Chapter: WINTER comes down savagely over a little town on the prairie. The wind
that sweeps in from the open country strips away all the leafy screens
that hide one yard from another in summer, and the houses seem to draw
closer together. The roofs, that looked so far away across the green
tree-tops, now stare you in the face, and they are so much uglier than
when their angles were softened by vines and shrubs.

In the morning, when I was fighting my way to school against the wind, I
could n't see anything but the road in front of me; but in the late
afternoon, when I was coming home, the town looked bleak and desolate to
me. The pale, cold light of the winter sunset did not beautify--it was like
the light of truth itself. When the smoky clouds hung low in the west and
the red sun went down behind them, leaving a pink flush on the snowy roofs
and the blue drifts, then the wind sprang up afresh, with a kind of bitter
song, as if it said: "This is reality, whether you like it or not. All
those frivolities of summer, the light and shadow, the living mask of
green that trembled over everything, they were lies, and this is what was
underneath. This is the truth." It was as if we were being punished for
loving the loveliness of summer.

If I loitered on the playground after school, or went to the post-office
for the mail and lingered to hear the gossip about the cigar-stand, it
would be growing dark by the time I came home. The sun was gone; the
frozen streets stretched long and blue before me; the lights were shining
pale in kitchen windows, and I could smell the suppers cooking as I
passed. Few people were abroad, and each one of them was hurrying toward a
fire. The glowing stoves in the houses were like magnets. When one passed
an old man, one could see nothing of his face but a red nose sticking out
between a frosted beard and a long plush cap. The young men capered along
with their hands in their pockets, and sometimes tried a slide on the icy
sidewalk. The children, in their bright hoods and comforters, never
walked, but always ran from the moment they left their door, beating their
mittens against their sides. When I got as far as the Methodist Church, I
was about halfway home. I can remember how glad I was when there happened
to be a light in the church, and the painted glass window shone out at us
as we came along the frozen street. In the winter bleakness a hunger for
color came over people, like the Laplander's craving for fats and sugar.
Without knowing why, we used to linger on the sidewalk outside the church
when the lamps were lighted early for choir practice or prayer-meeting,
shivering and talking until our feet were like lumps of ice. The crude
reds and greens and blues of that colored glass held us there.

On winter nights, the lights in the Harlings' windows drew me like the
painted glass. Inside that warm, roomy house there was color, too. After
supper I used to catch up my cap, stick my hands in my pockets, and dive
through 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 west
room, I did not go in, but turned and walked home by the long way, through
the street, wondering what book I should read as I sat down with the two
old people.

Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted
charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlor, with Sally always
dressed 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 for
us,--"Martha," "Norma," "Rigoletto,"--telling us the story while she played.
Every Saturday night was like a party. The parlor, the back parlor, and
the dining-room were warm and brightly lighted, with comfortable chairs
and 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 to
make pretty clothes for herself. After the long winter evenings on the
prairie, with Ambrosch's sullen silences and her mother's complaints, the
Harlings' house seemed, as she said, "like Heaven" to her. She was never
too tired to make taffy or chocolate cookies for us. If Sally whispered in
her ear, or Charley gave her three winks, Tony would rush into the kitchen
and build a fire in the range on which she had already cooked three meals
that day.

While we sat in the kitchen waiting for the cookies to bake or the taffy
to cool, Nina used to coax Antonia to tell her stories--about the calf that
broke its leg, or how Yulka saved her little turkeys from drowning in the
freshet, or about old Christmases and weddings in Bohemia. Nina
interpreted the stories about the creche fancifully, and in spite of our
derision she cherished a belief that Christ was born in Bohemia a short
time 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 said
seemed to come right out of her heart.

One evening when we were picking out kernels for walnut taffy, Tony told
us a new story.

"Mrs. Harling, did you ever hear about what happened up in the Norwegian
settlement 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 wheat
into 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 that
drove the other wagon. One day it was just awful hot. When we got back to
the field from dinner, we took things kind of easy. The men put in the
horses 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 some
shade. My wagon was n't going out first, and somehow I felt the heat awful
that day. The sun was so hot like it was going to burn the world up. After
a while I see a man coming across the stubble, and when he got close I see
it was a tramp. His toes stuck out of his shoes, and he had n't shaved for
a long while, and his eyes was awful red and wild, like he had some
sickness. 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't
drownd himself in one of 'em.'

