My Ántonia

by Willa Cather

  I

  I TOLD Antonia I would come back, but life intervened, and it was twentyyears before I kept my promise. I heard of her from time to time; that shemarried, very soon after I last saw her, a young Bohemian, a cousin ofAnton Jelinek; that they were poor, and had a large family. Once when Iwas abroad I went into Bohemia, and from Prague I sent Antonia somephotographs of her native village. Months afterward came a letter fromher, telling me the names and ages of her many children, but little else;signed, "Your old friend, Antonia Cuzak." When I met Tiny Soderball inSalt Lake, she told me that Antonia had not "done very well"; that herhusband was not a man of much force, and she had had a hard life. Perhapsit was cowardice that kept me away so long. My business took me Westseveral times every year, and it was always in the back of my mind that Iwould stop in Nebraska some day and go to see Antonia. But I kept puttingit off until the next trip. I did not want to find her aged and broken; Ireally dreaded it. In the course of twenty crowded years one parts withmany illusions. I did not wish to lose the early ones. Some memories arerealities, 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 SanFrancisco 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 housejust around the corner. It interested me, after so many years, to see thetwo women together. Tiny audits Lena's accounts occasionally, and investsher money for her; and Lena, apparently, takes care that Tiny does n'tgrow too miserly. "If there's anything I can't stand," she said to me inTiny's presence, "it's a shabby rich woman." Tiny smiled grimly andassured me that Lena would never be either shabby or rich. "And I don'twant to be," the other agreed complacently.

  Lena gave me a cheerful account of Antonia and urged me to make her avisit.

  "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'dlike him. He is n't a hustler, but a rough man would never have suitedTony. 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 justright for Tony. She'd love to show them to you."

  On my way East I broke my journey at Hastings, in Nebraska, and set offwith 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 backon a swell of land at my right, I saw a wide farmhouse, with a red barnand an ash grove, and cattle yards in front that sloped down to the highroad. I drew up my horses and was wondering whether I should drive inhere, when I heard low voices. Ahead of me, in a plum thicket beside theroad, I saw two boys bending over a dead dog. The little one, not morethan four or five, was on his knees, his hands folded, and hisclose-clipped, bare head drooping forward in deep dejection. The otherstood beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and was comforting him in alanguage I had not heard for a long while. When I stopped my horsesopposite them, the older boy took his brother by the hand and came towardme. 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, buthis 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 andride up with me."

  He glanced at his reluctant little brother. "I guess we'd better walk. Butwe'll open the gate for you."

  I drove along the side-road and they followed slowly behind. When I pulledup at the windmill, another boy, barefooted and curly-headed, ran out ofthe 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 alamb's wool, growing down on his neck in little tufts. He tied my teamwith two flourishes of his hands, and nodded when I asked him if hismother was at home. As he glanced at me, his face dimpled with a seizureof irrelevant merriment, and he shot up the windmill tower with alightness that struck me as disdainful. I knew he was peering down at meas I walked toward the house.

  Ducks and geese ran quacking across my path. White cats were sunningthemselves among yellow pumpkins on the porch steps. I looked through thewire screen into a big, light kitchen with a white floor. I saw a longtable, rows of wooden chairs against the wall, and a shining range in onecorner. Two girls were washing dishes at the sink, laughing andchattering, and a little one, in a short pinafore, sat on a stool playingwith a rag baby. When I asked for their mother, one of the girls droppedher 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 couragethan the noisy, excited passages in life. Antonia came in and stood beforeme; a stalwart, brown woman, flat-chested, her curly brown hair a littlegrizzled. It was a shock, of course. It always is, to meet people afterlong years, especially if they have lived as much and as hard as thiswoman had. We stood looking at each other. The eyes that peered anxiouslyat me were--simply Antonia's eyes. I had seen no others like them since Ilooked into them last, though I had looked at so many thousands of humanfaces. As I confronted her, the changes grew less apparent to me, heridentity 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 lookredder than it was. Suddenly her eyes widened, her whole face seemed togrow 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 myhands 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 offthe train at Hastings and drove down to see you and your family."

  She dropped my hand and began rushing about. "Anton, Yulka, Nina, whereare you all? Run, Anna, and hunt for the boys. They're off looking forthat dog, somewhere. And call Leo. Where is that Leo!" She pulled them outof corners and came bringing them like a mother cat bringing in herkittens. "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 meimploringly, panting with excitement.

  While I reassured her and told her there would be plenty of time, thebarefooted boys from outside were slipping into the kitchen and gatheringabout her.

  "Now, tell me their names, and how old they are."

  As she told them off in turn, she made several mistakes about ages, andthey roared with laughter. When she came to my light-footed friend of thewindmill, she said, "This is Leo, and he's old enough to be better than heis."

