ever, ma'm. He hadn't been seen nowhere except in a little town they
call Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there wasn't any saloon.
Maybe he came in on a freight, but the brakeman hadn't seen him. They
couldn'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, wasn't that strange, Miss Frances?' Tony asked thoughtfully. 'What
would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In threshing time,
too! It's nice everywhere then.'

'So it is, Antonia,' said Mrs. Harling heartily. 'Maybe I'll go home and
help you thresh next summer. Isn'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'.

VII

WINTER LIES TOO LONG in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and
shabby, old and sullen. On the farm the weather was the great fact, and
men's affairs went on underneath it, as the streams creep under the ice.
But in Black Hawk the scene of human life was spread out shrunken and
pinched, frozen down to the bare stalk.

Through January and February I went to the river with the Harlings on
clear nights, and we skated up to the big island and made bonfires on
the frozen sand. But by March the ice was rough and choppy, and the
snow on the river bluffs was grey and mournful-looking. I was tired of
school, tired of winter clothes, of the rutted streets, of the dirty
drifts and the piles of cinders that had lain in the yards so long.