My Antonia(Illustrated) E-Book

Willa Cather

• Herausgeber: Micheal Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

• Illustrated Edition: Includes 20 stunning, carefully crafted illustrations that bring the story's rich landscapes and vibrant characters to life.
• Comprehensive Summary: A detailed synopsis is provided to enhance understanding and appreciation of the novel's narrative and themes.
• Extensive Character List: Get to know the personalities that populate the world of "My Ántonia" with our in-depth character outlines.
• Author Biography: Delve into the life of Willa Cather with a beautifully written biography, offering insights into her inspirations and literary journey.

Embark on a journey to the heartland of America with this exquisite Illustrated Edition of Willa Cather's beloved classic, "My Ántonia." Through the inclusion of 20 evocative illustrations, this edition captures the boundless prairies and the enduring spirit of the characters that have made Cather's novel a cornerstone of American literature.
"My Antonia" is a magnificent tapestry made from the strands of memory, friendship, and the struggle against the wild landscapes of the American frontier. Set on the late nineteenth century Nebraska grasslands, the story follows the life of Antonia Shimerda, a Bohemian immigrant girl, through the eyes of her childhood friend, Jim Burden. Theirs is a narrative of struggle, friendship, grief, and, finally, the enduring power of love.
A comprehensive summary is an added feature that walks you through the narrative's highs and lows, ensuring a deep connection and knowledge of the material. The lengthy character list brings to life the pioneers, dreamers, and doers that make up the rich tapestry of this narrative, serving as an important reference to the individuals that comprise the story's backbone.
To complete this enriched reading experience, the author biography of Willa Cather gives you a glimpse into the life and times of one of America's most cherished authors, allowing a deeper understanding of her motivations and how her own experiences seeped into the pores of every page she wrote.
This Illustrated Edition of "My Ántonia" is a tribute to Cather's masterful storytelling, her vividly painted landscapes, and her deep empathy for the immigrant experience. It is a perfect celebration of the novel for both first-time readers and those returning to rediscover the beauty of this timeless American epic.
 

Leseprobe

MY ANTONIA

BY

WILLA CATHER

ABOUT CATHER

Willa Cather, an emblematic figure in American literature, was born in 1873, in Winchester, Virginia. However, it was her family's relocation to Red Cloud, Nebraska, when Cather was nine, that profoundly influenced her literary path. The vast, open landscapes of the Great Plains and the diverse community of immigrants and pioneers she encountered there deeply shaped her narrative voice and thematic preoccupations.

Cather's early years spent on the Nebraska prairie gave her a profound respect for the natural world and a perceptive understanding of the human condition. These components come to define her writing. Her initial field of study at the University of Nebraska at Lincoln was science, but she soon abandoned her studies to pursue her passion for writing and literature. Cather started her writing career as a theater critic and contributor to the Nebraska State Journal while she was a college student.

After graduating, Cather moved to Pittsburgh, where she worked as a teacher and magazine editor, and then to New York City in 1906 to assume a position on the editorial staff of McClure's Magazine. It was during these years that she honed her skills as a writer, producing short stories, poems, and reviews. Cather's early works often explored the lives of artists and the complexities of creativity, themes that would recur throughout her career.

Cather's first major novel, "O Pioneers!" (1913), marked a significant turn in her career. The novel, which celebrates the pioneering spirit of the American frontier, was the first in what would become known as her Prairie Trilogy. The subsequent novels, "The Song of the Lark" (1915) and "My Ántonia" (1918), further established Cather as a leading voice in American literature, admired for her vivid portrayal of the landscape and her nuanced character studies.

Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, Cather continued to produce critically acclaimed works, including "One of Ours" (1922), which won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Her writing during this period reflected a broadening of thematic concerns, encompassing the immigrant experience, the passing of traditional ways of life, and the personal costs of ambition and success.

Cather's style is characterized by its clarity, precision, and sensitivity to the physical and emotional landscapes of her characters. She was a meticulous craftswoman, deeply involved in the design and publication process of her books, insisting on the highest standards.

Despite her success, Cather was a private individual, who valued her solitude and closely guarded her personal life. She lived for many years with Edith Lewis, her companion and secretary, in New York City. Cather's relationship with Lewis, like much of her personal life, was kept out of the public eye, in accordance with her desire for privacy.

