Such disappointments only gave greater zest to the nights when we acted
charades, or had a costume ball in the back parlour, 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 parlour, the back
parlour, 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 threshing 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, ma'm, 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,