| VI
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| 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.
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| In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against
the wind, I couldn'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.
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| 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 colour
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 coloured glass held us there.
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| On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings' windows drew me like
the painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was colour, 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.
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| Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we
acted charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlour,
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 parlour, the back parlour, 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.
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| 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.
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| One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy,
Tony told us a new story.
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| `Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the
Norwegian settlement last summer, when I was threshing there?
We were at Iversons', and I was driving one of the grain-wagons.'
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| 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.
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| `Yes, ma'm, 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 wasn'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 hadn'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
couldn't drownd himself in one of 'em.'
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| `I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we didn't
have rain soon we'd have to pump water for the cattle.
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| `"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 didn't have none when they threshed.
"My God!" he says, "so it's Norwegians now, is it? I thought
this was Americy."
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| `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."
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| `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 threshing machine after the wheat.
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| `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.'
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| `Was he clear dead, Tony?' we cried.
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| `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.'
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| 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?'
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| `Never, ma'm. He hadn't been seen nowhere except in a little town they
call Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there wasn't any saloon.
Maybe he came in on a freight, but the brakeman hadn't seen him.
They couldn'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.'
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| `Some poetry?' we exclaimed.
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| `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.'
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| `Now, wasn't that strange, Miss Frances?' Tony asked thoughtfully.
`What would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for?
In threshing time, too! It's nice everywhere then.'
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| `So it is, Antonia,' said Mrs. Harling heartily. `Maybe I'll go home
and help you thresh next summer. Isn't that taffy nearly ready to eat?
I've been smelling it a long while.'
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| 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'.
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