Throughout her life, Willa Cather's contributions to American literature were acknowledged, and her influence has only gotten stronger. On April 24, 1947, she passed away in New York City. Because of their profound understanding of the American experience, poetic beauty, and genuine humanity, her works are still read and respected widely. One of the most beloved writers of the 20th century, Cather captures the eternal spirit of the American landscape and the complexity of the human heart in her novels and short stories.

SUMMARY

"My Ántonia" by Willa Cather is an evocative and poignant masterpiece that captures the essence of the American frontier with grace and vividness. This novel, often regarded as Cather's finest work, transports readers to the vast, untamed landscapes of Nebraska in the late 19th century, where immigrants and pioneers sought to carve out a life from the rugged terrain.

At the heart of this narrative is the enduring friendship between Jim Burden, an orphaned boy from Virginia, and Ántonia Shimerda, a spirited and resilient immigrant girl from Bohemia. Their story unfolds through Jim's eyes, beginning with his arrival in Nebraska to live with his grandparents after the death of his parents. The novel traces the arcs of Jim and Ántonia's lives, from their youthful explorations of the natural world around them to the separate paths they eventually take.

Ántonia, with her unbreakable spirit, becomes the embodiment of the pioneer ideal—braving hardships, loss, and the challenges of adapting to a new world while maintaining her indomitable will to thrive. Jim, on the other hand, pursues education and a career in the East, yet remains deeply connected to the Nebraskan landscape and the girl who symbolizes its beauty and harshness.

"My Ántonia" is not just a tale of friendship, growth, and the immigrant experience; it is a love letter to the American landscape, a commentary on the societal norms of the time, and a reflection on the nature of memory and longing. Cather's prose is lyrical and lush, painting scenes of the prairie with such clarity and beauty that they linger in the mind long after the last page is turned.

The novel explores themes of identity, belonging, and the search for home in a changing world. Through the vivid tableau of pioneer life, Cather addresses the complexities of gender roles, community, and the enduring impact of the land on the human spirit.

"My Ántonia" remains a timeless classic, celebrated for its rich characterizations, its profound sense of place, and its exploration of the universal quest for connection and fulfillment. It is a testament to the resilience of those who ventured into the unknown to build new lives for themselves and a reminder of the enduring power of friendship and the beauty of the natural world.

CHARACTERS LIST

"My Ántonia" by Willa Cather features a rich tapestry of characters, each contributing to the vivid portrayal of life on the Nebraskan prairie. Here are some of the key characters:

Jim Burden: The narrator of the story, who moves to Nebraska to live with his grandparents after becoming an orphan. His friendship with Ántonia forms the core of the novel. As an adult, Jim becomes a successful lawyer in New York City, but he often reminisces about his childhood on the prairie.

Ántonia Shimerda (later Ántonia Cuzak): The eldest daughter of the Shimerda family, Ántonia is a spirited and strong-willed Bohemian girl. Her resilience, hard work, and love for her family are central themes throughout the novel. Despite facing many hardships, she remains optimistic and full of life.

Mr. and Mrs. Shimerda: Ántonia's parents, who struggle to adapt to their new life in Nebraska after emigrating from Bohemia. Mr. Shimerda, particularly, finds the transition difficult, leading to tragic consequences.

Yulka Shimerda: Ántonia's younger sister, who looks up to her and shares in the family's struggles and triumphs.

Ambrosch Shimerda: Ántonia's older brother, who takes on the role of head of the family after their father's death. He is often portrayed as pragmatic and sometimes harsh in his dealings.

Jake Marpole: A farmhand who comes west with Jim Burden from Virginia. He is loyal and hardworking, representing the straightforward, honest qualities of the pioneer spirit.

Otto Fuchs: Another farmhand working for Jim's grandparents, Otto is a colorful character with a past as a cowboy and gold miner. His adventurous spirit and good nature add warmth to the narrative.

Grandfather and Grandmother Burden (Josiah and Emmaline Burden): Jim's grandparents, who embody the kindness, moral integrity, and hardworking ethos of the pioneer generation. They provide a stable and loving home for Jim and show great kindness to the immigrant families.

Lena Lingard: A young woman from a Norwegian immigrant family, Lena is ambitious and independent. She moves to the city to become a dressmaker. Her relationship with Jim during their youth and later encounters highlights themes of ambition and the different paths life can take.

Tiny Soderball: Another strong and independent woman who works hard to achieve financial success. Her story of moving to Alaska during the Gold Rush and eventually becoming wealthy symbolizes the opportunities and risks of the American frontier.

