by Willa Cather
VI
WINTER comes down savagely over a little town on the prairie. The windthat sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screensthat hide one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to drawcloser together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the greentree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier thanwhen their angles were softened by vines and shrubs.
In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against the wind, Icould n't see anything but the road in front of me; but in the lateafternoon, when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate tome. The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify--it was likethe light of truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west andthe red sun went down behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofsand the blue drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bittersong, as if it said: "This is reality, whether you like it or not. Allthose frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask ofgreen that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what wasunderneath. This is the truth." It was as if we were being punished forloving the loveliness of summer.
If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-officefor the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, itwould be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; thefrozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shiningpale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as Ipassed. Few people were abroad, and each one of them was hurrying toward afire. The glowing stoves in the houses were like magnets. When one passedan old man, one could see nothing of his face but a red nose sticking outbetween a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young men capered alongwith their hands in their pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icysidewalk. The children, in their bright hoods and comforters, neverwalked, but always ran from the moment they left their door, beating theirmittens against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, Iwas about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was when there happenedto be a light in the church, and the painted glass window shone out at usas we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a hunger forcolor came over people, like the Laplander's craving for fats and sugar.Without knowing why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the churchwhen the lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting,shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crudereds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there.
On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings' windows drew me like thepainted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was color, too. Aftersupper I used to catch up my cap, stick my hands in my pockets, and divethrough 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 westroom, I did not go in, but turned and walked home by the long way, throughthe street, wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the twoold people.
Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we actedcharades, or had a costume ball in the back parlor, with Sally alwaysdressed 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 forus,--"Martha," "Norma," "Rigoletto,"--telling us the story while she played.Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, andthe dining-room were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairsand 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 tomake pretty clothes for herself. After the long winter evenings on theprairie, with Ambrosch's sullen silences and her mother's complaints, theHarlings' house seemed, as she said, "like Heaven" to her. She was nevertoo tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered inher ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchenand build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three mealsthat day.
While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffyto cool, Nina used to coax Antonia to tell her stories--about the calf thatbroke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowning in thefreshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Ninainterpreted the stories about the creche fancifully, and in spite of ourderision she cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a shorttime 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 saidseemed to come right out of her heart.
One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy, Tony toldus a new story.
"Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the Norwegiansettlement 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 wheatinto 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 thatdrove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back tothe field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in thehorses 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 someshade. My wagon was n't going out first, and somehow I felt the heat awfulthat day. The sun was so hot like it was going to burn the world up. Aftera while I see a man coming across the stubble, and when he got close I seeit was a tramp. His toes stuck out of his shoes, and he had n't shaved fora long while, and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had somesickness. 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'tdrownd himself in one of 'em.'
"I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we did n't haverain soon we'd have to pump water for the cattle.
"'Oh, cattle,' he says, 'you'll all take care of your cattle! Ain't yougot 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'. Iwon't go no farther.'
"I tried to make signs to Ole, 'cause I thought that man was crazy andmight get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down out ofthe sun and chaff--it gets down your neck and sticks to you something awfulwhen it's hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of thewagons for shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all rightfor a few minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his hand to me andjumped 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 hadsucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped he was all beat andcut 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'ttalk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you whileTony's here."
Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. "Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always send youupstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they never find outwhere he came from, Antonia?"
"Never, mam. He had n't been seen nowhere except in a little town theycall 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. Theycould n't find no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknifein his pocket and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece ofpaper, and some poetry."
"Some poetry?" we exclaimed.
"I remember," said Frances. "It was 'The Old Oaken Bucket,' cut out of anewspaper and nearly worn out. Ol
e Iverson brought it into the office andshowed it to me."
"Now, was n't that strange, Miss Frances?" Tony asked thoughtfully. "Whatwould 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 andhelp you thrash next summer. Is n't that taffy nearly ready to eat? I'vebeen smelling it a long while."
There was a basic harmony between Antonia and her mistress. They hadstrong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, andwere not always trying to imitate other people. They loved children andanimals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked toprepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft whitebeds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited peopleand were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them therewas a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, butvery invigorating. I never tried to define it, but I was distinctlyconscious of it. I could not imagine Antonia's living for a week in anyother house in Black Hawk than the Harlings'.