of violet sachet. "So that's Latin, -is it? It looks hard. You do go to the theater sometimes, though, for I've -seen you there. Don't you just love a good play, Jim? I can't stay at home -in the evening if there's one in town. I'd be willing to work like a -slave, it seems to me, to live in a place where there are theaters." - -"Let's go to a show together sometime. You are going to let me come to see -you, are n't you?" - -"Would you like to? I'd be ever so pleased. I'm never busy after six -o'clock, and I let my sewing girls go at half-past five. I board, to save -time, but sometimes I cook a chop for myself, and I'd be glad to cook one -for you. Well,"--she began to put on her white gloves,--"it's been awful -good to see you, Jim." - -"You need n't hurry, need you? You've hardly told me anything yet." - -"We can talk when you come to see me. I expect you don't often have lady -visitors. The old woman downstairs did n't want to let me come up very -much. I told her I was from your home town, and had promised your -grandmother to come and see you. How surprised Mrs. Burden would be!" Lena -laughed softly as she rose. - -When I caught up my hat she shook her head. "No, I don't want you to go -with me. I'm to meet some Swedes at the drug-store. You would n't care for -them. I wanted to see your room so I could write Tony all about it, but I -must tell her how I left you right here with your books. She's always so -afraid some one will run off with you!" Lena slipped her silk sleeves into -the jacket I held for her, smoothed it over her person, and buttoned it -slowly. I walked with her to the door. "Come and see me sometimes when -you're lonesome. But maybe you have all the friends you want. Have you?" -She turned her soft cheek to me. "Have you?" she whispered teasingly in my -ear. In a moment I watched her fade down the dusky stairway. - - - -When I turned back to my room the place seemed much pleasanter than -before. Lena had left something warm and friendly in the lamplight. How I -loved to hear her laugh again! It was so soft and unexcited and -appreciative--gave a favorable interpretation to everything. When I closed -my eyes I could hear them all laughing--the Danish laundry girls and the -three Bohemian Marys. Lena had brought them all back to me. It came over -me, as it had never done before, the relation between girls like those and -the poetry of Virgil. If there were no girls like them in the world, there -would be no poetry. I understood that clearly, for the first time. This -revelation seemed to me inestimably precious. I clung to it as if it might -suddenly vanish. - -As I sat down to my book at last, my old dream about Lena coming across -the harvest field in her short skirt seemed to me like the memory of an -actual experience. It floated before me on the page like a picture, and -underneath it stood the mournful line: Optima dies {~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} prima fugit. - - - - -III - - -IN Lincoln the best part of the theatrical season came late, when the good -companies stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long runs in -New York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see Joseph -Jefferson in "Rip Van Winkle," and to a war play called "Shenandoah." She -was inflexible about paying for her own seat; said she was in business -now, and she would n't have a schoolboy spending his money on her. I liked -to watch a play with Lena; everything was wonderful to her, and everything -was true. It was like going to revival meetings with some one who was -always being converted. She handed her feelings over to the actors with a -kind of fatalistic resignation. Accessories of costume and scene meant -much more to her than to me. She sat entranced through "Robin Hood" and -hung upon the lips of the contralto who sang, "Oh, Promise Me!" - -Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I watched anxiously in -those days, bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on which -two names were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an -actress of whom I had often heard, and the name "Camille." - -I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday evening, and we walked -down to the theater. The weather was warm and sultry and put us both in a -holiday humor. We arrived early, because Lena liked to watch the people -come in. There was a note on the programme, saying that the "incidental -music" would be from the opera "Traviata," which was made from the same -story as the play. We had neither of us read the play, and we did not know -what it was about--though I seemed to remember having heard it was a piece -in which great actresses shone. "The Count of Monte Cristo," which I had -seen James O'Neill play that winter, was by the only Alexandre Dumas I -knew. This play, I saw, was by his son, and I expected a family -resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run in off the prairie, could not -have been more innocent of what awaited them than were Lena and I. - -Our excitement began with the rise of the curtain, when the moody -Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated Nanine. Decidedly, there -was a new tang about this dialogue. I had never heard in the theater lines -that were alive, that presupposed and took for granted, like those which -passed between Varville and Marguerite in the brief encounter before her -friends entered. This introduced the most brilliant, worldly, the most -enchantingly gay scene I had ever looked upon. I had never seen champagne -bottles opened on the stage before--indeed, I had never seen them opened -anywhere. The memory of that supper makes me hungry now; the sight of it -then, when I had only a students' boarding-house dinner behind me, was -delicate torment. I seem to remember gilded chairs and tables (arranged -hurriedly by footmen in white gloves and stockings), linen of dazzling -whiteness, glittering glass, silver dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the -reddest of roses. The room was invaded by beautiful women and dashing -young men, laughing and talking together. The men were dressed more or -less after the period in which the play was written; the women were not. I -saw no inconsistency. Their talk seemed to open to one the brilliant world -in which they lived; every sentence made one older and wiser, every -pleasantry enlarged one's horizon. One could experience excess and satiety -without the inconvenience of learning what to do with one's hands in a -drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I missed some of -the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery. I strained my -ears and eyes to catch every exclamation. - -The actress who played Marguerite was even then old-fashioned, though -historic. She had been a member of Daly's famous New York company, and -afterward a "star" under his direction. She was a woman who could not be -taught, it is said, though she had a crude natural force which carried -with people whose feelings were accessible and whose taste was not -squeamish. She was already old, with a ravaged countenance and a physique -curiously hard and stiff. She moved with difficulty--I think she was lame--I -seem to remember some story about a malady of the spine. Her Armand was -disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth, perplexed in the -extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly in her power to -fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed her young, ardent, -reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish, avid of pleasure. I -wanted to cross the footlights and help the slim-waisted Armand in the -frilled shirt to convince her that there was still loyalty and devotion in -the world. Her sudden illness, when the gayety was at its height, her -pallor, the handkerchief she crushed against her lips, the cough she -smothered under the laughter while Gaston kept playing the piano -lightly--it all wrung my heart. But not so much as her cynicism in the long -dialogue with her lover which followed. How far was I from questioning her -unbelief! While the charmingly sincere young man pleaded with -her--accompanied by the orchestra in the old "Traviata" duet, "misterioso, -misterioso!"--she maintained her bitter skepticism, and the curtain fell on -her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent away -with his flower. - -Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing away -at the "Traviata" music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away, so -clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left Lena in -tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the lobby to -smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I had not -brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about the Junior -dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth. Lena was at least -a woman, and I was a man. - -Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept -unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter of -idyllic love, dreading the return of the young man whose ineffable -happiness was only to be the measure of his fall. - -I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and -temperament from Dumas' appealing heroine than the veteran actress who -first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as heavy -and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea and on the -consonants. At all times she was highly tragic, devoured by remorse. -Lightness of stress or behavior was far from her. Her voice was heavy and -deep: "Ar-r-r-mond!" she would begin, as if she were summoning him to the -bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough. She had only to utter them. -They created the character in spite of her. - -The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never -been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in -Olympe's salon for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the -ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the men -played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests made -their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the card tables, -and young Duval had been warned by Prudence, Marguerite descended the -staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such jewels--and her -face! One knew at a glance how it was with her. When Armand, with the -terrible words, "Look, all of you, I owe this woman nothing!" flung the -gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning Marguerite, Lena cowered beside -me and covered her face with her hands. - -The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there was n't a nerve -in me that had n't been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me cry. I -loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good fellow! The -New Year's presents were not too much; nothing could be too much now. I -wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my breast-pocket, worn for -elegance and not at all for use, was wet through by the time that moribund -woman sank for the last time into the arms of her lover. - -When we reached the door of the theater, the streets were shining with -rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling's useful Commencement -present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I -walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The -lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the -rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face with -a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and under the -showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had died only -yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed so much, and -which had reached me only that night, across long years and several -languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The idea is one -that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever that piece is -put on, it is April. - - - - -IV - - -HOW well I remember the stiff little parlor where I used to wait for Lena: -the hard horsehair furniture, bought at some auction sale, the long -mirror, the fashion-plates on the wall. If I sat down even for a moment I -was sure to find threads and bits of colored silk clinging to my clothes -after I went away. Lena's success puzzled me. She was so easy-going; had -none of the push and self-assertiveness that get people ahead in business. -She had come to Lincoln, a country girl, with no introductions except to -some cousins of Mrs. Thomas who lived there, and she was already making -clothes for the women of "the young married set." She evidently had great -natural aptitude for her work. She knew, as she said, "what people looked -well in." She never tired of poring over fashion books. Sometimes in the -evening I would find her alone in her work-room, draping folds of satin on -a wire figure, with a quite blissful expression of countenance. I could -n't help thinking that the years when Lena literally had n't enough -clothes to cover herself might have something to do with her untiring -interest in dressing the human figure. Her clients said that Lena "had -style," and overlooked her habitual inaccuracies. She never, I discovered, -finished anything by the time she had promised, and she frequently spent -more money on materials than her customer had authorized. Once, when I -arrived at six o'clock, Lena was ushering out a fidgety mother and her -awkward, overgrown daughter. The woman detained Lena at the door to say -apologetically:-- - -"You'll try to keep it under fifty for me, won't you, Miss Lingard? You -see, she's really too young to come to an expensive dressmaker, but I knew -you could do more with her than anybody else." - -"Oh, that will be all right, Mrs. Herron. I think we'll manage to get a -good effect," Lena replied blandly. - -I thought her manner with her customers very good, and wondered where she -had learned such self-possession. - -Sometimes after my morning classes were over, I used to encounter Lena -downtown, in her velvet suit and a little black hat, with a veil tied -smoothly over her face, looking as fresh as the spring morning. Maybe she -would be carrying home a bunch of jonquils or a hyacinth plant. When we -passed a candy store her footsteps would hesitate and linger. "Don't let -me go in," she would murmur. "Get me by if you can." She was very fond of -sweets, and was afraid of growing too plump. - -We had delightful Sunday breakfasts together at Lena's. At the back of her -long work-room was a bay-window, large enough to hold a box-couch and a -reading-table. We breakfasted in this recess, after drawing the curtains -that shut out the long room, with cutting-tables and wire women and -sheet-draped garments on the walls. The sunlight poured in, making -everything on the table shine and glitter and the flame of the alcohol -lamp disappear altogether. Lena's curly black water-spaniel, Prince, -breakfasted