Cuzak: Ántonia's husband in the later part of the book, with whom she has a large, loving family. He is a Bohemian immigrant like her, and their farm life together represents the fulfillment of the pioneering dream.

These characters, among others, contribute to the rich narrative of "My Ántonia," offering insights into the immigrant experience, the challenges and rewards of frontier life, and the enduring bonds of friendship and community.

Contents

Introduction

BOOK 1. THE SHIMERDAS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

BOOK 2. THE HIRED GIRLS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

BOOK 3. LENA LINGARD

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

BOOK 4. THE PIONEER WOMAN'S STORY

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

BOOK 5. CUZAK'S BOYS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Introduction

LAST summer I happened to be crossing the plains of Iowa in a season of intense heat, and it was my good fortune to have for a traveling companion James Quayle Burden—Jim Burden, as we still call him in the West. He and I are old friends—we grew up together in the same Nebraska town—and we had much to say to each other. While the train flashed through never-ending miles of ripe wheat, by country towns and bright-flowered pastures and oak groves wilting in the sun, we sat in the observation car, where the woodwork was hot to the touch and red dust lay deep over everything. The dust and heat, the burning wind, reminded us of many things. We were talking about what it is like to spend one's childhood in little towns like these, buried in wheat and corn, under stimulating extremes of climate: burning summers when the world lies green and billowy beneath a brilliant sky, when one is fairly stifled in vegetation, in the color and smell of strong weeds and heavy harvests; blustery winters with little snow, when the whole country is stripped bare and gray as sheet-iron. We agreed that no one who had not grown up in a little prairie town could know anything about it. It was a kind of freemasonry, we said.

Although Jim Burden and I both live in New York, and are old friends, I do not see much of him there. He is legal counsel for one of the great Western railways, and is sometimes away from his New York office for weeks together. That is one reason why we do not often meet. Another is that I do not like his wife.

When Jim was still an obscure young lawyer, struggling to make his way in New York, his career was suddenly advanced by a brilliant marriage. Genevieve Whitney was the only daughter of a distinguished man. Her marriage with young Burden was the subject of sharp comment at the time. It was said she had been brutally jilted by her cousin, Rutland Whitney, and that she married this unknown man from the West out of bravado. She was a restless, headstrong girl, even then, who liked to astonish her friends. Later, when I knew her, she was always doing something unexpected. She gave one of her town houses for a Suffrage headquarters, produced one of her own plays at the Princess Theater, was arrested for picketing during a garment-makers' strike, etc. I am never able to believe that she has much feeling for the causes to which she lends her name and her fleeting interest. She is handsome, energetic, executive, but to me she seems unimpressionable and temperamentally incapable of enthusiasm. Her husband's quiet tastes irritate her, I think, and she finds it worth while to play the patroness to a group of young poets and painters of advanced ideas and mediocre ability. She has her own fortune and lives her own life. For some reason, she wishes to remain Mrs. James Burden.

As for Jim, no disappointments have been severe enough to chill his naturally romantic and ardent disposition. This disposition, though it often made him seem very funny when he was a boy, has been one of the strongest elements in his success. He loves with a personal passion the great country through which his railway runs and branches. His faith in it and his knowledge of it have played an important part in its development. He is always able to raise capital for new enterprises in Wyoming or Montana, and has helped young men out there to do remarkable things in mines and timber and oil. If a young man with an idea can once get Jim Burden's attention, can manage to accompany him when he goes off into the wilds hunting for lost parks or exploring new canyons, then the money which means action is usually forthcoming. Jim is still able to lose himself in those big Western dreams. Though he is over forty now, he meets new people and new enterprises with the impulsiveness by which his boyhood friends remember him. He never seems to me to grow older. His fresh color and sandy hair and quick-changing blue eyes are those of a young man, and his sympathetic, solicitous interest in women is as youthful as it is Western and American.

During that burning day when we were crossing Iowa, our talk kept returning to a central figure, a Bohemian girl whom we had known long ago and whom both of us admired. More than any other person we remembered, this girl seemed to mean to us the country, the conditions, the whole adventure of our childhood. To speak her name was to call up pictures of people and places, to set a quiet drama going in one's brain. I had lost sight of her altogether, but Jim had found her again after long years, had renewed a friendship that meant a great deal to him, and out of his busy life had set apart time enough to enjoy that friendship. His mind was full of her that day. He made me see her again, feel her presence, revived all my old affection for her.

