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Antonia, by Willa Sibert Cather
Book I: The Shimerdas
SPRING CAME, AFTER that hard winter, one could not get enough of the
nimble air. Every morning I
wakened with a fresh consciousness that winter was over.
There were none of the signs of spring for which I used to watch in
Virginia, no budding woods or blooming gardens.
There was only--spring itself; the throb of it, the light
restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere: in the sky, in the swift
clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind--rising suddenly,
sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed you
and then lay down to be petted. If I had been tossed down blindfold on
that red prairie, I should have known that it was spring.
now there was the smell of burning grass. Our neighbours burned off their
pasture before the new grass made a start, so that the fresh growth would
not be mixed with the dead stand of last year.
Those light, swift fires, running about the country, seemed a part
of the same kindling that was in the air.
Shimerdas were in their new log house by then. The neighbours had helped
them to build it in March. It stood directly in front of their old cave, which they used
as a cellar. The family were now fairly equipped to begin their struggle
with the soil. They had four
comfortable rooms to live in, a new windmill--bought on credit--a
chicken-house and poultry. Mrs. Shimerda had paid grandfather ten dollars
for a milk cow, and was to give him fifteen more as soon as they harvested
their first crop.
I rode up to the Shimerdas' one bright windy afternoon in April, Yulka ran
out to meet me. It was to her,
now, that I gave reading lessons; Antonia was busy with other things. I tied
my pony and went into the kitchen where Mrs. Shimerda was baking bread,
chewing poppy seeds as she worked. By this time she could speak enough
English to ask me a great many questions about what our men were doing in
the fields. She seemed to think that my elders withheld helpful information,
and that from me she might get valuable secrets.
On this occasion she asked me very craftily when grandfather expected
to begin planting corn. I told
her, adding that he thought we should have a dry spring and that the corn
would not be held back by too much rain, as it had been last year.
gave me a shrewd glance. `He
not Jesus,' she blustered; `he not know about the wet and the dry.
did not answer her; what was the use? As
I sat waiting for the hour when Ambrosch and Antonia would return from the
fields, I watched Mrs. Shimerda at her work. She took from the oven a
coffee-cake which she wanted to keep warm for supper, and wrapped it in a
quilt stuffed with feathers. I have seen her put even a roast goose in this
quilt to keep it hot. When the neighbours were there building the new house,
they saw her do this, and the story got abroad that the Shimerdas kept their
food in their featherbeds.
the sun was dropping low, Antonia came up the big south draw with her team.
How much older she had grown in eight months! She had come to us a
child, and now she was a tall, strong young girl, although her fifteenth
birthday had just slipped by. I
ran out and met her as she brought her horses up to the windmill to water
them. She wore the boots her father had so thoughtfully taken off before he
shot himself, and his old fur cap. Her
outgrown cotton dress switched about her calves, over the boot-tops. She
kept her sleeves rolled up all day, and her arms and throat were burned as
brown as a sailor's. Her neck came up strongly out of her shoulders, like
the bole of a tree out of the turf. One
sees that draught-horse neck among the peasant women in all old countries.
greeted me gaily, and began at once to tell me how much ploughing she had
done that day. Ambrosch, she
said, was on the north quarter, breaking sod with the oxen.
you ask Jake how much he ploughed to-day. I don't want that Jake get more
done in one day than me. I want we have very much corn this fall.'
the horses drew in the water, and nosed each other, and then drank again,
Antonia sat down on the windmill step and rested her head on her hand.
see the big prairie fire from your place last night? I hope your grandpa
ain't lose no stacks?'
we didn't. I came to ask you something, Tony. Grandmother wants to know if
you can't go to the term of school that begins next week over at the sod
schoolhouse. She says there's a good teacher, and you'd learn a lot.'
stood up, lifting and dropping her shoulders as if they were stiff.
`I ain't got time to learn. I
can work like mans now. My mother can't say no more how Ambrosch do all and
nobody to help him. I can work as much as him.
School is all right for little boys. I help make this land one good
clucked to her team and started for the barn.
I walked beside her, feeling vexed.
Was she going to grow up boastful like her mother, I wondered?
Before we reached the stable, I felt something tense in her silence,
and glancing up I saw that she was crying. She turned her face from me and
looked off at the red streak of dying light, over the dark prairie.
climbed up into the loft and threw down the hay for her, while she
unharnessed her team. We walked
slowly back toward the house. Ambrosch had come in from the north quarter,
and was watering his oxen at the tank.
took my hand. `Sometime you
will tell me all those nice things you learn at the school, won't you,
Jimmy?' she asked with a sudden rush of feeling in her voice.
`My father, he went much to school. He know a great deal; how to make
the fine cloth like what you not got here. He play horn and violin, and he
read so many books that the priests in Bohemie come to talk to him.
You won't forget my father, Jim?' `No,' I said, `I will never forget
Shimerda asked me to stay for supper. After
Ambrosch and Antonia had washed the field dust from their hands and faces at
the wash-basin by the kitchen door, we sat down at the oilcloth-covered
table. Mrs. Shimerda ladled meal mush out of an iron pot and poured milk on
it. After the mush we had fresh
bread and sorghum molasses, and coffee with the cake that had been kept warm
in the feathers. Antonia and Ambrosch were talking in Bohemian; disputing
about which of them had done more ploughing that day.
Mrs. Shimerda egged them on, chuckling while she gobbled her food.
Ambrosch said sullenly in English: `You
take them ox tomorrow and try the sod plough.
Then you not be so smart.'
sister laughed. `Don't be mad.
I know it's awful hard work for break sod.
I milk the cow for you tomorrow, if you want.'
Shimerda turned quickly to me. `That cow not give so much milk like what your grandpa say.
If he make talk about fifteen dollars, I send him back the cow.'
doesn't talk about the fifteen dollars,' I exclaimed indignantly. `He
doesn't find fault with people.'
say I break his saw when we build, and I never,' grumbled Ambrosch.
knew he had broken the saw, and then hid it and lied about it.
I began to wish I had not stayed for supper. Everything was
disagreeable to me. Antonia ate
so noisily now, like a man, and she yawned often at the table and kept
stretching her arms over her head, as if they ached. Grandmother had said,
`Heavy field work'll spoil that girl. She'll lose all her nice ways and get
rough ones.' She had lost them already.
supper I rode home through the sad, soft spring twilight. Since winter I had
seen very little of Antonia. She was out in the fields from sunup until
sundown. If I rode over to see her where she was ploughing, she stopped at
the end of a row to chat for a moment, then gripped her plough-handles,
clucked to her team, and waded on down the furrow, making me feel that she
was now grown up and had no time for me. On Sundays she helped her mother
make garden or sewed all day. Grandfather was pleased with Antonia.
When we complained of her, he only smiled and said, `She will help
some fellow get ahead in the world.' Nowadays
Tony could talk of nothing but the prices of things, or how much she could
lift and endure. She was too
proud of her strength. I knew, too, that Ambrosch put upon her some chores a
girl ought not to do, and that the farm-hands around the country joked in a
nasty way about it. Whenever I
saw her come up the furrow, shouting to her beasts, sunburned, sweaty, her
dress open at the neck, and her throat and chest dust-plastered, I used to
think of the tone in which poor Mr. Shimerda, who could say so little, yet
managed to say so much when he exclaimed, `My Antonia!'
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