My Ántonia, Willa Cather [i want to read a book TXT] 📗

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, singsong 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 didn’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! Didn’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 underside 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