"I can't see," he said impetuously, "why you have never written anything about Antonia."

I told him I had always felt that other people—he himself, for one knew her much better than I. I was ready, however, to make an agreement with him; I would set down on paper all that I remembered of Antonia if he would do the same. We might, in this way, get a picture of her.

He rumpled his hair with a quick, excited gesture, which with him often announces a new determination, and I could see that my suggestion took hold of him. "Maybe I will, maybe I will!" he declared. He stared out of the window for a few moments, and when he turned to me again his eyes had the sudden clearness that comes from something the mind itself sees. "Of course," he said, "I should have to do it in a direct way, and say a great deal about myself. It's through myself that I knew and felt her, and I've had no practice in any other form of presentation."

I told him that how he knew her and felt her was exactly what I most wanted to know about Antonia. He had had opportunities that I, as a little girl who watched her come and go, had not.

Months afterward Jim Burden arrived at my apartment one stormy winter afternoon, with a bulging legal portfolio sheltered under his fur overcoat. He brought it into the sitting-room with him and tapped it with some pride as he stood warming his hands.

"I finished it last night—the thing about Antonia," he said. "Now, what about yours?"

I had to confess that mine had not gone beyond a few straggling notes.

"Notes? I didn't make any." He drank his tea all at once and put down the cup. "I didn't arrange or rearrange. I simply wrote down what of herself and myself and other people Antonia's name recalls to me. I suppose it hasn't any form. It hasn't any title, either." He went into the next room, sat down at my desk and wrote on the pinkish face of the portfolio the word, "Antonia." He frowned at this a moment, then prefixed another word, making it "My Antonia." That seemed to satisfy him.

"Read it as soon as you can," he said, rising, "but don't let it influence your own story."

My own story was never written, but the following narrative is Jim's manuscript, substantially as he brought it to me.

NOTE: The Bohemian name Antonia is strongly accented on the first syllable, like the English name Anthony, and the 'i' is, of course, given the sound of long 'e'. The name is pronounced An'-ton-ee-ah.

BOOK 1. THE SHIMERDAS

Chapter 1

I FIRST HEARD OF Antonia on what seemed to me an interminable journey across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then; I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I travelled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the 'hands' on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to work for my grandfather. Jake's experience of the world was not much wider than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we set out together to try our fortunes in a new world.

We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a 'Life of Jesse James,' which I remember as one of the most satisfactory books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of distant states and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an Egyptian obelisk.

Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the immigrant car ahead there was a family from 'across the water' whose destination was the same as ours.

'They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she can say is "We go Black Hawk, Nebraska." She's not much older than you, twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar. Don't you want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty brown eyes, too!'

This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to 'Jesse James.' Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to get diseases from foreigners.

I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.

I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with lanterns. I couldn't see any town, or even distant lights; we were surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding oilcloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts. Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time I had ever heard a foreign tongue.

Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: 'Hello, are you Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for. I'm Otto Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy, ain't you scared to come so far west?'

I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern-light. He might have stepped out of the pages of 'Jesse James.' He wore a sombrero hat, with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his moustache were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian's. Surely this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to a hitching-bar where two farm-wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into the empty darkness, and we followed them.

I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon began to ache all over. When the straw settled down, I had a hard bed. Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made. No, there was nothing but land—slightly undulating, I knew, because often our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick. If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be.

Chapter 2

I DO NOT REMEMBER our arrival at my grandfather's farm sometime before daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. When I awoke, it was afternoon. I was lying in a little room, scarcely larger than the bed that held me, and the window-shade at my head was flapping softly in a warm wind. A tall woman, with wrinkled brown skin and black hair, stood looking down at me; I knew that she must be my grandmother. She had been crying, I could see, but when I opened my eyes she smiled, peered at me anxiously, and sat down on the foot of my bed.

'Had a good sleep, Jimmy?' she asked briskly. Then in a very different tone she said, as if to herself, 'My, how you do look like your father!' I remembered that my father had been her little boy; she must often have come to wake him like this when he overslept. 'Here are your clean clothes,' she went on, stroking my coverlid with her brown hand as she talked. 'But first you come down to the kitchen with me, and have a nice warm bath behind the stove. Bring your things; there's nobody about.'