  He ran up to her and butted her playfully with his curly head, like alittle ram, but his voice was quite desperate. "You've forgot! You alwaysforget mine. It's mean! Please tell him, mother!" He clenched his fists invexation 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 yearsold, 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 exhibitastonishment or delight at this information. Clearly, they were proud ofeach 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 dishesquietly and not disturb you."

  Antonia looked about, quite distracted. "Yes, child, but why don't we takehim 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'rehere, now, mother, and if you talk here, Yulka and I can listen, too. Youcan show him the parlor after while." She smiled at me, and went back tothe dishes, with her sister. The little girl with the rag doll found aplace on the bottom step of an enclosed back stairway, and sat with hertoes curled up, looking out at us expectantly.

  "She's Nina, after Nina Harling," Antonia explained. "Ain't her eyes likeNina's? I declare, Jim, I loved you children almost as much as I love myown. These children know all about you and Charley and Sally, like as ifthey'd grown up with you. I can't think of what I want to say, you've gotme so stirred up. And then, I've forgot my English so. I don't often talkit any more. I tell the children I used to speak real well." She said theyalways spoke Bohemian at home. The little ones could not speak English atall--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'thave known me, would you, Jim? You've kept so young, yourself. But it'seasier for a man. I can't see how my Anton looks any older than the day Imarried him. His teeth have kept so nice. I have n't got many left. But Ifeel just as young as I used to, and I can do as much work. Oh, we don'thave to work so hard now! We've got plenty to help us, papa and me. Andhow many have you got, Jim?"

  When I told her I had no children she seemed embarrassed. "Oh, ain't thattoo bad! Maybe you could take one of my bad ones, now? That Leo; he's theworst of all." She leaned toward me with a smile. "And I love him thebest," 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 outof 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 shehad lost, but whose inner glow has faded. Whatever else was gone, Antoniahad not lost the fire of life. Her skin, so brown and hardened, had notthat look of flabbiness, as if the sap beneath it had been secretly drawnaway.

  While we were talking, the little boy whom they called Jan came in and satdown on the step beside Nina, under the hood of the stairway. He wore afunny long gingham apron, like a smock, over his trousers, and his hairwas clipped so short that his head looked white and naked. He watched usout of his big, sorrowful gray eyes.

  "He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead," Annasaid, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard.

  Antonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his elbowson her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender fingers, whilehe told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears brimmed over andhung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke soothingly to him, andin a whisper promised him something that made him give her a quick, tearysmile. He slipped away and whispered his secret to Nina, sitting close toher and talking behind his hand.

  When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stoodbehind her mother's chair. "Why don't we show Mr. Burden our new fruitcave?" she asked.

  We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boyswere standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ranahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down afterus, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were. Ambrosch, thethoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the plum bushes, calledmy attention to the stout brick walls and the cement floor. "Yes, it is agood way from the house," he admitted. "But, you see, in winter there arenearly 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 motherexclaimed. "You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays andSaturdays! It's no wonder their poor papa can't get rich, he has to buy somuch sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground forflour,--but then there's that much less to sell."

  Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to methe shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but glancing at me, tracedon the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries andstrawberries and crab-apples within, trying by a blissful expression ofcountenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness.

  "Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don't have those," said oneof 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'remistaken, young man. I've eaten your mother's kolaches long before thatEaster 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, andthe children waited. We were standing outside talking, when they all camerunning up the steps together, big and little, tow heads and gold headsand brown, and flashing little naked legs; a veritable explosion of lifeout 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 wasso 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 inthem; the Bohemians, I remembered, always planted hollyhocks. The frontyard was enclosed by a thorny locust hedge, and at the gate grew twosilvery, moth-like trees of the mimosa family. From here one looked downover the cattle yards, with their two long ponds, and over a wide stretchof stubble which they told me was a rye-field in summer.

  At some distance behind the house were an ash grove and two orchards; acherry orchard, with gooseberry and currant bushes between the rows, andan apple orchard, sheltered by a high hedge from the hot winds. The olderchildren turned back when we reached the hedge, but Jan and Nina and Luciecrept through it by a hole known only to themselves and hid under thelow-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 themas if they were people," she said, rubbing her hand over the bark. "Therewas n't a tree here when we first came. We planted every one, and used tocarry 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'tfeel so tired that I would n't fret about these trees when there was a drytime. They were on my mind like children. Many a night after he was asleepI'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 inFlorida, and he knows all about grafting. There ain't one of our neighborshas an orchard that bears like ours."

  In the middle of the orchard we came upon a grape-arbor, with seats builtalong the sides and a warped plank table. The three children were waitingfor us there. They looked up at me bashfully and made some request oftheir mother.

  "They want me to tell you how the teacher has the school picnic here everyyear. These don't go to school yet, so they think it's all like thepicnic."