with us. He sat beside her on the couch and behaved very well -until the Polish violin-teacher across the hall began to practice, when -Prince would growl and sniff the air with disgust. Lena's landlord, old -Colonel Raleigh, had given her the dog, and at first she was not at all -pleased. She had spent too much of her life taking care of animals to have -much sentiment about them. But Prince was a knowing little beast, and she -grew fond of him. After breakfast I made him do his lessons; play dead -dog, shake hands, stand up like a soldier. We used to put my cadet cap on -his head--I had to take military drill at the University--and give him a -yard-measure to hold with his front leg. His gravity made us laugh -immoderately. - -Lena's talk always amused me. Antonia had never talked like the people -about her. Even after she learned to speak English readily there was -always something impulsive and foreign in her speech. But Lena had picked -up all the conventional expressions she heard at Mrs. Thomas's dressmaking -shop. Those formal phrases, the very flower of small-town proprieties, and -the flat commonplaces, nearly all hypocritical in their origin, became -very funny, very engaging, when they were uttered in Lena's soft voice, -with her caressing intonation and arch naivete. Nothing could be more -diverting than to hear Lena, who was almost as candid as Nature, call a -leg a "limb" or a house a "home." - -We used to linger a long while over our coffee in that sunny corner. Lena -was never so pretty as in the morning; she wakened fresh with the world -every day, and her eyes had a deeper color then, like the blue flowers -that are never so blue as when they first open. I could sit idle all -through a Sunday morning and look at her. Ole Benson's behavior was now no -mystery to me. - -"There was never any harm in Ole," she said once. "People need n't have -troubled themselves. He just liked to come over and sit on the draw-side -and forget about his bad luck. I liked to have him. Any company's welcome -when you're off with cattle all the time." - -"But was n't he always glum?" I asked. "People said he never talked at -all." - -"Sure he talked, in Norwegian. He'd been a sailor on an English boat and -had seen lots of queer places. He had wonderful tattoos. We used to sit -and look at them for hours; there was n't much to look at out there. He -was like a picture book. He had a ship and a strawberry girl on one arm, -and on the other a girl standing before a little house, with a fence and -gate and all, waiting for her sweetheart. Farther up his arm, her sailor -had come back and was kissing her. 'The Sailor's Return,' he called it." - -I admitted it was no wonder Ole liked to look at a pretty girl once in a -while, with such a fright at home. - -"You know," Lena said confidentially, "he married Mary because he thought -she was strong-minded and would keep him straight. He never could keep -straight on shore. The last time he landed in Liverpool he'd been out on a -two years' voyage. He was paid off one morning, and by the next he had n't -a cent left, and his watch and compass were gone. He'd got with some -women, and they'd taken everything. He worked his way to this country on a -little passenger boat. Mary was a stewardess, and she tried to convert him -on the way over. He thought she was just the one to keep him steady. Poor -Ole! He used to bring me candy from town, hidden in his feed-bag. He could -n't refuse anything to a girl. He'd have given away his tattoos long ago, -if he could. He's one of the people I'm sorriest for." - -If I happened to spend an evening with Lena and stayed late, the Polish -violin-teacher across the hall used to come out and watch me descend the -stairs, muttering so threateningly that it would have been easy to fall -into a quarrel with him. Lena had told him once that she liked to hear him -practice, so he always left his door open, and watched who came and went. - -There was a coolness between the Pole and Lena's landlord on her account. -Old Colonel Raleigh had come to Lincoln from Kentucky and invested an -inherited fortune in real estate, at the time of inflated prices. Now he -sat day after day in his office in the Raleigh Block, trying to discover -where his money had gone and how he could get some of it back. He was a -widower, and found very little congenial companionship in this casual -Western city. Lena's good looks and gentle manners appealed to him. He -said her voice reminded him of Southern voices, and he found as many -opportunities of hearing it as possible. He painted and papered her rooms -for her that spring, and put in a porcelain bathtub in place of the tin -one that had satisfied the former tenant. While these repairs were being -made, the old gentleman often dropped in to consult Lena's preferences. -She told me with amusement how Ordinsky, the Pole, had presented himself -at her door one evening, and said that if the landlord was annoying her by -his attentions, he would promptly put a stop to it. - -"I don't exactly know what to do about him," she said, shaking her head, -"he's so sort of wild all the time. I would n't like to have him say -anything rough to that nice old man. The Colonel is long-winded, but then -I expect he's lonesome. I don't think he cares much for Ordinsky, either. -He said once that if I had any complaints to make of my neighbors, I must -n't hesitate." - -One Saturday evening when I was having supper with Lena we heard a knock -at her parlor door, and there stood the Pole, coatless, in a dress shirt -and collar. Prince dropped on his paws and began to growl like a mastiff, -while the visitor apologized, saying that he could not possibly come in -thus attired, but he begged Lena to lend him some safety pins. - -"Oh, you'll have to come in, Mr. Ordinsky, and let me see what's the -matter." She closed the door behind him. "Jim, won't you make Prince -behave?" - -I rapped Prince on the nose, while Ordinsky explained that he had not had -his dress clothes on for a long time, and to-night, when he was going to -play for a concert, his waistcoat had split down the back. He thought he -could pin it together until he got it to a tailor. - -Lena took him by the elbow and turned him round. She laughed when she saw -the long gap in the satin. "You could never pin that, Mr. Ordinsky. You've -kept it folded too long, and the goods is all gone along the crease. Take -it off. I can put a new piece of lining-silk in there for you in ten -minutes." She disappeared into her work-room with the vest, leaving me to -confront the Pole, who stood against the door like a wooden figure. He -folded his arms and glared at me with his excitable, slanting brown eyes. -His head was the shape of a chocolate drop, and was covered with dry, -straw-colored hair that fuzzed up about his pointed crown. He had never -done more than mutter at me as I passed him, and I was surprised when he -now addressed me. - -"Miss Lingard," he said haughtily, "is a young woman for whom I have the -utmost, the utmost respect." - -"So have I," I said coldly. - -He paid no heed to my remark, but began to do rapid finger-exercises on -his shirt-sleeves, as he stood with tightly folded arms. - -"Kindness of heart," he went on, staring at the ceiling, "sentiment, are -not understood in a place like this. The noblest qualities are ridiculed. -Grinning college boys, ignorant and conceited, what do they know of -delicacy!" - -I controlled my features and tried to speak seriously. - -"If you mean me, Mr. Ordinsky, I have known Miss Lingard a long time, and -I think I appreciate her kindness. We come from the same town, and we grew -up together." - -His gaze traveled slowly down from the ceiling and rested on me. "Am I to -understand that you have this young woman's interests at heart? That you -do not wish to compromise her?" - -"That's a word we don't use much here, Mr. Ordinsky. A girl who makes her -own living can ask a college boy to supper without being talked about. We -take some things for granted." - -"Then I have misjudged you, and I ask your pardon,"--he bowed gravely. -"Miss Lingard," he went on, "is an absolutely trustful heart. She has not -learned the hard lessons of life. As for you and me, noblesse oblige,"--he -watched me narrowly. - -Lena returned with the vest. "Come in and let us look at you as you go -out, Mr. Ordinsky. I've never seen you in your dress suit," she said as -she opened the door for him. - -A few moments later he reappeared with his violin case--a heavy muffler -about his neck and thick woolen gloves on his bony hands. Lena spoke -encouragingly to him, and he went off with such an important, professional -air, that we fell to laughing as soon as we had shut the door. "Poor -fellow," Lena said indulgently, "he takes everything so hard." - -After that Ordinsky was friendly to me, and behaved as if there were some -deep understanding between us. He wrote a furious article, attacking the -musical taste of the town, and asked me to do him a great service by -taking it to the editor of the morning paper. If the editor refused to -print it, I was to tell him that he would be answerable to Ordinsky "in -person." He declared that he would never retract one word, and that he was -quite prepared to lose all his pupils. In spite of the fact that nobody -ever mentioned his article to him after it appeared--full of typographical -errors which he thought intentional--he got a certain satisfaction from -believing that the citizens of Lincoln had meekly accepted the epithet -"coarse barbarians." "You see how it is," he said to me, "where there is -no chivalry, there is no amour propre." When I met him on his rounds now, -I thought he carried his head more disdainfully than ever, and strode up -the steps of front porches and rang doorbells with more assurance. He told -Lena he would never forget how I had stood by him when he was "under -fire." - -All this time, of course, I was drifting. Lena had broken up my serious -mood. I was n't interested in my classes. I played with Lena and Prince, I -played with the Pole, I went buggy-riding with the old Colonel, who had -taken a fancy to me and used to talk to me about Lena and the "great -beauties" he had known in his youth. We were all three in love with Lena. - -Before the first of June, Gaston Cleric was offered an instructorship at -Harvard College, and accepted it. He suggested that I should follow him in -the fall, and complete my course at Harvard. He had found out about -Lena--not from me--and he talked to me seriously. - -"You won't do anything here now. You should either quit school and go to -work, or change your college and begin again in earnest. You won't recover -yourself while you are playing about with this handsome Norwegian. Yes, -I've seen her with you at the theater. She's very pretty, and perfectly -irresponsible, I should judge." - -Cleric wrote my grandfather that he would like to take me East with him. -To my astonishment, grandfather replied that I might go if I wished. I was -both glad and sorry on the day when the letter came. I stayed in my room -all evening and thought things over; I even tried to persuade myself that -I was standing in Lena's way--it is so necessary to be a little noble!--and -that if she had not me to play with, she would probably marry and secure -her future. - -The next evening I went to call on Lena. I found her propped up on the -couch in her bay window, with her foot in a big slipper. An awkward little -Russian girl whom she had taken into her work-room had dropped a flat-iron -on Lena's toe. On the table beside her there was a basket of early summer -flowers which the Pole had left after he heard of the accident. He always -managed to know what went on in Lena's apartment. - -Lena was telling me some amusing piece of gossip about one of her clients, -when I interrupted her and picked up the flower basket. - -"This old chap will be proposing to you some day, Lena." - -"Oh, he has--often!" she murmured. - -"What! After you've refused him?" - -"He does n't mind that. It seems to cheer him to mention the subject. Old -men are like that, you know. It makes them feel important to think they're -in love with somebody." - -"The Colonel would marry you in a minute. I hope you won't marry some old -fellow; not even a rich one." - -Lena shifted her pillows and looked up at me in surprise. "Why, I'm not -going to marry anybody. Did n't you know that?" - -"Nonsense, Lena. That's what girls say, but you know better. Every -handsome girl like you marries, of course." - -She shook her head. "Not me." - -"But why not? What makes you say that?" I persisted. - -Lena laughed. "Well, it's mainly because I don't want a husband. Men are -all right for friends, but as soon as you marry them they turn into cranky -old fathers, even the wild ones. They begin to tell you what's sensible -and what's foolish, and want you to stick at home all the time. I prefer -to be foolish when I feel like it, and be accountable to nobody." - -"But you'll be lonesome. You'll get tired of this sort of life, and you'll -want a family." - -"Not me. I like to be lonesome. When I went to work for Mrs. Thomas I was -nineteen years old, and I had never slept a night in my life when there -were n't three in the bed. I never had a minute to myself except when I -was off with the cattle." - -Usually, when Lena referred to her life in the country at all, she -dismissed it with a single remark, humorous or mildly cynical. But -to-night her mind seemed to dwell on those early years. She told me she -could n't remember a time when she was so little that she was n't lugging -a heavy baby about, helping to wash for babies, trying to keep their -little chapped hands and faces clean. She remembered home as a place where -there were always too many children, a cross man, and work piling up -around a sick woman. - -"It was n't mother's fault. She would have made us comfortable if she -could. But that was no life for a girl! After I began to herd and milk I -could never get the smell of the cattle off me. The few underclothes I had -I kept in a cracker box. On Saturday nights, after everybody was in bed, -then I could take a bath if I was n't too tired. I could make two trips to -the windmill to carry water, and heat it in the wash-boiler on the stove. -While the water was heating, I could bring in a washtub out of the cave, -and take my bath in the kitchen. Then I could put on a clean nightgown and -get into bed with two others, who likely had n't had a bath unless I'd -given it to them. You can't tell me anything about family life. I've had -plenty to last me." - -"But it's not all like that," I objected. - -"Near enough. It's all being under somebody's thumb. What's on your mind, -Jim? Are you afraid I'll want you to marry me some day?" - -Then I told her I was going away. - -"What makes you want to go away, Jim? Have n't I been nice to you?" - -"You've been just awfully good to