'Down to the kitchen' struck me as curious; it was always 'out in the kitchen' at home. I picked up my shoes and stockings and followed her through the living-room and down a flight of stairs into a basement. This basement was divided into a dining-room at the right of the stairs and a kitchen at the left. Both rooms were plastered and whitewashed—the plaster laid directly upon the earth walls, as it used to be in dugouts. The floor was of hard cement. Up under the wooden ceiling there were little half-windows with white curtains, and pots of geraniums and wandering Jew in the deep sills. As I entered the kitchen, I sniffed a pleasant smell of gingerbread baking. The stove was very large, with bright nickel trimmings, and behind it there was a long wooden bench against the wall, and a tin washtub, into which grandmother poured hot and cold water. When she brought the soap and towels, I told her that I was used to taking my bath without help. 'Can you do your ears, Jimmy? Are you sure? Well, now, I call you a right smart little boy.'

It was pleasant there in the kitchen. The sun shone into my bath-water through the west half-window, and a big Maltese cat came up and rubbed himself against the tub, watching me curiously. While I scrubbed, my grandmother busied herself in the dining-room until I called anxiously, 'Grandmother, I'm afraid the cakes are burning!' Then she came laughing, waving her apron before her as if she were shooing chickens.

She was a spare, tall woman, a little stooped, and she was apt to carry her head thrust forward in an attitude of attention, as if she were looking at something, or listening to something, far away. As I grew older, I came to believe that it was only because she was so often thinking of things that were far away. She was quick-footed and energetic in all her movements. Her voice was high and rather shrill, and she often spoke with an anxious inflection, for she was exceedingly desirous that everything should go with due order and decorum. Her laugh, too, was high, and perhaps a little strident, but there was a lively intelligence in it. She was then fifty-five years old, a strong woman, of unusual endurance.

After I was dressed, I explored the long cellar next the kitchen. It was dug out under the wing of the house, was plastered and cemented, with a stairway and an outside door by which the men came and went. Under one of the windows there was a place for them to wash when they came in from work.

While my grandmother was busy about supper, I settled myself on the wooden bench behind the stove and got acquainted with the cat—he caught not only rats and mice, but gophers, I was told. The patch of yellow sunlight on the floor travelled back toward the stairway, and grandmother and I talked about my journey, and about the arrival of the new Bohemian family; she said they were to be our nearest neighbours. We did not talk about the farm in Virginia, which had been her home for so many years. But after the men came in from the fields, and we were all seated at the supper table, then she asked Jake about the old place and about our friends and neighbours there.

My grandfather said little. When he first came in he kissed me and spoke kindly to me, but he was not demonstrative. I felt at once his deliberateness and personal dignity, and was a little in awe of him. The thing one immediately noticed about him was his beautiful, crinkly, snow-white beard. I once heard a missionary say it was like the beard of an Arabian sheik. His bald crown only made it more impressive.

Grandfather's eyes were not at all like those of an old man; they were bright blue, and had a fresh, frosty sparkle. His teeth were white and regular—so sound that he had never been to a dentist in his life. He had a delicate skin, easily roughened by sun and wind. When he was a young man his hair and beard were red; his eyebrows were still coppery.

As we sat at the table, Otto Fuchs and I kept stealing covert glances at each other. Grandmother had told me while she was getting supper that he was an Austrian who came to this country a young boy and had led an adventurous life in the Far West among mining-camps and cow outfits. His iron constitution was somewhat broken by mountain pneumonia, and he had drifted back to live in a milder country for a while. He had relatives in Bismarck, a German settlement to the north of us, but for a year now he had been working for grandfather.

The minute supper was over, Otto took me into the kitchen to whisper to me about a pony down in the barn that had been bought for me at a sale; he had been riding him to find out whether he had any bad tricks, but he was a 'perfect gentleman,' and his name was Dude. Fuchs told me everything I wanted to know: how he had lost his ear in a Wyoming blizzard when he was a stage-driver, and how to throw a lasso. He promised to rope a steer for me before sundown next day. He got out his 'chaps' and silver spurs to show them to Jake and me, and his best cowboy boots, with tops stitched in bold design—roses, and true-lover's knots, and undraped female figures. These, he solemnly explained, were angels.

Before we went to bed, Jake and Otto were called up to the living-room for prayers. Grandfather put on silver-rimmed spectacles and read several Psalms. His voice was so sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I wished he had chosen one of my favourite chapters in the Book of Kings. I was awed by his intonation of the word 'Selah.' 'He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom He loved. Selah.' I had no idea what the word meant; perhaps he had not. But, as he uttered it, it became oracular, the most sacred of words.

