by Willa Cather
Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winterafternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his furovercoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it withsome pride as he stood warming his hands.
"I finished it last night--the thing about Antonia," he said. "Now, whatabout 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 thecup. "I did n't arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herselfand myself and other people Antonia's name recalls to me. I suppose it hasn'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 theword, "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 influenceyour own story."
My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim'smanuscript, substantially as he brought it to me.
BOOK I-- THE SHIMERDAS