me, Lena," I blurted. "I don't think -about much else. I never shall think about much else while I'm with you. -I'll never settle down and grind if I stay here. You know that." I dropped -down beside her and sat looking at the floor. I seemed to have forgotten -all my reasonable explanations. - -Lena drew close to me, and the little hesitation in her voice that had -hurt me was not there when she spoke again. - -"I ought n't to have begun it, ought I?" she murmured. "I ought n't to -have gone to see you that first time. But I did want to. I guess I've -always been a little foolish about you. I don't know what first put it -into my head, unless it was Antonia, always telling me I must n't be up to -any of my nonsense with you. I let you alone for a long while, though, did -n't I?" - -She was a sweet creature to those she loved, that Lena Lingard! - -At last she sent me away with her soft, slow, renunciatory kiss. "You are -n't sorry I came to see you that time?" she whispered. "It seemed so -natural. I used to think I'd like to be your first sweetheart. You were -such a funny kid!" She always kissed one as if she were sadly and wisely -sending one away forever. - -We said many good-byes before I left Lincoln, but she never tried to -hinder me or hold me back. "You are going, but you have n't gone yet, have -you?" she used to say. - -My Lincoln chapter closed abruptly. I went home to my grandparents for a -few weeks, and afterward visited my relatives in Virginia until I joined -Cleric in Boston. I was then nineteen years old. - - - - - -BOOK IV--THE PIONEER WOMAN'S STORY - - - - -I - - -TWO years after I left Lincoln I completed my academic course at Harvard. -Before I entered the Law School I went home for the summer vacation. On -the night of my arrival Mrs. Harling and Frances and Sally came over to -greet me. Everything seemed just as it used to be. My grandparents looked -very little older. Frances Harling was married now, and she and her -husband managed the Harling interests in Black Hawk. When we gathered in -grandmother's parlor, I could hardly believe that I had been away at all. -One subject, however, we avoided all evening. - -When I was walking home with Frances, after we had left Mrs. Harling at -her gate, she said simply, "You know, of course, about poor Antonia." - -Poor Antonia! Every one would be saying that now, I thought bitterly. I -replied that grandmother had written me how Antonia went away to marry -Larry Donovan at some place where he was working; that he had deserted -her, and that there was now a baby. This was all I knew. - -"He never married her," Frances said. "I have n't seen her since she came -back. She lives at home, on the farm, and almost never comes to town. She -brought the baby in to show it to mama once. I'm afraid she's settled down -to be Ambrosch's drudge for good." - -I tried to shut Antonia out of my mind. I was bitterly disappointed in -her. I could not forgive her for becoming an object of pity, while Lena -Lingard, for whom people had always foretold trouble, was now the leading -dressmaker of Lincoln, much respected in Black Hawk. Lena gave her heart -away when she felt like it, but she kept her head for her business and had -got on in the world. - -Just then it was the fashion to speak indulgently of Lena and severely of -Tiny Soderball, who had quietly gone West to try her fortune the year -before. A Black Hawk boy, just back from Seattle, brought the news that -Tiny had not gone to the coast on a venture, as she had allowed people to -think, but with very definite plans. One of the roving promoters that used -to stop at Mrs. Gardener's hotel owned idle property along the water-front -in Seattle, and he had offered to set Tiny up in business in one of his -empty buildings. She was now conducting a sailors' lodging-house. This, -every one said, would be the end of Tiny. Even if she had begun by running -a decent place, she could n't keep it up; all sailors' boarding-houses -were alike. - -When I thought about it, I discovered that I had never known Tiny as well -as I knew the other girls. I remembered her tripping briskly about the -dining-room on her high heels, carrying a big tray full of dishes, -glancing rather pertly at the spruce traveling men, and contemptuously at -the scrubby ones--who were so afraid of her that they did n't dare to ask -for two kinds of pie. Now it occurred to me that perhaps the sailors, too, -might be afraid of Tiny. How astonished we would have been, as we sat -talking about her on Frances Harling's front porch, if we could have known -what her future was really to be! Of all the girls and boys who grew up -together in Black Hawk, Tiny Soderball was to lead the most adventurous -life and to achieve the most solid worldly success. - -This is what actually happened to Tiny: While she was running her -lodging-house in Seattle, gold was discovered in Alaska. Miners and -sailors came back from the North with wonderful stories and pouches of -gold. Tiny saw it and weighed it in her hands. That daring which nobody -had ever suspected in her, awoke. She sold her business and set out for -Circle City, in company with a carpenter and his wife whom she had -persuaded to go along with her. They reached Skaguay in a snowstorm, went -in dog sledges over the Chilkoot Pass, and shot the Yukon in flatboats. -They reached Circle City on the very day when some Siwash Indians came -into the settlement with the report that there had been a rich gold strike -farther up the river, on a certain Klondike Creek. Two days later Tiny and -her friends, and nearly every one else in Circle City, started for the -Klondike fields on the last steamer that went up the Yukon before it froze -for the winter. That boatload of people founded Dawson City. Within a few -weeks there were fifteen hundred homeless men in camp. Tiny and the -carpenter's wife began to cook for them, in a tent. The miners gave her a -lot, and the carpenter put up a log hotel for her. There she sometimes fed -a hundred and fifty men a day. Miners came in on snowshoes from their -placer claims twenty miles away to buy fresh bread from her, and paid for -it in gold. - -That winter Tiny kept in her hotel a Swede whose legs had been frozen one -night in a storm when he was trying to find his way back to his cabin. The -poor fellow thought it great good fortune to be cared for by a woman, and -a woman who spoke his own tongue. When he was told that his feet must be -amputated, he said he hoped he would not get well; what could a -working-man do in this hard world without feet? He did, in fact, die from -the operation, but not before he had deeded Tiny Soderball his claim on -Hunker Creek. Tiny sold her hotel, invested half her money in Dawson -building lots, and with the rest she developed her claim. She went off -into the wilds and lived on it. She bought other claims from discouraged -miners, traded or sold them on percentages. - -After nearly ten years in the Klondike, Tiny returned, with a considerable -fortune, to live in San Francisco. I met her in Salt Lake City in 1908. -She was a thin, hard-faced woman, very well-dressed, very reserved in -manner. Curiously enough, she reminded me of Mrs. Gardener, for whom she -had worked in Black Hawk so long ago. She told me about some of the -desperate chances she had taken in the gold country, but the thrill of -them was quite gone. She said frankly that nothing interested her much now -but making money. The only two human beings of whom she spoke with any -feeling were the Swede, Johnson, who had given her his claim, and Lena -Lingard. She had persuaded Lena to come to San Francisco and go into -business there. - -"Lincoln was never any place for her," Tiny remarked. "In a town of that -size Lena would always be gossiped about. Frisco's the right field for -her. She has a fine class of trade. Oh, she's just the same as she always -was! She's careless, but she's level-headed. She's the only person I know -who never gets any older. It's fine for me to have her there; somebody who -enjoys things like that. She keeps an eye on me and won't let me be -shabby. When she thinks I need a new dress, she makes it and sends it -home--with a bill that's long enough, I can tell you!" - -Tiny limped slightly when she walked. The claim on Hunker Creek took toll -from its possessors. Tiny had been caught in a sudden turn of weather, -like poor Johnson. She lost three toes from one of those pretty little -feet that used to trip about Black Hawk in pointed slippers and striped -stockings. Tiny mentioned this mutilation quite casually--did n't seem -sensitive about it. She was satisfied with her success, but not elated. -She was like some one in whom the faculty of becoming interested is worn -out. - - - - -II - - -SOON after I got home that summer I persuaded my grandparents to have -their photographs taken, and one morning I went into the photographer's -shop to arrange for sittings. While I was waiting for him to come out of -his developing-room, I walked about trying to recognize the likenesses on -his walls: girls in Commencement dresses, country brides and grooms -holding hands, family groups of three generations. I noticed, in a heavy -frame, one of those depressing "crayon enlargements" often seen in -farmhouse parlors, the subject being a round-eyed baby in short dresses. -The photographer came out and gave a constrained, apologetic laugh. - -"That's Tony Shimerda's baby. You remember her; she used to be the -Harling's Tony. Too bad! She seems proud of the baby, though; would n't -hear to a cheap frame for the picture. I expect her brother will be in for -it Saturday." - -I went away feeling that I must see Antonia again. Another girl would have -kept her baby out of sight, but Tony, of course, must have its picture on -exhibition at the town photographer's, in a great gilt frame. How like -her! I could forgive her, I told myself, if she had n't thrown herself -away on such a cheap sort of fellow. - -Larry Donovan was a passenger conductor, one of those train-crew -aristocrats who are always afraid that some one may ask them to put up a -car-window, and who, if requested to perform such a menial service, -silently point to the button that calls the porter. Larry wore this air of -official aloofness even on the street, where there were no car-windows to -compromise his dignity. At the end of his run he stepped indifferently -from the train along with the passengers, his street hat on his head and -his conductor's cap in an alligator-skin bag, went directly into the -station and changed his clothes. It was a matter of the utmost importance -to him never to be seen in his blue trousers away from his train. He was -usually cold and distant with men, but with all women he had a silent, -grave familiarity, a special handshake, accompanied by a significant, -deliberate look. He took women, married or single, into his confidence; -walked them up and down in the moonlight, telling them what a mistake he -had made by not entering the office branch of the service, and how much -better fitted he was to fill the post of General Passenger Agent in Denver -than the roughshod man who then bore that title. His unappreciated worth -was the tender secret Larry shared with his sweethearts, and he was always -able to make some foolish heart ache over it. - -As I drew near home that morning, I saw Mrs. Harling out in her yard, -digging round her mountain-ash tree. It was a dry summer, and she had now -no boy to help her. Charley was off in his battleship, cruising somewhere -on the Caribbean sea. I turned in at the gate--it was with a feeling of -pleasure that I opened and shut that gate in those days; I liked the feel -of it under my hand. I took the spade away from Mrs. Harling, and while I -loosened the earth around the tree, she sat down on the steps and talked -about the oriole family that had a nest in its branches. - -"Mrs. Harling," I said presently, "I wish I could find out exactly how -Antonia's marriage fell through." - -"Why don't you go out and see your grandfather's tenant, the Widow -Steavens? She knows more about it than anybody else. She helped Antonia -get ready to be married, and she was there when Antonia came back. She -took care of her when the baby was born. She could tell you everything. -Besides, the Widow Steavens is a good talker, and she has a remarkable -memory." - - - - -III - - -ON the first or second day of August I got a horse and cart and set out -for the high country, to visit the Widow Steavens. The wheat harvest was -over, and here and there along the horizon I could see black puffs of -smoke from the steam thrashing-machines. The old pasture land was now -being broken up into wheatfields and cornfields, the red grass was -disappearing, and the whole face of the country was changing. There were -wooden houses where the old sod dwellings used to be, and little orchards, -and big red barns; all this meant happy children, contented women, and men -who saw their lives coming to a fortunate issue. The windy springs and the -blazing summers, one after another, had enriched and mellowed that flat -tableland; all the human effort that had gone into it was coming back in -long, sweeping lines of fertility. The changes seemed beautiful and -harmonious to me; it was like watching the growth of a great man or of a -great idea. I recognized every tree and sandbank and rugged draw. I found -that I remembered the conformation of the land as one remembers the -modeling of human faces. - -When I drew up to our old windmill, the Widow Steavens came out to meet -me. She was brown as an Indian woman, tall, and very strong. When I was -little, her massive head had always seemed to me like a Roman senator's. I -told her at once why I had come. - -"You'll stay the night with us, Jimmy? I'll talk to you after supper. I -can take more interest when my work is off my mind. You've no prejudice -against hot biscuit for supper? Some have, these days." - -While I was putting my horse away I heard a rooster squawking. I looked at -my watch and sighed; it was three o'clock, and I knew that I must eat him -at six. - -After supper Mrs. Steavens and I went upstairs to the old sitting-room, -while her grave, silent brother remained in the basement to read his farm -papers. All the windows were open. The white summer moon was shining -outside, the windmill was pumping lazily in the light breeze. My hostess -put the lamp on a stand in the corner, and turned it low because of the -heat. She sat down in her favorite rocking-chair and settled a little -stool comfortably under her tired feet. "I'm troubled with callouses, Jim; -getting old," she sighed cheerfully. She crossed her hands in her lap and -sat as if she were at a meeting of some kind. - -"Now, it's about that dear Antonia you want to know? Well, you've come to -the right person. I've watched her like she'd been my own daughter. - -"When she came home to do her sewing that summer before she was to be -married, she was over here about every day. They've never had a sewing -machine at the Shimerdas', and she made all her things here. I taught her -hemstitching, and I helped her to cut and fit. She used to sit there at -that machine by the window, pedaling the life out of it--she was so -strong--and always singing them queer Bohemian songs, like she was the -happiest thing in the world. - -"'Antonia,' I used to say, 'don't run that machine so fast. You won't -hasten the day none that way.' - -"Then she'd laugh and slow down for a little, but she'd soon forget and -begin to pedal and sing again. I never saw a girl work harder to go to -housekeeping right and well-prepared. Lovely table linen the Harlings had -given her, and Lena Lingard had sent her nice things from Lincoln. We -hemstitched all the tablecloths and pillow-cases, and some of the sheets. -Old Mrs. Shimerda knit yards and yards of lace for her underclothes. Tony -told me just how she meant to have everything in her house. She'd even -bought silver spoons and forks, and kept them in her trunk. She was always -coaxing brother to go to the post-office. Her young man did write her real -often, from the different towns along his run. - -"The first thing that troubled her was when he wrote that his run had been -changed, and they would likely have to live in Denver. 