broken, grassy
clay cliffs which indicated the windings of the stream, and the glittering
tops of the cottonwoods and ash trees that grew down in the ravine. Some
of the cottonwoods had already turned, and the yellow leaves and shining
white bark made them look like the gold and silver trees in fairy tales.

As we approached the Shimerdas' dwelling, I could still see nothing but
rough red hillocks, and draws with shelving banks and long roots hanging
out where the earth had crumbled away. Presently, against one of those
banks, I saw a sort of shed, thatched with the same wine-colored grass
that grew everywhere. Near it tilted a shattered windmill-frame, that had
no wheel. We drove up to this skeleton to tie our horses, and then I saw a
door and window sunk deep in the draw-bank. The door stood open, and a
woman and a girl of fourteen ran out and looked up at us hopefully. A
little girl trailed along behind them. The woman had on her head the same
embroidered shawl with silk fringes that she wore when she had alighted
from the train at Black Hawk. She was not old, but she was certainly not
young. Her face was alert and lively, with a sharp chin and shrewd little
eyes. She shook grandmother's hand energetically.

"Very glad, very glad!" she ejaculated. Immediately she pointed to the
bank out of which she had emerged and said, "House no good, house no
good!"

Grandmother nodded consolingly. "You'll get fixed up comfortable after
while, Mrs. Shimerda; make good house."

My grandmother always spoke in a very loud tone to foreigners, as if they
were deaf. She made Mrs. Shimerda understand the friendly intention of our
visit, and the Bohemian woman handled the loaves of bread and even smelled
them, and examined the pies with lively curiosity, exclaiming, "Much good,
much thank!"--and again she wrung grandmother's hand.

The oldest son, Ambroz,--they called it Ambrosch,--came out of the cave and
stood beside his mother. He was nineteen years old, short and
broad-backed, with a close-cropped, flat head, and a wide, flat face. His
hazel eyes were little and shrewd, like his mother's, but more sly and
suspicious; they fairly snapped at the food. The family had been living on
corncakes and sorghum molasses for three days.

The little girl was pretty, but An-tonia-- they accented the name thus,
strongly, when they spoke to her--was still prettier. I remembered what the
conductor had said about her eyes. They were big and warm