Early the next morning I ran out-of-doors to look about me. I had been told that ours was the only wooden house west of Black Hawk—until you came to the Norwegian settlement, where there were several. Our neighbours lived in sod houses and dugouts—comfortable, but not very roomy. Our white frame house, with a storey and half-storey above the basement, stood at the east end of what I might call the farmyard, with the windmill close by the kitchen door. From the windmill the ground sloped westward, down to the barns and granaries and pig-yards. This slope was trampled hard and bare, and washed out in winding gullies by the rain. Beyond the corncribs, at the bottom of the shallow draw, was a muddy little pond, with rusty willow bushes growing about it. The road from the post-office came directly by our door, crossed the farmyard, and curved round this little pond, beyond which it began to climb the gentle swell of unbroken prairie to the west. There, along the western sky-line it skirted a great cornfield, much larger than any field I had ever seen. This cornfield, and the sorghum patch behind the barn, were the only broken land in sight. Everywhere, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but rough, shaggy, red grass, most of it as tall as I.

North of the house, inside the ploughed fire-breaks, grew a thick-set strip of box-elder trees, low and bushy, their leaves already turning yellow. This hedge was nearly a quarter of a mile long, but I had to look very hard to see it at all. The little trees were insignificant against the grass. It seemed as if the grass were about to run over them, and over the plum-patch behind the sod chicken-house.

As I looked about me I felt that the grass was the country, as the water is the sea. The red of the grass made all the great prairie the colour of winestains, or of certain seaweeds when they are first washed up. And there was so much motion in it; the whole country seemed, somehow, to be running.

I had almost forgotten that I had a grandmother, when she came out, her sunbonnet on her head, a grain-sack in her hand, and asked me if I did not want to go to the garden with her to dig potatoes for dinner.

The garden, curiously enough, was a quarter of a mile from the house, and the way to it led up a shallow draw past the cattle corral. Grandmother called my attention to a stout hickory cane, tipped with copper, which hung by a leather thong from her belt. This, she said, was her rattlesnake cane. I must never go to the garden without a heavy stick or a corn-knife; she had killed a good many rattlers on her way back and forth. A little girl who lived on the Black Hawk road was bitten on the ankle and had been sick all summer.

I can remember exactly how the country looked to me as I walked beside my grandmother along the faint wagon-tracks on that early September morning. Perhaps the glide of long railway travel was still with me, for more than anything else I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were galloping, galloping...

Alone, I should never have found the garden—except, perhaps, for the big yellow pumpkins that lay about unprotected by their withering vines—and I felt very little interest in it when I got there. I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be very far away. The light air about me told me that the world ended here: only the ground and sun and sky were left, and if one went a little farther there would be only sun and sky, and one would float off into them, like the tawny hawks which sailed over our heads making slow shadows on the grass. While grandmother took the pitchfork we found standing in one of the rows and dug potatoes, while I picked them up out of the soft brown earth and put them into the bag, I kept looking up at the hawks that were doing what I might so easily do.

When grandmother was ready to go, I said I would like to stay up there in the garden awhile.

She peered down at me from under her sunbonnet. 'Aren't you afraid of snakes?'

'A little,' I admitted, 'but I'd like to stay, anyhow.'

'Well, if you see one, don't have anything to do with him. The big yellow and brown ones won't hurt you; they're bull-snakes and help to keep the gophers down. Don't be scared if you see anything look out of that hole in the bank over there. That's a badger hole. He's about as big as a big 'possum, and his face is striped, black and white. He takes a chicken once in a while, but I won't let the men harm him. In a new country a body feels friendly to the animals. I like to have him come out and watch me when I'm at work.'

Grandmother swung the bag of potatoes over her shoulder and went down the path, leaning forward a little. The road followed the windings of the draw; when she came to the first bend, she waved at me and disappeared. I was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content.

I sat down in the middle of the garden, where snakes could scarcely approach unseen, and leaned my back against a warm yellow pumpkin. There were some ground-cherry bushes growing along the furrows, full of fruit. I turned back the papery triangular sheaths that protected the berries and ate a few. All about me giant grasshoppers, twice as big as any I had ever seen, were doing acrobatic feats among the dried vines. The gophers scurried up and down the ploughed ground. There in the sheltered draw-bottom the wind did not blow very hard, but I could hear it singing its humming tune up on the level, and I could see the tall grasses wave. The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.