'I'm a country -girl,' she said, 'and I doubt if I'll be able to manage so well for him in -a city. I was counting on keeping chickens, and maybe a cow.' She soon -cheered up, though. - -"At last she got the letter telling her when to come. She was shaken by -it; she broke the seal and read it in this room. I suspected then that -she'd begun to get faint-hearted, waiting; though she'd never let me see -it. - -"Then there was a great time of packing. It was in March, if I remember -rightly, and a terrible muddy, raw spell, with the roads bad for hauling -her things to town. And here let me say, Ambrosch did the right thing. He -went to Black Hawk and bought her a set of plated silver in a purple -velvet box, good enough for her station. He gave her three hundred dollars -in money; I saw the check. He'd collected her wages all those first years -she worked out, and it was but right. I shook him by the hand in this -room. 'You're behaving like a man, Ambrosch,' I said, 'and I'm glad to see -it, son.' - -"'T was a cold, raw day he drove her and her three trunks into Black Hawk -to take the night train for Denver--the boxes had been shipped before. He -stopped the wagon here, and she ran in to tell me good-bye. She threw her -arms around me and kissed me, and thanked me for all I'd done for her. She -was so happy she was crying and laughing at the same time, and her red -cheeks was all wet with rain. - -"'You're surely handsome enough for any man,' I said, looking her over. - -"She laughed kind of flighty like, and whispered, 'Good-bye, dear house!' -and then ran out to the wagon. I expect she meant that for you and your -grandmother, as much as for me, so I'm particular to tell you. This house -had always been a refuge to her. - -"Well, in a few days we had a letter saying she got to Denver safe, and he -was there to meet her. They were to be married in a few days. He was -trying to get his promotion before he married, she said. I did n't like -that, but I said nothing. The next week Yulka got a postal card, saying -she was 'well and happy.' After that we heard nothing. A month went by, -and old Mrs. Shimerda began to get fretful. Ambrosch was as sulky with me -as if I'd picked out the man and arranged the match. - -"One night brother William came in and said that on his way back from the -fields he had passed a livery team from town, driving fast out the west -road. There was a trunk on the front seat with the driver, and another -behind. In the back seat there was a woman all bundled up; but for all her -veils, he thought 't was Antonia Shimerda, or Antonia Donovan, as her name -ought now to be. - -"The next morning I got brother to drive me over. I can walk still, but my -feet ain't what they used to be, and I try to save myself. The lines -outside the Shimerdas' house was full of washing, though it was the middle -of the week. As we got nearer I saw a sight that made my heart sink--all -those underclothes we'd put so much work on, out there swinging in the -wind. Yulka came bringing a dishpanful of wrung clothes, but she darted -back into the house like she was loath to see us. When I went in, Antonia -was standing over the tubs, just finishing up a big washing. Mrs. Shimerda -was going about her work, talking and scolding to herself. She did n't so -much as raise her eyes. Tony wiped her hand on her apron and held it out -to me, looking at me steady but mournful. When I took her in my arms she -drew away. 'Don't, Mrs. Steavens,' she says, 'you'll make me cry, and I -don't want to.' - -"I whispered and asked her to come out of doors with me. I knew she could -n't talk free before her mother. She went out with me, bareheaded, and we -walked up toward the garden. - -"'I'm not married, Mrs. Steavens,' she says to me very quiet and -natural-like, 'and I ought to be.' - -"'Oh, my child,' says I, 'what's happened to you? Don't be afraid to tell -me!' - -"She sat down on the draw-side, out of sight of the house. 'He's run away -from me,' she said. 'I don't know if he ever meant to marry me.' - -"'You mean he's thrown up his job and quit the country?' says I. - -"'He did n't have any job. He'd been fired; blacklisted for knocking down -fares. I did n't know. I thought he had n't been treated right. He was -sick when I got there. He'd just come out of the hospital. He lived with -me till my money gave out, and afterwards I found he had n't really been -hunting work at all. Then he just did n't come back. One nice fellow at -the station told me, when I kept going to look for him, to give it up. He -said he was afraid Larry'd gone bad and would n't come back any more. I -guess he's gone to Old Mexico. The conductors get rich down there, -collecting half-fares off the natives and robbing the company. He was -always talking about fellows who had got ahead that way.' - -"I asked her, of course, why she did n't insist on a civil marriage at -once--that would have given her some hold on him. She leaned her head on -her hands, poor child, and said, 'I just don't know, Mrs. Steavens. I -guess my patience was wore out, waiting so long. I thought if he saw how -well I could do for him, he'd want to stay with me.' - -"Jimmy, I sat right down on that bank beside her and made lament. I cried -like a young thing. I could n't help it. I was just about heart-broke. It -was one of them lovely warm May days, and the wind was blowing and the -colts jumping around in the pastures; but I felt bowed with despair. My -Antonia, that had so much good in her, had come home disgraced. And that -Lena Lingard, that was always a bad one, say what you will, had turned out -so well, and was coming home here every summer in her silks and her -satins, and doing so much for her mother. I give credit where credit is -due, but you know well enough, Jim Burden, there is a great difference in -the principles of those two girls. And here it was the good one that had -come to grief! I was poor comfort to her. I marveled at her calm. As we -went back to the house, she stopped to feel of her clothes to see if they -was drying well, and seemed to take pride in their whiteness--she said -she'd been living in a brick block, where she did n't have proper -conveniences to wash them. - -"The next time I saw Antonia, she was out in the fields ploughing corn. -All that spring and summer she did the work of a man on the farm; it -seemed to be an understood thing. Ambrosch did n't get any other hand to -help him. Poor Marek had got violent and been sent away to an institution -a good while back. We never even saw any of Tony's pretty dresses. She did -n't take them out of her trunks. She was quiet and steady. Folks respected -her industry and tried to treat her as if nothing had happened. They -talked, to be sure; but not like they would if she'd put on airs. She was -so crushed and quiet that nobody seemed to want to humble her. She never -went anywhere. All that summer she never once came to see me. At first I -was hurt, but I got to feel that it was because this house reminded her of -too much. I went over there when I could, but the times when she was in -from the fields were the times when I was busiest here. She talked about -the grain and the weather as if she'd never had another interest, and if I -went over at night she always looked dead weary. She was afflicted with -toothache; one tooth after another ulcerated, and she went about with her -face swollen half the time. She would n't go to Black Hawk to a dentist -for fear of meeting people she knew. Ambrosch had got over his good spell -long ago, and was always surly. Once I told him he ought not to let -Antonia work so hard and pull herself down. He said, 'If you put that in -her head, you better stay home.' And after that I did. - -"Antonia worked on through harvest and thrashing, though she was too -modest to go out thrashing for the neighbors, like when she was young and -free. I did n't see much of her until late that fall when she begun to -herd Ambrosch's cattle in the open ground north of here, up toward the big -dog town. Sometimes she used to bring them over the west hill, there, and -I would run to meet her and walk north a piece with her. She had thirty -cattle in her bunch; it had been dry, and the pasture was short, or she -would n't have brought them so far. - -"It was a fine open fall, and she liked to be alone. While the steers -grazed, she used to sit on them grassy banks along the draws and sun -herself for hours. Sometimes I slipped up to visit with her, when she had -n't gone too far. - -"'It does seem like I ought to make lace, or knit like Lena used to,' she -said one day, 'but if I start to work, I look around and forget to go on. -It seems such a little while ago when Jim Burden and I was playing all -over this country. Up here I can pick out the very places where my father -used to stand. Sometimes I feel like I'm not going to live very long, so -I'm just enjoying every day of this fall.' - -"After the winter begun she wore a man's long overcoat and boots, and a -man's felt hat with a wide brim. I used to watch her coming and going, and -I could see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, the -snow began to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw Antonia driving her cattle -homeward across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to -face it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. 'Deary me,' I says -to myself, 'the girl's stayed out too late. It'll be dark before she gets -them cattle put into the corral.' I seemed to sense she'd been feeling too -miserable to get up and drive them. - -"That very night, it happened. She got her cattle home, turned them into -the corral, and went into the house, into her room behind the kitchen, and -shut the door. There, without calling to anybody, without a groan, she lay -down on the bed and bore her child. - -"I was lifting supper when old Mrs. Shimerda came running down the -basement stairs, out of breath and screeching:-- - -"'Baby come, baby come!' she says. 'Ambrosch much like devil!' - -"Brother William is surely a patient man. He was just ready to sit down to -a hot supper after a long day in the fields. Without a word he rose and -went down to the barn and hooked up his team. He got us over there as -quick as it was humanly possible. I went right in, and began to do for -Antonia; but she laid there with her eyes shut and took no account of me. -The old woman got a tubful of warm water to wash the baby. I overlooked -what she was doing and I said out loud:-- - -"'Mrs. Shimerda, don't you put that strong yellow soap near that baby. -You'll blister its little skin.' I was indignant. - - [Illustration: Antonia driving her cattle home] - -"'Mrs. Steavens,' Antonia said from the bed, 'if you'll look in the top -tray of my trunk, you'll see some fine soap.' That was the first word she -spoke. - -"After I'd dressed the baby, I took it out to show it to Ambrosch. He was -muttering behind the stove and would n't look at it. - -"'You'd better put it out in the rain barrel,' he says. - -"'Now, see here, Ambrosch,' says I, 'there's a law in this land, don't -forget that. I stand here a witness that this baby has come into the world -sound and strong, and I intend to keep an eye on what befalls it.' I pride -myself I cowed him. - -"Well, I expect you're not much interested in babies, but Antonia's got on -fine. She loved it from the first as dearly as if she'd had a ring on her -finger, and was never ashamed of it. It's a year and eight months old now, -and no baby was ever better cared-for. Antonia is a natural-born mother. I -wish she could marry and raise a family, but I don't know as there's much -chance now." - - - -I slept that night in the room I used to have when I was a little boy, -with the summer wind blowing in at the windows, bringing the smell of the -ripe fields. I lay awake and watched the moonlight shining over the barn -and the stacks and the pond, and the windmill making its old dark shadow -against the blue sky. - - - - -IV - - -THE next afternoon I walked over to the Shimerdas'. Yulka showed me the -baby and told me that Antonia was shocking wheat on the southwest quarter. -I went down across the fields, and Tony saw me from a long way off. She -stood still by her shocks, leaning on her pitchfork, watching me as I -came. We met like the people in the old song, in silence, if not in tears. -Her warm hand clasped mine. - -"I thought you'd come, Jim. I heard you were at Mrs. Steavens's last -night. I've been looking for you all day." - -She was thinner than I had ever seen her, and looked, as Mrs. Steavens -said, "worked down," but there was a new kind of strength in the gravity -of her face, and her color still gave her that look of deep-seated health -and ardor. Still? Why, it flashed across me that though so much had -happened in her life and in mine, she was barely twenty-four years old. - -Antonia stuck her fork in the ground, and instinctively we walked toward -that unploughed patch at the crossing of the roads as the fittest place to -talk to each other. We sat down outside the sagging wire fence that shut -Mr. Shimerda's plot off from the rest of the world. The tall red grass had -never been cut there. It had died down in winter and come up again in the -spring until it was as thick and shrubby as some tropical garden-grass. I -found myself telling her everything: why I had decided to study law and to -go into the law office of one of my mother's relatives in New York City; -about Gaston Cleric's death from pneumonia last winter, and the difference -it had made in my life. She wanted to know about my friends and my