  After I had admired the arbor sufficiently, the youngsters ran away to anopen place where there was a rough jungle of French pinks, and squatteddown among them, crawling about and measuring with a string. "Jan wants tobury his dog there," Antonia explained. "I had to tell him he could. He'skind of like Nina Harling; you remember how hard she used to take littlethings? 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 tripleenclosure; the wire fence, then the hedge of thorny locusts, then themulberry hedge which kept out the hot winds of summer and held fast to theprotecting snows of winter. The hedges were so tall that we could seenothing but the blue sky above them, neither the barn roof nor thewindmill. The afternoon sun poured down on us through the drying grapeleaves. The orchard seemed full of sun, like a cup, and we could smell theripe apples on the trees. The crabs hung on the branches as thick as beadson a string, purple-red, with a thin silvery glaze over them. Some hensand ducks had crept through the hedge and were pecking at the fallenapples. The drakes were handsome fellows, with pinkish gray bodies, theirheads and necks covered with iridescent green feathers which grew closeand full, changing to blue like a peacock's neck. Antonia said they alwaysreminded 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 gohunting with me the last summer before we moved to town. "You were n't abad shot, Tony. Do you remember how you used to want to run away and gofor ducks with Charley Harling and me?"

  "I know, but I'm afraid to look at a gun now." She picked up one of thedrakes and ruffled his green capote with her fingers. "Ever since I've hadchildren, I don't like to kill anything. It makes me kind of faint towring 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 afriend of mine. She used to be a great huntswoman, but now she feels asyou 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 whenthe farm land was cheap and could be had on easy payments. The first tenyears were a hard struggle. Her husband knew very little about farming andoften grew discouraged. "We'd never have got through if I had n't been sostrong. I've always had good health, thank God, and I was able to help himin the fields until right up to the time before my babies came. Ourchildren were good about taking care of each other. Martha, the one yousaw when she was a baby, was such a help to me, and she trained Anna to bejust like her. My Martha's married now, and has a baby of her own. Thinkof that, Jim!

  "No, I never got down-hearted. Anton's a good man, and I loved my childrenand always believed they would turn out well. I belong on a farm. I'mnever lonesome here like I used to be in town. You remember what sadspells 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 haveto put up with sadness." She leaned her chin on her hand and looked downthrough 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 knownanything about cooking or housekeeping if I had n't. I learned nice waysat the Harlings', and I've been able to bring my children up so muchbetter. 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 havebrought 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. Thetrouble 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 thenight. "We've plenty of room. Two of the boys sleep in the haymow tillcold weather comes, but there's no need for it. Leo always begs to sleepthere, 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, putaway 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 withtheir milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompaniedus at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps ofironweed, 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 goodheads 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 wouldfeed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were anold friend of the family--and not too old. I felt like a boy in theircompany, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed,after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside thesunset, 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 pleasedabout anything." There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice thatmade me wish I had given more occasion for it.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. "Your mother, you know, was very much lovedby all of us. She was a beautiful girl."

  "Oh, we know!" They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that Ishould think it necessary to mention this. "Everybody liked her, did n'tthey? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people."

  "Sometimes," I ventured, "it does n't occur to boys that their mother wasever young and pretty."

  "Oh, we know!" they said again, warmly. "She's not very old now," Ambroschadded. "Not much older than you."

  "Well," I said, "if you were n't nice to her, I think I'd take a club andgo for the whole lot of you. I could n't stand it if you boys wereinconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who lookedafter you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and Iknow there's nobody like her."

  The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed. "She never told usthat," said Anton. "But she's always talked lots about you, and about whatgood times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out ofthe Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove upto the windmill. You can't tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes tobe smart."

  We brought the cows home to the corner nearest the barn, and the boysmilked them while night came on. Everything was as it should be: thestrong smell of sunflowers and ironweed in the dew, the clear blue andgold 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 tofeel the loneliness of the farm-boy at evening, when the chores seemeverlastingly the same, and the world so far away.

  What a tableful we were at supper; two long rows of restless heads in thelamplight, and so many eyes fastened excitedly upon Antonia as she sat atthe head of the table, filling the plates and starting the dishes on theirway. The children were seated according to a system; a little one next anolder one, who was to watch over his behavior and to see that he got hisfood. Anna and Yulka left their chairs from time to time to bring freshplates of kolaches and pitchers of milk.

