My Antonia

During the week before Christmas, Jake was the most important person of our household, for he was to go to town and do all our Christmas shopping.  But on the twenty-first of December, the snow began to fall.  The flakes came down so thickly that from the sitting-room windows I could not see beyond the windmill—­its frame looked dim and grey, unsubstantial like a shadow.  The snow did not stop falling all day, or during the night that followed.  The cold was not severe, but the storm was quiet and resistless.  The men could not go farther than the barns and corral.  They sat about the house most of the day as if it were Sunday; greasing their boots, mending their suspenders, plaiting whiplashes.

On the morning of the twenty-second, grandfather announced at breakfast that it would be impossible to go to Black Hawk for Christmas purchases.  Jake was sure he could get through on horseback, and bring home our things in saddle-bags; but grandfather told him the roads would be obliterated, and a newcomer in the country would be lost ten times over.  Anyway, he would never allow one of his horses to be put to such a strain.

We decided to have a country Christmas, without any help from town.  I had wanted to get some picture books for Yulka and Antonia; even Yulka was able to read a little now.  Grandmother took me into the ice-cold storeroom, where she had some bolts of gingham and sheeting.  She cut squares of cotton cloth and we sewed them together into a book.  We bound it between pasteboards, which I covered with brilliant calico, representing scenes from a circus.  For two days I sat at the dining-room table, pasting this book full of pictures for Yulka.  We had files of those good old family magazines which used to publish coloured lithographs of popular paintings, and I was allowed to use some of these.  I took `Napoleon Announcing the Divorce to Josephine’ for my frontispiece.  On the white pages I grouped Sunday-School cards and advertising cards which I had brought from my `old country.’  Fuchs got out the old candle-moulds and made tallow candles.  Grandmother hunted up her fancy cake-cutters and baked gingerbread men and roosters, which we decorated with burnt sugar and red cinnamon drops.

On the day before Christmas, Jake packed the things we were sending to the Shimerdas in his saddle-bags and set off on grandfather’s grey gelding.  When he mounted his horse at the door, I saw that he had a hatchet slung to his belt, and he gave grandmother a meaning look which told me he was planning a surprise for me.  That afternoon I watched long and eagerly from the sitting-room window.  At last I saw a dark spot moving on the west hill, beside the half-buried cornfield, where the sky was taking on a coppery flush from the sun that did not quite break through.  I put on my cap and ran out to meet Jake.  When I got to the pond, I could see that he was bringing in a little cedar tree across his pommel.  He used to help my father cut Christmas trees for me in Virginia, and he had not forgotten how much I liked them.

By the time we had placed the cold, fresh-smelling little tree in a corner of the sitting-room, it was already Christmas Eve.  After supper we all gathered there, and even grandfather, reading his paper by the table, looked up with friendly interest now and then.  The cedar was about five feet high and very shapely.  We hung it with the gingerbread animals, strings of popcorn, and bits of candle which Fuchs had fitted into pasteboard sockets.  Its real splendours, however, came from the most unlikely place in the world—­from Otto’s cowboy trunk.  I had never seen anything in that trunk but old boots and spurs and pistols, and a fascinating mixture of yellow leather thongs, cartridges, and shoemaker’s wax.  From under the lining he now produced a collection of brilliantly coloured paper figures, several inches high and stiff enough to stand alone.  They had been sent to him year after year, by his old mother in Austria.  There was a bleeding heart, in tufts of paper lace; there were the three kings, gorgeously apparelled, and the ox and the ass and the shepherds; there was the Baby in the manger, and a group of angels, singing; there were camels and leopards, held by the black slaves of the three kings.  Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.  Grandmother said it reminded her of the Tree of Knowledge.  We put sheets of cotton wool under it for a snow-field, and Jake’s pocket-mirror for a frozen lake.

I can see them now, exactly as they looked, working about the table in the lamplight:  Jake with his heavy features, so rudely moulded that his face seemed, somehow, unfinished; Otto with his half-ear and the savage scar that made his upper lip curl so ferociously under his twisted moustache.  As I remember them, what unprotected faces they were; their very roughness and violence made them defenceless.  These boys had no practised manner behind which they could retreat and hold people at a distance.  They had only their hard fists to batter at the world with.  Otto was already one of those drifting, case-hardened labourers who never marry or have children of their own.  Yet he was so fond of children!