way of -living, and my dearest hopes. - -"Of course it means you are going away from us for good," she said with a -sigh. "But that don't mean I'll lose you. Look at my papa here; he's been -dead all these years, and yet he is more real to me than almost anybody -else. He never goes out of my life. I talk to him and consult him all the -time. The older I grow, the better I know him and the more I understand -him." - -She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. "I'd always be -miserable in a city. I'd die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know -every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live -and die here. Father Kelly says everybody's put into this world for -something, and I know what I've got to do. I'm going to see that my little -girl has a better chance than ever I had. I'm going to take care of that -girl, Jim." - -I told her I knew she would. "Do you know, Antonia, since I've been away, -I think of you more often than of any one else in this part of the world. -I'd have liked to have you for a sweetheart, or a wife, or my mother or my -sister--anything that a woman can be to a man. The idea of you is a part of -my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of -times when I don't realize it. You really are a part of me." - -She turned her bright, believing eyes to me, and the tears came up in them -slowly. "How can it be like that, when you know so many people, and when -I've disappointed you so? Ain't it wonderful, Jim, how much people can -mean to each other? I'm so glad we had each other when we were little. I -can't wait till my little girl's old enough to tell her about all the -things we used to do. You'll always remember me when you think about old -times, won't you? And I guess everybody thinks about old times, even the -happiest people." - -As we walked homeward across the fields, the sun dropped and lay like a -great golden globe in the low west. While it hung there, the moon rose in -the east, as big as a cartwheel, pale silver and streaked with rose color, -thin as a bubble or a ghost-moon. For five, perhaps ten minutes, the two -luminaries confronted each other across the level land, resting on -opposite edges of the world. In that singular light every little tree and -shock of wheat, every sunflower stalk and clump of snow-on-the-mountain, -drew itself up high and pointed; the very clods and furrows in the fields -seemed to stand up sharply. I felt the old pull of the earth, the solemn -magic that comes out of those fields at nightfall. I wished I could be a -little boy again, and that my way could end there. - -We reached the edge of the field, where our ways parted. I took her hands -and held them against my breast, feeling once more how strong and warm and -good they were, those brown hands, and remembering how many kind things -they had done for me. I held them now a long while, over my heart. About -us it was growing darker and darker, and I had to look hard to see her -face, which I meant always to carry with me; the closest, realest face, -under all the shadows of women's faces, at the very bottom of my memory. - -"I'll come back," I said earnestly, through the soft, intrusive darkness. - -"Perhaps you will"--I felt rather than saw her smile. "But even if you -don't, you're here, like my father. So I won't be lonesome." - -As I went back alone over that familiar road, I could almost believe that -a boy and girl ran along beside me, as our shadows used to do, laughing -and whispering to each other in the grass. - - - - - -BOOK V--CUZAK'S BOYS - - - - -I - - -I TOLD Antonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twenty -years before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that she -married, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin of -Anton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when I -was abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent Antonia some -photographs of her native village. Months afterward came a letter from -her, telling me the names and ages of her many children, but little else; -signed, "Your old friend, Antonia Cuzak." When I met Tiny Soderball in -Salt Lake, she told me that Antonia had not "done very well"; that her -husband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard life. Perhaps -it was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business took me West -several times every year, and it was always in the back of my mind that I -would stop in Nebraska some day and go to see Antonia. But I kept putting -it off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and broken; I -really dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts with -many illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories are -realities, and are better than anything that can ever happen to one again. - -I owe it to Lena Lingard that I went to see Antonia at last. I was in San -Francisco two summers ago when both Lena and Tiny Soderball were in town. -Tiny lives in a house of her own, and Lena's shop is in an apartment house -just around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see the -two women together. Tiny audits Lena's accounts occasionally, and invests -her money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n't -grow too miserly. "If there's anything I can't stand," she said to me in -Tiny's presence, "it's a shabby rich woman." Tiny smiled grimly and -assured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. "And I don't -want to be," the other agreed complacently. - -Lena gave me a cheerful account of Antonia and urged me to make her a -visit. - -"You really ought to go, Jim. It would be such a satisfaction to her. -Never mind what Tiny says. There's nothing the matter with Cuzak. You'd -like him. He is n't a hustler, but a rough man would never have suited -Tony. Tony has nice children--ten or eleven of them by this time, I guess. -I should n't care for a family of that size myself, but somehow it's just -right for Tony. She'd love to show them to you." - -On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set off -with an open buggy and a fairly good livery team to find the Cuzak farm. -At a little past midday, I knew I must be nearing my destination. Set back -on a swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farmhouse, with a red barn -and an ash grove, and cattle yards in front that sloped down to the high -road. I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive in -here, when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside the -road, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one, not more -than four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded, and his -close-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection. The other -stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was comforting him in a -language I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped my horses -opposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came toward -me. He, too, looked grave. This was evidently a sad afternoon for them. - -"Are you Mrs. Cuzak's boys?" I asked. - -The younger one did not look up; he was submerged in his own feelings, but -his brother met me with intelligent gray eyes. "Yes, sir." - -"Does she live up there on the hill? I am going to see her. Get in and -ride up with me." - -He glanced at his reluctant little brother. "I guess we'd better walk. But -we'll open the gate for you." - -I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind. When I pulled -up at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and curly-headed, ran out of -the barn to tie my team for me. He was a handsome one, this chap, -fair-skinned and freckled, with red cheeks and a ruddy pelt as thick as a -lamb's wool, growing down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my team -with two flourishes of his hands, and nodded when I asked him if his -mother was at home. As he glanced at me, his face dimpled with a seizure -of irrelevant merriment, and he shot up the windmill tower with a -lightness that struck me as disdainful. I knew he was peering down at me -as I walked toward the house. - -Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunning -themselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked through the -wire screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor. I saw a long -table, rows of wooden chairs against the wall, and a shining range in one -corner. Two girls were washing dishes at the sink, laughing and -chattering, and a little one, in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playing -with a rag baby. When I asked for their mother, one of the girls dropped -her towel, ran across the floor with noiseless bare feet, and disappeared. -The older one, who wore shoes and stockings, came to the door to admit me. -She was a buxom girl with dark hair and eyes, calm and self-possessed. - -"Won't you come in? Mother will be here in a minute." - -Before I could sit down in the chair she offered me, the miracle happened; -one of those quiet moments that clutch the heart, and take more courage -than the noisy, excited passages in life. Antonia came in and stood before -me; a stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a little -grizzled. It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people after -long years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as this -woman had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiously -at me were--simply Antonia's eyes. I had seen no others like them since I -looked into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of human -faces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, her -identity stronger. She was there, in the full vigor of her personality, -battered but not diminished, looking at me, speaking to me in the husky, -breathy voice I remembered so well. - -"My husband's not at home, sir. Can I do anything?" - -"Don't you remember me, Antonia? Have I changed so much?" - -She frowned into the slanting sunlight that made her brown hair look -redder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed to -grow broader. She caught her breath and put out two hard-worked hands. - -"Why, it's Jim! Anna, Yulka, it's Jim Burden!" She had no sooner caught my -hands than she looked alarmed. "What's happened? Is anybody dead?" - -I patted her arm. "No. I did n't come to a funeral this time. I got off -the train at Hastings and drove down to see you and your family." - -She dropped my hand and began rushing about. "Anton, Yulka, Nina, where -are you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They're off looking for -that dog, somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!" She pulled them out -of corners and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in her -kittens. "You don't have to go right off, Jim? My oldest boy's not here. -He's gone with papa to the street fair at Wilber. I won't let you go! -You've got to stay and see Rudolph and our papa." She looked at me -imploringly, panting with excitement. - -While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, the -barefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gathering -about her. - -"Now, tell me their names, and how old they are." - -As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, and -they roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of the -windmill, she said, "This is Leo, and he's old enough to be better than he -is." - -He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like a -little ram, but his voice was quite desperate. "You've forgot! You always -forget mine. It's mean! Please tell him, mother!" He clenched his fists in -vexation and looked up at her impetuously. - -She wound her forefinger in his yellow fleece and pulled it, watching him. -"Well, how old are you?" - -"I'm twelve," he panted, looking not at me but at her; "I'm twelve years -old, and I was born on Easter day!" - -She nodded to me. "It's true. He was an Easter baby." - -The children all looked at me, as if they expected me to exhibit -astonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud of -each other, and of being so many. When they had all been introduced, Anna, -the eldest daughter, who had met me at the door, scattered them gently, -and came bringing a white apron which she tied round her mother's waist. - -"Now, mother, sit down and talk to Mr. Burden. We'll finish the dishes -quietly and not disturb you." - -Antonia looked about, quite distracted. "Yes, child, but why don't we take -him into the parlor, now that we've got a nice parlor for company?" - -The daughter laughed indulgently, and took my hat from me. "Well, you're -here, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. You -can show him the parlor after while." She smiled at me, and went back to -the dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found a -place on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with her -toes curled up, looking out at us expectantly. - -"She's Nina, after Nina Harling," Antonia explained. "Ain't her eyes like -Nina's? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love my -own. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as if -they'd grown up with you. I can't think of what I want to say, you've got -me so stirred up. And then, I've forgot my English so. I don't often talk -it any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well." She said they -always spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English at -all--did n't learn it until they went to school. - -"I can't believe it's you, sitting here, in my own kitchen. You would n't -have known me, would you, Jim? You've kept so young, yourself. But it's -easier for a man. I can't see how my Anton looks any older than the day I -married him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n't got many left. But I -feel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don't -have to work so hard now! We've got plenty to help us, papa and me. And -how many have you got, Jim?" - -When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed. "Oh, ain't that -too bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he's the -worst of all." She leaned toward me with a smile. "And I love him the -best," she whispered. - -"Mother!" the two girls murmured reproachfully from the dishes. - -Antonia threw up her head and laughed. "I can't help it. You know I do. -Maybe it's because he came on Easter day, I don't know. And he's never out -of mischief one minute!" - -I was thinking, as I watched her, how little it mattered--about her teeth, -for instance. I know so many women who have kept all the things that she -had lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Antonia -had not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had not -that look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawn -away. - -While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and sat -down on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore a -funny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hair -was clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched us -out of his big, sorrowful gray eyes. - -"He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead," Anna -said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard. - -Antonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbows -on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, while -he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over and -hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, and -in a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, teary -smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close to -her and talking behind his hand. - -When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood -behind her mother's chair. "Why don't we show Mr. Burden our new fruit -cave?" she asked. - -We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys -were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran -ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down after -us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, the -thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum bushes, called -my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor. "Yes, it is a -good way from the house," he admitted. "But, you see, in winter there are -nearly always some of us around to come out and get things." - -Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles, -one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds. - -"You would n't believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!" their mother -exclaimed. "You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and -Saturdays! It's no wonder their poor papa can't get rich, he has to buy so -much sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for -flour,--but then there's that much less to sell." - -Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to me -the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but glancing at me, traced -on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries and -strawberries and crab-apples within, trying by a blissful expression of -countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness. - -"Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don't have those," said one -of the older boys. "Mother uses them to make kolaches," he added. - -Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian. - -I turned to him. "You think I don't know what kolaches are, eh? You're -mistaken, young man. I've eaten your mother's kolaches long before that -Easter day when you were born." - -"Always too fresh, Leo," Ambrosch remarked with a shrug. - -Leo dived behind his mother and grinned out at me. - -We turned to leave the cave; Antonia and I went up the stairs first, and -the children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all came -running up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold heads -and brown, and flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of life -out of the dark cave into the sunlight. It made me dizzy for a moment. - -The boys escorted us to the front of the house, which I had n't yet seen; -in farmhouses, somehow, life comes and goes by the back door. The roof was -so steep that the eaves were not much above the forest of tall hollyhocks, -now brown and in seed. Through July, Antonia said, the house was buried in -them; the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The front -yard was enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew two -silvery, moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked down -over the cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretch -of stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer. - -At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards; a -cherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows, and -an apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds. The older -children turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina and Lucie -crept through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid under the -low-branching mulberry bushes. - -As we walked through the apple orchard, grown up in tall bluegrass, -Antonia kept stopping to tell me about one tree and another. "I love them -as if they were people," she said, rubbing her hand over the bark. "There -was n't a tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used to -carry water for them, too--after we'd been working in the fields all day. -Anton, he was a city man, and he used to get discouraged. But I could n't -feel so tired that I would n't fret about these trees when there was a dry -time. They were on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleep -I've got up and come out and carried water to the poor things. And now, -you see, we have the good of them. My man worked in the orange groves in -Florida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain't one of our neighbors -has an orchard that bears like ours." - -In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape-arbor, with seats built -along the sides and a warped plank table. The three children were waiting -for us there. They looked up at me bashfully and made some request of -their mother. - -"They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic here every -year. These don't go to school yet, so they think it's all like the -picnic." - -After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the youngsters ran away to an -open place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks, and squatted -down among them, crawling about and measuring with a string. "Jan wants to -bury his dog there," Antonia explained. "I had to tell him he could. He's -kind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she used to take little -things? He has funny notions, like her." - -We sat down and watched them. Antonia leaned her elbows on the table. -There was the deepest peace in that orchard. It was surrounded by a triple -enclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then the -mulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to the -protecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could see -nothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor the -windmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grape -leaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell the -ripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beads -on a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hens -and ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallen -apples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray bodies, their -heads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers which grew close -and full, changing to blue like a peacock's neck. Antonia said they always -reminded her of soldiers--some uniform she had seen in the old country, -when she was a child. - -"Are there any quail left now?" I asked. I reminded her how she used to go -hunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. "You were n't a -bad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and go -for ducks with Charley Harling and me?" - -"I know, but I'm afraid to look at a gun now." She picked up one of the -drakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. "Ever since I've had -children, I don't like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint to -wring an old goose's neck. Ain't that strange, Jim?" - -"I don't know. The young Queen of Italy said the same thing once, to a -friend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels as -you do, and only shoots clay pigeons." - -"Then I'm sure she's a good mother," Antonia said warmly. - -She told me how she and her husband had come out to this new country when -the farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first ten -years were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming and -often grew discouraged. "We'd never have got through if I had n't been so -strong. I've always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help him -in the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Our -children were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one you -saw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to be -just like her. My Martha's married now, and has a baby of her own. Think -of that, Jim! - -"No, I never got down-hearted. Anton's a good man, and I loved my children -and always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I'm -never lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sad -spells I used to have, when I did n't know what was the matter with me? -I've never had them out here. And I don't mind work a bit, if I don't have -to put up with sadness." She leaned her chin on her hand and looked down -through the orchard, where the sunlight was growing more and more golden. - -"You ought never to have gone to town, Tony," I said, wondering at her. - -She turned to me eagerly. "Oh, I'm glad I went! I'd never have known -anything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n't. I learned nice ways -at the Harlings', and I've been able to bring my children up so much -better. Don't you think they are pretty well-behaved for country children? -If it had n't been for what Mrs. Harling taught me, I expect I'd have -brought them up like wild rabbits. No, I'm glad I had a chance to learn; -but I'm thankful none of my daughters will ever have to work out. The -trouble with me was, Jim, I never could believe harm of anybody I loved." - -While we were talking, Antonia assured me that she could keep me for the -night. "We've plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow till -cold weather comes, but there's no need for it. Leo always begs to sleep -there, and Ambrosch goes along to look after him." - -I told her I would like to sleep in the haymow, with the boys. - -"You can do just as you want to. The chest is full of clean blankets, put -away for winter. Now I must go, or my girls will be doing all the work, -and I want to cook your supper myself." - -As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with -their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied -us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of -ironweed, calling, "I'm a jack rabbit," or, "I'm a big bull-snake." - -I walked between the two older boys--straight, well-made fellows, with good -heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, -told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would -feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an -old friend of the family--and not too old. I felt like a boy in their -company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, -after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the -sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, -over the close-cropped grass. - -"Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?" -Ambrosch asked. "We've had them framed and they're hung up in the parlor. -She was so glad to get them. I don't believe I ever saw her so pleased -about anything." There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that -made me wish I had given more occasion for it. - -I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, you know, was very much loved -by all of us. She was a beautiful girl." - -"Oh, we know!" They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I -should think it necessary to mention this. "Everybody liked her, did n't -they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people." - -"Sometimes," I ventured, "it does n't occur to boys that their mother was -ever young and pretty." - -"Oh, we know!" they said again, warmly. "She's not very old now," Ambrosch -added. "Not much older than you." - -"Well," I said, "if you were n't nice to her, I think I'd take a club and -go for the whole lot of you. I could n't stand it if you boys were -inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked -after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I -know there's nobody like her." - -The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. "She never told us -that," said Anton. "But she's always talked lots about you, and about what -good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of -the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up -to the windmill. You can't tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to -be smart." - -We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boys -milked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: the -strong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue and -gold of the sky, the evening star, the purr of the milk into the pails, -the grunts and squeals of the pigs fighting over their supper. I began to -feel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seem -everlastingly the same, and the world so far away. - -What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of restless heads in the -lamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon Antonia as she sat at -the head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on their -way. The children were seated according to a system; a little one next an -older one, who was to watch over his behavior and to see that he got his -food. Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring fresh -plates of kolaches and pitchers of milk. - -After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka and Leo could play for -me. Antonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairs -enough to go round, so the younger children sat down on the bare floor. -Little Lucie whispered to me that they were going to have a parlor carpet -if they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal of -fussing, got out his violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda's instrument, which -Antonia had always kept, and it was too big for him. But he played very -well for a self-taught boy. Poor Yulka's efforts were not so successful. -While they were playing, little Nina got up from her corner, came out into -the middle of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on the -boards with her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, and -when she was through she stole back and sat down by her brother. - -Antonia spoke to Leo in Bohemian. He frowned and wrinkled up his face. He -seemed to be trying to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples in -unusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played some -Bohemian airs, without the organ to hold him back, and that went better. -The boy was so restless that I had not had a chance to look at his face -before. My first impression was right; he really was faun-like. He had n't -much head behind his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to the -back of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of the -other boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitive -to the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others put -together. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken, -teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull would stand -for, or how sharp the new axe was. - -After the concert was over Antonia brought out a big boxful of -photographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; her -brother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and who -bossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys and -their large families. - -"You would n't believe how steady those girls have turned out," Antonia -remarked. "Mary Svoboda's the best butter-maker in all this country, and a -fine manager. Her children will have a grand chance." - -As Antonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind her -chair, looking over her shoulder with interested faces. Nina and Jan, -after trying to see round the taller ones, quietly brought a chair, -climbed up on it, and stood close together, looking. The little boy forgot -his shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into view. In -the group about Antonia I was conscious of a kind of physical harmony. -They leaned this way and that, and were not afraid to touch each other. -They contemplated the photographs with pleased recognition; looked at some -admiringly, as if these characters in their mother's girlhood had been -remarkable people. The little children, who could not speak English, -murmured comments to each other in their rich old language. - -Antonia held out a photograph of Lena that had come from San Francisco -last Christmas. "Does she still look like that? She has n't been home for -six years now." Yes, it was exactly like Lena, I told her; a comely woman, -a trifle too plump, in a hat a trifle too large, but with the old lazy -eyes, and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners of -her mouth. - -There was a picture of Frances Harling in a be-frogged riding costume that -I remembered well. "Is n't she fine!" the girls murmured. They all -assented. One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in the -family legend. Only Leo was unmoved. - -"And there's Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, was -n't he, mother?" - -"He was n't any Rockefeller," put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, which -reminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said that my -grandfather "was n't Jesus." His habitual skepticism was like a direct -inheritance from that old woman. - -"None of your smart speeches," said Ambrosch severely. - -Leo poked out a supple red tongue at him, but a moment later broke into a -giggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with an -awkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them; Jake and Otto -and I! We had it taken, I remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on the -first Fourth of July I spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake's grin -again, and Otto's ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all about -them. - -"He made grandfather's coffin, did n't he?" Anton asked. - -"Was n't they good fellows, Jim?" Antonia's eyes filled. "To this day I'm -ashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy and -impertinent to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wish -somebody had made me behave." - -"We are n't through with you, yet," they warned me. They produced a -photograph taken just before I went away to college; a tall youth in -striped trousers and a straw hat, trying to look easy and jaunty. - -"Tell us, Mr. Burden," said Charley, "about the rattler you killed at the -dog town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimes -she says five." - -These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with Antonia as -the Harling children had been so many years before. They seemed to feel -the same pride in her, and to look to her for stories and entertainment as -we used to do. - -It was eleven o'clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets and -started for the barn with the boys. Their mother came to the door with us, -and we tarried for a moment to look out at the white slope of the corral -and the two ponds asleep in the moonlight, and the long sweep of the -pasture under the star-sprinkled sky. - -The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow, and I lay down -before a big window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into the -stars. Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves, -and lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed and -tumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, they -were still. There was hardly a minute between giggles and bland slumber. - -I lay awake for a long while, until the slow-moving moon passed my window -on its way up the heavens. I was thinking about Antonia and her children; -about Anna's solicitude for her, Ambrosch's grave affection, Leo's -jealous, animal little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling out -of the cave into the light, was a sight any man might have come far to -see. Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did not -fade--that grew stronger with time. In my memory there was a succession of -such pictures, fixed there like the old woodcuts of one's first primer: -Antonia kicking her bare legs against the sides of my pony when we came -home in triumph with our snake; Antonia in her black shawl and fur cap, as -she stood by her father's grave in the snowstorm; Antonia coming in with -her work-team along the evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorial -human attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true. I -had not been mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl; -but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could still -stop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow revealed -the meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the orchard, to put -her hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feel -the goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last. All the -strong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tireless -in serving generous emotions. - -It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a rich -mine of life, like the founders of early races. - - - - -II - - -WHEN I awoke in the morning long bands of sunshine were coming in at the -window and reaching back under the eaves where the two boys lay. Leo was -wide awake and was tickling his brother's leg with a dried cone-flower he -had pulled out of the hay. Ambrosch kicked at him and turned over. I -closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. Leo lay on his back, elevated -one foot, and began exercising his toes. He picked up dried flowers with -his toes and brandished them in the belt of sunlight. After he had amused -himself thus for some time, he rose on one elbow and began to look at me, -cautiously, then critically, blinking his eyes in the light. His -expression was droll; it dismissed me lightly. "This old fellow is no -different from other people. He does n't know my secret." He seemed -conscious of possessing a keener power of enjoyment than other people; his -quick recognitions made him frantically impatient of deliberate judgments. -He always knew what he wanted without thinking. - -After dressing in the hay, I washed my face in cold water at the windmill. -Breakfast was ready when I entered the kitchen, and Yulka was baking -griddle-cakes. The three older boys set off for the fields early. Leo and -Yulka were to drive to town to meet their father, who would return from -Wilber on the noon train. - -"We'll only have a lunch at noon," Antonia said, "and cook the geese for -supper, when our papa will be here. I wish my Martha could come down to -see you. They have a Ford car now, and she don't seem so far away from me -as she used to. But her husband's crazy about his farm and about having -everything just right, and they almost never get away except on Sundays. -He's a handsome boy, and he'll be rich some day. Everything he takes hold -of turns out well. When they bring that baby in here, and unwrap him, he -looks like a little prince; Martha takes care of him so beautiful. I'm -reconciled to her being away from me now, but at first I cried like I was -putting her into her coffin." - -We were alone in the kitchen, except for Anna, who was pouring cream into -the churn. She looked up at me. "Yes, she did. We were just ashamed of -mother. She went round crying, when Martha was so happy, and the rest of -us were all glad. Joe certainly was patient with you, mother." - -Antonia nodded and smiled at herself. "I know it was silly, but I could -n't help it. I wanted her right here. She'd never been away from me a -night since she was born. If Anton had made trouble about her when she was -a baby, or wanted me to leave her with my mother, I would n't have married -him. I could n't. But he always loved her like she was his own." - -"I did n't even know Martha was n't my full sister until after she was -engaged to Joe," Anna told me. - -Toward the middle of the afternoon the wagon drove in, with the father and -the eldest son. I was smoking in the orchard, and as I went out to meet -them, Antonia came running down from the house and hugged the two men as -if they had been away for months. - -"Papa" interested me, from my first glimpse of him. He was shorter than -his older sons; a crumpled little man, with run-over boot heels, and he -carried one shoulder higher than the other. But he moved very quickly, and -there was an air of jaunty liveliness about him. He had a strong, ruddy -color, thick black hair, a little grizzled, a curly mustache, and red -lips. His smile showed the strong teeth of which his wife was so proud, -and as he saw me his lively, quizzical eyes told me that he knew all about -me. He looked like a humorous philosopher who had hitched up one shoulder -under the burdens of life, and gone on his way having a good time when he -could. He advanced to meet me and gave me a hard hand, burned red on the -back and heavily coated with hair. He wore his Sunday clothes, very thick -and hot for the weather, an unstarched white shirt, and a blue necktie -with big white dots, like a little boy's, tied in a flowing bow. Cuzak -began at once to talk about his holiday--from politeness he spoke in -English. - -"Mama, I wish you had see the lady dance on the slack-wire in the street -at night. They throw a bright light on her and she float through the air -something beautiful, like a bird! They have a dancing bear, like in the -old country, and two three merry-go-around, and people in balloons, and -what you call the big wheel, Rudolph?" - -"A Ferris wheel," Rudolph entered the conversation in a deep baritone -voice. He was six foot two, and had a chest like a young blacksmith. "We -went to the big dance in the hall behind the saloon last night, mother, -and I danced with all the girls, and so did father. I never saw so many -pretty girls. It was a Bohunk crowd, for sure. We did n't hear a word of -English on the street, except from the show people, did we, papa?" - -Cuzak nodded. "And very many send word to you, Antonia. You will -excuse"--turning to me--"if I tell her." While we walked toward the house he -related incidents and delivered messages in the tongue he spoke fluently, -and I dropped a little behind, curious to know what their relations had -become--or remained. The two seemed to be on terms of easy friendliness, -touched with humor. Clearly, she was the impulse, and he the corrective. -As they went up the hill he kept glancing at her sidewise, to see whether -she got his point, or how she received it. I noticed later that he always -looked at people sidewise, as a work-horse does at its yoke-mate. Even -when he sat opposite me in the kitchen, talking, he would turn his head a -little toward the clock or the stove and look at me from the side, but -with frankness and good-nature. This trick did not suggest duplicity or -secretiveness, but merely long habit, as with the horse. - -He had brought a tintype of himself and Rudolph for Antonia's collection, -and several paper bags of candy for the children. He looked a little -disappointed when his wife showed him a big box of candy I had got in -Denver--she had n't let the children touch it the night before. He put his -candy away in the cupboard, "for when she rains," and glanced at the box, -chuckling. "I guess you must have hear about how my family ain't so -small," he said. - -Cuzak sat down behind the stove and watched his women-folk and the little -children with equal amusement. He thought they were nice, and he thought -they were funny, evidently. He had been off dancing with the girls and -forgetting that he was an old fellow, and now his family rather surprised -him; he seemed to think it a joke that all these children should belong to -him. As the younger ones slipped up to him in his retreat, he kept taking -things out of his pockets; penny dolls, a wooden clown, a balloon pig that -was inflated by a whistle. He beckoned to the little boy they called Jan, -whispered to him, and presented him with a paper snake, gently, so as not -to startle him. Looking over the boy's head he said to me, "This one is -bashful. He gets left." - -Cuzak had brought home with him a roll of illustrated Bohemian papers. He -opened them and began to tell his wife the news, much of which seemed to -relate to one person. I heard the name Vasakova, Vasakova, repeated -several times with lively interest, and presently I asked him whether he -were talking about the singer, Maria Vasak. - -"You know? You have heard, maybe?" he asked incredulously. When I assured -him that I had heard her, he pointed out her picture and told me that -Vasak had broken her leg, climbing in the Austrian Alps, and would not be -able to fill her engagements. He seemed delighted to find that I had heard -her sing in London and in Vienna; got out his pipe and lit it to enjoy our -talk the better. She came from his part of Prague. His father used to mend -her shoes for her when she was a student. Cuzak questioned me about her -looks, her popularity, her voice; but he particularly wanted to know -whether I had noticed her tiny feet, and whether I thought she had saved -much money. She was extravagant, of course, but he hoped she would n't -squander everything, and have nothing left when she was old. As a young -man, working in Wienn, he had seen a good many artists who were old and -poor, making one glass of beer last all evening, and "it was not very -nice, that." - -When the boys came in from milking and feeding, the long table was laid, -and two brown geese, stuffed with apples, were put down sizzling before -Antonia. She began to carve, and Rudolph, who sat next his mother, started -the plates on their way. When everybody was served, he looked