A Collection of Stories, Reviews and EssaysCather, Willa
General
A Collection of Stories, Reviews and Essays
Cather, Willa
Essays; Short stories; United States -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
Nils leaned against the booth, talking to the excited little girl
and watching the people. The barn faced the west, and the sun,
pouring in at the big doors, filled the whole interior with a golden
light, through which filtered fine particles of dust from the
haymow, where the children were romping. There was a great
chattering from the stall where Johanna Vavrika exhibited to the
admiring women her platters heaped with fried chicken, her roasts of
beef, boiled tongues, and baked hams with cloves stuck in the crisp
brown fat and garnished with tansy and parsley. The older women,
having assured themselves that there were twenty kinds of cake, not
counting cookies, and three dozen fat pies, repaired to the corner
behind the pile of watermelons, put on their white aprons, and fell
to their knitting and fancy-work. They were a fine company of old
women, and a Dutch painter would have loved to find them there
together, where the sun made bright patches on the floor and sent
long, quivering shafts of gold through the dusky shade up among the
rafters. There were fat, rosy old women who looked hot in their best
black dresses; spare, alert old women with brown, dark-veined hands;
and several of almost heroic frame, not less massive than old Mrs.
Ericson herself. Few of them wore glasses, and old Mrs. Svendsen, a
Danish woman, who was quite bald, wore the only cap among them. Mrs.
Oleson, who had twelve big grandchildren, could still show two
braids of yellow hair as thick as her own wrists. Among all these
grandmothers there were more brown heads than white. They all had a
pleased, prosperous air, as if they were more than satisfied with
themselves and with life. Nils, leaning against Hilda's
lemonade-stand, watched them as they sat chattering in four
languages, their fingers never lagging behind their tongues.
"Look at them over there," he whispered, detaining Clara as she
passed him. "Aren't they the Old Guard? I've just counted thirty
hands. I guess they've wrung many a chicken's neck and warmed many a
boy's jacket for him in their time."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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