My Antonia

The Harling children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke that long winter.  We were out all day in the thin sunshine, helping Mrs. Harling and Tony break the ground and plant the garden, dig around the orchard trees, tie up vines and clip the hedges.  Every morning, before I was up, I could hear Tony singing in the garden rows.  After the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina.  Yet the summer which was to change everything was coming nearer every day.  When boys and girls are growing up, life can’t stand still, not even in the quietest of country towns; and they have to grow up, whether they will or no.  That is what their elders are always forgetting.

It must have been in June, for Mrs. Harling and Antonia were preserving cherries, when I stopped one morning to tell them that a dancing pavilion had come to town.  I had seen two drays hauling the canvas and painted poles up from the depot.

That afternoon three cheerful-looking Italians strolled about Black Hawk, looking at everything, and with them was a dark, stout woman who wore a long gold watch-chain about her neck and carried a black lace parasol.  They seemed especially interested in children and vacant lots.  When I overtook them and stopped to say a word, I found them affable and confiding.  They told me they worked in Kansas City in the winter, and in summer they went out among the farming towns with their tent and taught dancing.  When business fell off in one place, they moved on to another.

The dancing pavilion was put up near the Danish laundry, on a vacant lot surrounded by tall, arched cottonwood trees.  It was very much like a merry-go-round tent, with open sides and gay flags flying from the poles.  Before the week was over, all the ambitious mothers were sending their children to the afternoon dancing class.  At three o’clock one met little girls in white dresses and little boys in the round-collared shirts of the time, hurrying along the sidewalk on their way to the tent.  Mrs. Vanni received them at the entrance, always dressed in lavender with a great deal of black lace, her important watch-chain lying on her bosom.  She wore her hair on the top of her head, built up in a black tower, with red coral combs.  When she smiled, she showed two rows of strong, crooked yellow teeth.  She taught the little children herself, and her husband, the harpist, taught the older ones.

Often the mothers brought their fancywork and sat on the shady side of the tent during the lesson.  The popcorn man wheeled his glass wagon under the big cottonwood by the door, and lounged in the sun, sure of a good trade when the dancing was over.  Mr. Jensen, the Danish laundryman, used to bring a chair from his porch and sit out in the grass plot.  Some ragged little boys from the depot sold pop and iced lemonade under a white umbrella at the corner, and made faces at the spruce youngsters who came to dance.  That vacant lot soon became the most cheerful place in town.  Even on the hottest afternoons the cottonwoods made a rustling shade, and the air smelled of popcorn and melted butter, and Bouncing Bets wilting in the sun.  Those hardy flowers had run away from the laundryman’s garden, and the grass in the middle of the lot was pink with them.

The Vannis kept exemplary order, and closed every evening at the hour suggested by the city council.  When Mrs. Vanni gave the signal, and the harp struck up `Home, Sweet Home,’ all Black Hawk knew it was ten o’clock.  You could set your watch by that tune as confidently as by the roundhouse whistle.

At last there was something to do in those long, empty summer evenings, when the married people sat like images on their front porches, and the boys and girls tramped and tramped the board sidewalks—­northward to the edge of the open prairie, south to the depot, then back again to the post-office, the ice-cream parlour, the butcher shop.  Now there was a place where the girls could wear their new dresses, and where one could laugh aloud without being reproved by the ensuing silence.  That silence seemed to ooze out of the ground, to hang under the foliage of the black maple trees with the bats and shadows.  Now it was broken by lighthearted sounds.  First the deep purring of Mr. Vanni’s harp came in silvery ripples through the blackness of the dusty-smelling night; then the violins fell in—­one of them was almost like a flute.  They called so archly, so seductively, that our feet hurried toward the tent of themselves.  Why hadn’t we had a tent before?

Dancing became popular now, just as roller skating had been the summer before.  The Progressive Euchre Club arranged with the Vannis for the exclusive use of the floor on Tuesday and Friday nights.  At other times anyone could dance who paid his money and was orderly; the railroad men, the roundhouse mechanics, the delivery boys, the iceman, the farm-hands who lived near enough to ride into town after their day’s work was over.

I never missed a Saturday night dance.  The tent was open until midnight then.  The country boys came in from farms eight and ten miles away, and all the country girls were on the floor—­Antonia and Lena and Tiny, and the Danish laundry girls and their friends.  I was not the only boy who found these dances gayer than the others.  The young men who belonged to the Progressive Euchre Club used to drop in late and risk a tiff with their sweethearts and general condemnation for a waltz with `the hired girls.’