across the -table at me. - -"Have you been to Black Hawk lately, Mr. Burden? Then I wonder if you've -heard about the Cutters?" - -No, I had heard nothing at all about them. - -"Then you must tell him, son, though it's a terrible thing to talk about -at supper. Now, all you children be quiet, Rudolph is going to tell about -the murder." - -"Hurrah! The murder!" the children murmured, looking pleased and -interested. - -Rudolph told his story in great detail, with occasional promptings from -his mother or father. - -Wick Cutter and his wife had gone on living in the house that Antonia and -I knew so well, and in the way we knew so well. They grew to be very old -people. He shriveled up, Antonia said, until he looked like a little old -yellow monkey, for his beard and his fringe of hair never changed color. -Mrs. Cutter remained flushed and wild-eyed as we had known her, but as the -years passed she became afflicted with a shaking palsy which made her -nervous nod continuous instead of occasional. Her hands were so uncertain -that she could no longer disfigure china, poor woman! As the couple grew -older, they quarreled more and more about the ultimate disposition of -their "property." A new law was passed in the State, securing the -surviving wife a third of her husband's estate under all conditions. -Cutter was tormented by the fear that Mrs. Cutter would live longer than -he, and that eventually her "people," whom he had always hated so -violently, would inherit. Their quarrels on this subject passed the -boundary of the close-growing cedars, and were heard in the street by -whoever wished to loiter and listen. - -One morning, two years ago, Cutter went into the hardware store and bought -a pistol, saying he was going to shoot a dog, and adding that he "thought -he would take a shot at an old cat while he was about it." (Here the -children interrupted Rudolph's narrative by smothered giggles.) - -Cutter went out behind the hardware store, put up a target, practiced for -an hour or so, and then went home. At six o'clock that evening, when -several men were passing the Cutter house on their way home to supper, -they heard a pistol shot. They paused and were looking doubtfully at one -another, when another shot came crashing through an upstairs window. They -ran into the house and found Wick Cutter lying on a sofa in his upstairs -bedroom, with his throat torn open, bleeding on a roll of sheets he had -placed beside his head. - -"Walk in, gentlemen," he said weakly. "I am alive, you see, and competent. -You are witnesses that I have survived my wife. You will find her in her -own room. Please make your examination at once, so that there will be no -mistake." - -One of the neighbors telephoned for a doctor, while the others went into -Mrs. Cutter's room. She was lying on her bed, in her nightgown and -wrapper, shot through the heart. Her husband must have come in while she -was taking her afternoon nap and shot her, holding the revolver near her -breast. Her nightgown was burned from the powder. - -The horrified neighbors rushed back to Cutter. He opened his eyes and said -distinctly, "Mrs. Cutter is quite dead, gentlemen, and I am conscious. My -affairs are in order." Then, Rudolph said, "he let go and died." - -On his desk the coroner found a letter, dated at five o'clock that -afternoon. It stated that he had just shot his wife; that any will she -might secretly have made would be invalid, as he survived her. He meant to -shoot himself at six o'clock and would, if he had strength, fire a shot -through the window in the hope that passers-by might come in and see him -"before life was extinct," as he wrote. - -"Now, would you have thought that man had such a cruel heart?" Antonia -turned to me after the story was told. "To go and do that poor woman out -of any comfort she might have from his money after he was gone!" - -"Did you ever hear of anybody else that killed himself for spite, Mr. -Burden?" asked Rudolph. - -I admitted that I had n't. Every lawyer learns over and over how strong a -motive hate can be, but in my collection of legal anecdotes I had nothing -to match this one. When I asked how much the estate amounted to, Rudolph -said it was a little over a hundred thousand dollars. - -Cuzak gave me a twinkling, sidelong glance. "The lawyers, they got a good -deal of it, sure," he said merrily. - -A hundred thousand dollars; so that was the fortune that had been scraped -together by such hard dealing, and that Cutter himself had died for in the -end! - -After supper Cuzak and I took a stroll in the orchard and sat down by the -windmill to smoke. He told me his story as if it were my business to know -it. - -His father was a shoemaker, his uncle a furrier, and he, being a younger -son, was apprenticed to the latter's trade. You never got anywhere working -for your relatives, he said, so when he was a journeyman he went to Vienna -and worked in a big fur shop, earning good money. But a young fellow who -liked a good time did n't save anything in Vienna; there were too many -pleasant ways of spending every night what he'd made in the day. After -three years there, he came to New York. He was badly advised and went to -work on furs during a strike, when the factories were offering big wages. -The strikers won, and Cuzak was blacklisted. As he had a few hundred -dollars ahead, he decided to go to Florida and raise oranges. He had -always thought he would like to raise oranges! The second year a hard -frost killed his young grove, and he fell ill with malaria. He came to -Nebraska to visit his cousin, Anton Jelinek, and to look about. When he -began to look about, he saw Antonia, and she was exactly the kind of girl -he had always been hunting for. They were married at once, though he had -to borrow money from his cousin to buy the wedding-ring. - -"It was a pretty hard job, breaking up this place and making the first -crops grow," he said, pushing back his hat and scratching his grizzled -hair. "Sometimes I git awful sore on this place and want to quit, but my -wife she always say we better stick it out. The babies come along pretty -fast, so it look like it be hard to move, anyhow. I guess she was right, -all right. We got this place clear now. We pay only twenty dollars an acre -then, and I been offered a hundred. We bought another quarter ten years -ago, and we got it most paid for. We got plenty boys; we can work a lot of -land. Yes, she is a good wife for a poor man. She ain't always so strict -with me, neither. Sometimes maybe I drink a little too much beer in town, -and when I come home she don't say nothing. She don't ask me no questions. -We always get along fine, her and me, like at first. The children don't -make trouble between us, like sometimes happens." He lit another pipe and -pulled on it contentedly. - -I found Cuzak a most companionable fellow. He asked me a great many -questions about my trip through Bohemia, about Vienna and the Ringstrasse -and the theaters. - -"Gee! I like to go back there once, when the boys is big enough to farm -the place. Sometimes when I read the papers from the old country, I pretty -near run away," he confessed with a little laugh. "I never did think how I -would be a settled man like this." - -He was still, as Antonia said, a city man. He liked theaters and lighted -streets and music and a game of dominoes after the day's work was over. -His sociability was stronger than his acquisitive instinct. He liked to -live day by day and night by night, sharing in the excitement of the -crowd.--Yet his wife had managed to hold him here on a farm, in one of the -loneliest countries in the world. - -I could see the little chap, sitting here every evening by the windmill, -nursing his pipe and listening to the silence; the wheeze of the pump, the -grunting of the pigs, an occasional squawking when the hens were disturbed -by a rat. It did rather seem to me that Cuzak had been made the instrument -of Antonia's special mission. This was a fine life, certainly, but it was -n't the kind of life he had wanted to live. I wondered whether the life -that was right for one was ever right for two! - -I asked Cuzak if he did n't find it hard to do without the gay company he -had always been used to. He knocked out his pipe against an upright, -sighed, and dropped it into his pocket. - -"At first I near go crazy with lonesomeness," he said frankly, "but my -woman is got such a warm heart. She always make it as good for me as she -could. Now it ain't so bad; I can begin to have some fun with my boys, -already!" - -As we walked toward the house, Cuzak cocked his hat jauntily over one ear -and looked up at the moon. "Gee!" he said in a hushed voice, as if he had -just wakened up, "it don't seem like I am away from there twenty-six -year!" - - - - -III - - -AFTER dinner the next day I said good-bye and drove back to Hastings to -take the train for Black Hawk. Antonia and her children gathered round my -buggy before I started, and even the little ones looked up at me with -friendly faces. Leo and Ambrosch ran ahead to open the lane gate. When I -reached the bottom of the hill, I glanced back. The group was still there -by the windmill. Antonia was waving her apron. - -At the gate Ambrosch lingered beside my buggy, resting his arm on the -wheel-rim. Leo slipped through the fence and ran off into the pasture. - -"That's like him," his brother said with a shrug. "He's a crazy kid. Maybe -he's sorry to have you go, and maybe he's jealous. He's jealous of anybody -mother makes a fuss over, even the priest." - -I found I hated to leave this boy, with his pleasant voice and his fine -head and eyes. He looked very manly as he stood there without a hat, the -wind rippling his shirt about his brown neck and shoulders. - -"Don't forget that you and Rudolph are going hunting with me up on the -Niobrara next summer," I said. "Your father's agreed to let you off after -harvest." - -He smiled. "I won't likely forget. I've never had such a nice thing -offered to me before. I don't know what makes you so nice to us boys," he -added, blushing. - -"Oh, yes you do!" I said, gathering up my reins. - -He made no answer to this, except to smile at me with unabashed pleasure -and affection as I drove away. - - - -My day in Black Hawk was disappointing. Most of my old friends were dead -or had moved away. Strange children, who meant nothing to me, were playing -in the Harlings' big yard when I passed; the mountain ash had been cut -down, and only a sprouting stump was left of the tall Lombardy poplar that -used to guard the gate. I hurried on. The rest of the morning I spent with -Anton Jelinek, under a shady cottonwood tree in the yard behind his -saloon. While I was having my mid-day dinner at the hotel, I met one of -the old lawyers who was still in practice, and he took me up to his office -and talked over the Cutter case with me. After that, I scarcely knew how -to put in the time until the night express was due. - -I took a long walk north of the town, out into the pastures where the land -was so rough that it had never been ploughed up, and the long red grass of -early times still grew shaggy over the draws and hillocks. Out there I -felt at home again. Overhead the sky was that indescribable blue of -autumn; bright and shadowless, hard as enamel. To the south I could see -the dun-shaded river bluffs that used to look so big to me, and all about -stretched drying cornfields, of the pale-gold color I remembered so well. -Russian thistles were blowing across the uplands and piling against the -wire fences like barricades. Along the cattle paths the plumes of -golden-rod were already fading into sun-warmed velvet, gray with gold -threads in it. I had escaped from the curious depression that hangs over -little towns, and my mind was full of pleasant things; trips I meant to -take with the Cuzak boys, in the Bad Lands and up on the Stinking Water. -There were enough Cuzaks to play with for a long while yet. Even after the -boys grew up, there would always be Cuzak himself! I meant to tramp along -a few miles of lighted streets with Cuzak. - -As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble -upon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north -country; to my grandfather's farm, then on to the Shimerdas' and to the -Norwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the -highways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was -all that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing -across the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and -doubling like a rabbit before the hounds. On the level land the tracks had -almost disappeared--were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would -not have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was -easy to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed -them so deep that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like -gashes torn by a grizzly's claws, on the slopes where the farm wagons used -to lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on -the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn -rosy in the slanting sunlight. - -This was the road over which Antonia and I came on that night when we got -off the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down in the straw, wondering -children, being taken we knew not whither. I had only to close my eyes to -hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by -that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near -that I could reach out and touch them with my hand. I had the sense of -coming home to myself, and of having found out what a little circle man's -experience is. For Antonia and for me, this had been the road of Destiny; -had taken us to those early accidents of fortune which predetermined for -us all that we can ever be. Now I understood that the same road was to -bring us together again. Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the -precious, the incommunicable past. - - THE END - - - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - - 1 The Bohemian name _Antonia_ is strongly accented on the first - syllable, like the English name _Anthony_, and the _i_ is, of - course, given the sound of long _e_. The name is pronounced - An{~MODIFIER LETTER PRIME~}-ton-ee-ah. - - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY ANTONIA*** - - - -CREDITS - - -November 14, 2006 - - LibraryCity Trusted Edition - Jon Noring - Lori Watrous-de Versterre - Jose Menendez - -November 14, 2006 - - Conversion to PGTEI v0.4 - Joshua Hutchinson - - - -A WORD FROM PROJECT GUTENBERG - - -This file should be named 19810.txt or 19810.zip. - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - - - http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/9/8/1/19810/ - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one -- the old editions will be -renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. 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