"I told him nobody wanted to drownd themselves, but if we did n't have
rain soon we'd have to pump water for the cattle.

"'Oh, cattle,' he says, 'you'll all take care of your cattle! Ain't you
got 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'. I
won't go no farther.'

"I tried to make signs to Ole, 'cause I thought that man was crazy and
might get the machine stopped up. But Ole, he was glad to get down out of
the sun and chaff--it gets down your neck and sticks to you something awful
when it's hot like that. So Ole jumped down and crawled under one of the
wagons for shade, and the tramp got on the machine. He cut bands all right
for a few minutes, and then, Mrs. Harling, he waved his hand to me and
jumped 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 had
sucked him down, and by the time they got her stopped he was all beat and
cut 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't
talk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you while
Tony's here."

Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. "Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always send you
upstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out
where he came from, Antonia?"

"Never, mam. He had n't been seen nowhere except in a little town they
call 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. They
could n't find no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife
in his pocket and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of
paper, and some poetry."

"Some poetry?" we exclaimed.

"I remember," said Frances. "It was 'The Old Oaken Bucket,' cut out of a
newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and
showed it to me."

"Now, was n't that strange, Miss Frances?" Tony asked thoughtfully. "What
would 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 and
help you thrash next summer. Is n't that taffy nearly ready to eat? I've
been smelling it a long while."

There was a basic harmony between Antonia and her mistress. They had
strong, independent natures, both of them. They knew what they liked, and
were not always trying to imitate other people. They loved children and
animals and music, and rough play and digging in the earth. They liked to
prepare rich, hearty food and to see people eat it; to make up soft white
beds and to see youngsters asleep in them. They ridiculed conceited people
and were quick to help unfortunate ones. Deep down in each of them there
was a kind of hearty joviality, a relish of life, not over-delicate, but
very invigorating. I never tried to define it, but I was distinctly
conscious of it. I could not imagine Antonia's living for a week in any
other house in Black Hawk than the Harlings'.

 The winter is always tough on a small town on the prairie. Everything starts to look ugly. Jim has a hard time even getting to school in the morning. He feels as though the winter is a punishment for their having enjoyed summer so much. Sometimes Jim loiters around after school, and then it's dark by the time he goes home. The town always looks desolate at this time. Some of the windows have lights in them and the children are always running about. He wishes there were more color in the town. He wonders why they all hang around outside talking when it's so cold. He's always drawn to the Harlings' house in the winter because they always have lights on in their windows. He doesn't go if Mr. Harling is home. He's starting to feel bored at home. But when Mr. Harling isn't home he always has a grand time over there. They do things like play dress-up and dance and listen to Mrs. Harling play the piano. Antonia sews her own clothes now because she learned from Lena how to make dresses. She also likes the Harlings' house, especially compared to her own life back on the farm with Ambrosch and her mother. She's always happy to cook extra treats for the Harling children. Nina likes to get Antonia to tell stories from her childhood. Antonia thinks that Christ was born in Bohemia shortly before her family left the country. One night Antonia tells a story about when she and Ole were working on a farm in the Norwegian Settlement. They were throwing bundles of wheat into a threshing machine. A tramp came alone and said it was a very hot day and there wasn't enough water in the ponds to drown yourself, and could he work for them for money. Tony thought the man was crazy and didn't want to let him near the machine. But Ole was eager to get some help working and so he let the tramp help. The tramp worked for a few minutes and then jumped into the threshing machine to kill himself. That really messed up the machine. Nine is crying, because when a small child asks you to tell them a story you should generally leave the chopped-up bodies out of it. Antonia feels bad. Mrs. Harling, who is all about this story, commands Nina to stop crying so she can hear more details. Antonia explains that they never knew where the tramp was from, but that he just came from a little town where he was trying to get beer. All he had on him was a wishbone which clearly didn't work and some poetry. The poem was called "The Old Oaken Bucket' and he had cut it out of a newspaper. Tony thinks it's strange that anyone would want to kill themselves on such a nice summer day. Mrs. Harling offers to go help Antonia thresh next summer. Then they all enjoy taffy together. Jim notes that Antonia and Mrs. Harling are very well suited to each other. They are both strong and independent and like children and animals and music and cooking. And they're also charitable but strict with obnoxious people. They both seem to really enjoy life.