  After supper we went into the parlor, so that Yulka and Leo could play forme. Antonia went first, carrying the lamp. There were not nearly chairsenough 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 carpetif they got ninety cents for their wheat. Leo, with a good deal offussing, got out his violin. It was old Mr. Shimerda's instrument, whichAntonia had always kept, and it was too big for him. But he played verywell 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 intothe middle of the floor, and began to do a pretty little dance on theboards with her bare feet. No one paid the least attention to her, andwhen 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. Heseemed to be trying
to pout, but his attempt only brought out dimples inunusual places. After twisting and screwing the keys, he played someBohemian 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 facebefore. My first impression was right; he really was faun-like. He had n'tmuch head behind his ears, and his tawny fleece grew down thick to theback of his neck. His eyes were not frank and wide apart like those of theother boys, but were deep-set, gold-green in color, and seemed sensitiveto the light. His mother said he got hurt oftener than all the others puttogether. He was always trying to ride the colts before they were broken,teasing the turkey gobbler, seeing just how much red the bull would standfor, or how sharp the new axe was.

  After the concert was over Antonia brought out a big boxful ofphotographs; she and Anton in their wedding clothes, holding hands; herbrother Ambrosch and his very fat wife, who had a farm of her own, and whobossed her husband, I was delighted to hear; the three Bohemian Marys andtheir large families.

  "You would n't believe how steady those girls have turned out," Antoniaremarked. "Mary Svoboda's the best butter-maker in all this country, and afine manager. Her children will have a grand chance."

  As Antonia turned over the pictures the young Cuzaks stood behind herchair, 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 forgothis shyness and grinned delightedly when familiar faces came into view. Inthe 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 someadmiringly, as if these characters in their mother's girlhood had beenremarkable 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 Franciscolast Christmas. "Does she still look like that? She has n't been home forsix 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 lazyeyes, and the old dimpled ingenuousness still lurking at the corners ofher mouth.

  There was a picture of Frances Harling in a be-frogged riding costume thatI remembered well. "Is n't she fine!" the girls murmured. They allassented. One could see that Frances had come down as a heroine in thefamily legend. Only Leo was unmoved.

  "And there's Mr. Harling, in his grand fur coat. He was awfully rich, wasn't he, mother?"

  "He was n't any Rockefeller," put in Master Leo, in a very low tone, whichreminded me of the way in which Mrs. Shimerda had once said that mygrandfather "was n't Jesus." His habitual skepticism was like a directinheritance 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 agiggle at a tintype of two men, uncomfortably seated, with anawkward-looking boy in baggy clothes standing between them; Jake and Ottoand I! We had it taken, I remembered, when we went to Black Hawk on thefirst Fourth of July I spent in Nebraska. I was glad to see Jake's grinagain, and Otto's ferocious mustaches. The young Cuzaks knew all aboutthem.

  "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'mashamed because I quarreled with Jake that way. I was saucy andimpertinent to him, Leo, like you are with people sometimes, and I wishsomebody had made me behave."

  "We are n't through with you, yet," they warned me. They produced aphotograph taken just before I went away to college; a tall youth instriped trousers and a straw hat, trying to look easy and jaunty.

  "Tell us, Mr. Burden," said Charley, "about the rattler you killed at thedog town. How long was he? Sometimes mother says six feet and sometimesshe says five."

  These children seemed to be upon very much the same terms with Antonia asthe Harling children had been so many years before. They seemed to feelthe same pride in her, and to look to her for stories and entertainment aswe used to do.

  It was eleven o'clock when I at last took my bag and some blankets andstarted 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 corraland the two ponds asleep in the moonlight, and the long sweep of thepasture under the star-sprinkled sky.

  The boys told me to choose my own place in the haymow, and I lay downbefore a big window, left open in warm weather, that looked out into thestars. Ambrosch and Leo cuddled up in a hay-cave, back under the eaves,and lay giggling and whispering. They tickled each other and tossed andtumbled in the hay; and then, all at once, as if they had been shot, theywere 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 windowon its way up the heavens. I was thinking about Antonia and her children;about Anna's solicitude for her, Ambrosch's grave affection, Leo'sjealous, animal little love. That moment, when they all came tumbling outof the cave into the light, was a sight any man might have come far tosee. Antonia had always been one to leave images in the mind that did notfade--that grew stronger with time. In my memory there was a succession ofsuch 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 camehome in triumph with our snake; Antonia in her black shawl and fur cap, asshe stood by her father's grave in the snowstorm; Antonia coming in withher work-team along the evening sky-line. She lent herself to immemorialhuman attitudes which we recognize by instinct as universal and true. Ihad not been mistaken. She was a battered woman now, not a lovely girl;but she still had that something which fires the imagination, could stillstop one's breath for a moment by a look or gesture that somehow revealedthe meaning in common things. She had only to stand in the orchard, to puther hand on a little crab tree and look up at the apples, to make you feelthe goodness of planting and tending and harvesting at last. All thestrong things of her heart came out in her body, that had been so tirelessin serving generous emotions.

  It was no wonder that her sons stood tall and straight. She was a richmine of life, like the founders of early races.