an
excerpt from My Ántonia by Willa Cather
As I wandered over those rough pastures, I had the good luck to stumble
upon a bit of the first road that went from Black Hawk out to the north
country; to my grandfather's farm, then on to the Shimerdas' and to the
Norwegian settlement. Everywhere else it had been ploughed under when the
highways were surveyed; this half-mile or so within the pasture fence was
all that was left of that old road which used to run like a wild thing
across the open prairie, clinging to the high places and circling and
doubling like a rabbit before the hounds.
On the level land the tracks had almost
disappeared--were mere shadings in the grass, and a stranger would not
have noticed them. But wherever the road had crossed a draw, it was easy
to find. The rains had made channels of the wheel-ruts and washed them so
deeply that the sod had never healed over them. They looked like gashes
torn by a grizzly's claws, on the slopes where the farm-wagons used to
lurch up out of the hollows with a pull that brought curling muscles on
the smooth hips of the horses. I sat down and watched the haystacks turn
rosy in the slanting sunlight.
This was the road over which Ántonia and I came
on that night when we got off the train at Black Hawk and were bedded down
in the straw, wondering children, being taken we knew not whither. I had
only to close my eyes to hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and
to be again overcome by that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of
that night were so near that I could reach out and touch them with my
hand. I had the sense of coming home to myself, and of having found out
what a little circle man's experience is. For Ántonia and for me, this
had been the road of Destiny; had taken us to those early accidents of
fortune which predetermined for us all that we can ever be. Now I
understood that the same road was to bring us together again. Whatever we
had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past. |
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