Giants of the Earth

GIANTS IN THE EARTH 

Book 1 

THE LAND-TAKING 

Toward the Sunset 

I 

Bright, clear sky over a plain so wide that the rim of the heavens cut down on it around the entire horizon. . . . Bright, clear sky, to-day, to-morrow, and for all time to come. 

. . . And sun! And still more sun! It set the heavens afire every morning; it grew with the day to quivering golden light--then softened into all the shades of red and purple as evening fell. . . . Pure colour everywhere. A gust of wind, sweeping across the plain, threw into life waves of yellow and blue and green. Now and then a dead black wave would race over the scene . . . a cloud's gliding shadow . . . now and then. . . . 

It was late afternoon. A small caravan was pushing its way through the tall grass. The track that it left behind was like the wake of a boat--except that instead of widening out astern it closed in again. 

"Tish-ah!" said the grass. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . . Never had it said anything else--never would it say anything else. It bent resiliently under the trampling feet; it did not break, but it complained aloud every time--for nothing like this had ever happened to it before. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" it cried, and rose up in surprise to look at this rough, hard thing that had crushed it to the ground so rudely, and then moved on. 

A stocky, broad-shouldered man walked at the head of the caravan. He seemed shorter than he really was, because of the tall grass around him and the broad-brimmed hat of coarse straw which he wore. A few steps behind him followed a boy of about nine years of age. The boy's blond hair was clearly marked against his brown, sunburnt neck; but the man's hair and neck were of exactly the same shade of brown. From the looks of these two, and still more from their gait, it was easy to guess that here walked father and son. 

Behind them a team of oxen jogged along; the oxen were drawing a vehicle which once upon a time might have been a wagon, but which now, on account of its many and grave infirmities, ought long since to have been consigned to the scrap heap--exactly the place, in point of fact, where the man had picked it up. Over the wagon box long willow saplings had been bent, in the form of arches in a church chancel--six of them in all. On these arches, and tied down to the body on each side, were spread first of all two handwoven blankets, that might well have adorned the walls of some manor house in the olden times; on top of the blankets were thrown two sheepskin robes, with the wool side down, which were used for bed-coverings at night. The rear of the wagon was stowed full of numberless articles, all the way up to the top. A large immigrant chest at the bottom of the pile, very long and high, devoured a big share of the space; around and above it were piled household utensils, tools, implements, and all their clothing. 

Hitched to this wagon and trailing behind was another vehicle, homemade and very curious-looking, so solidly and quaintly constructed that it might easily have won a place in any museum. Indeed, it appeared strong enough to stand all the jolting from the Atlantic to the Pacific. . . . It, too, was a wagon, after a fashion; at least, it had been intended for such. The wheels were made from pieces of plank fitting roughly together; the box, considerably wider than that of the first wagon, was also loaded full of provisions and household gear, covered over with canvas and lashed down securely. Both wagons creaked and groaned loudly every time they bounced over a tussock or hove out of a hollow. . . . "Squeak, squeak!" said the one. . . . "Squeak, squeak!" answered the other. . . . The strident sound broke the silence of centuries. 

A short distance behind the wagons followed a brindle cow. The caravan moved so slowly that she occasionally had time to stop and snatch a few mouthfuls, though there was never a chance for many at a time. But what little she got in this way she sorely needed. She had been jogging along all day, swinging and switching her tail, the rudder of the caravan. Soon it would be night, and then her part of the work would come--to furnish milk for the evening porridge, for all the company up ahead. 

Across the front end of the box of the first wagon lay a rough piece of plank. On the right side of this plank sat a woman with a white kerchief over her head, driving the oxen. Against her thigh rested the blond head of a little girl, who was stretched out on the plank and sleeping sweetly. Now and then the hand of the mother moved across the child's face to chase away the mosquitoes, which had begun to gather as the sun lowered. On the left side of the plank, beyond the girl, sat a boy about seven years old--a well-grown lad, his skin deeply tanned, a certain clever, watchful gleam in his eyes. With hands folded over one knee, he looked straight ahead. 

This was the caravan of Per Hansa, who with his family and all his earthly possessions was moving west from Fillmore County, Minnesota, to Dakota Territory. There he intended to take up land and build himself a home; he was going to do something remarkable out there, which should become known far and wide. No lack of opportunity in that country, he had been told! . . . Per Hansa himself strode ahead and laid out the course; the boy Ole, or Olamand, followed closely after, and explored it. Beret, the wife, drove the oxen and took care of little Anna Marie, pet-named And-Ongen (which means "The Duckling"), who was usually bubbling over with happiness. Hans Kristian, whose everyday name was Store-Hans (meaning "Big Hans," to distinguish him from his godfather, who was also named Hans, but who, of course, was three times his size), sat there on the wagon, and saw to it that everyone attended to business. . . . The cow Rosie trailed behind, swinging and switching her tail, following the caravan farther and farther yet into the endless vista of the plain. 

"Tish-ah, tish-ah!" cried the grass. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . . 

  

II 

  

The caravan seemed a miserably frail and Lilliputian thing as it crept over the boundless prairie toward the sky line. Of road or trail there lay not a trace ahead; as soon as the grass had straightened up again behind, no one could have told the direction from which it had come or whither it was bound. The whole train--Per Hansa with his wife and children, the oxen, the wagons, the cow, and all--might just as well have dropped down out of the sky. Nor was it at all impossible to imagine that they were trying to get back there again; their course was always the same--straight toward the west, straight toward the sky line. . . . 

Poverty-stricken, unspeakably forlorn, the caravan creaked along, advancing at a snail's pace, deeper and deeper into a bluish-green infinity--on and on, and always farther on. . . . It steered for Sunset Land! . . . 

Introduction to My Antonia

About Willa Cather

Since childhood, Willa Cather had the ability to see her own brand of art in the people, situations, and emotions of everyday life. Her unique perspective on ordinary life can be found in her celebrated novels, short stories, and essays. Cather is best known as the voice of frontier life on the American plains, where she spent the years of her youth and young adulthood. According to Cather, these were the years during which she unconsciously gathered the rich material that would inspire her to write when she was an adult. She says:

Every story I have written since then has been the recollection of some childhood experience, of something that touched me while a youngster. You must know a subject as a child, before you ever had any idea of writing, to instill into it . . . the true feeling.

Cather was born on December 7, 1873, the eldest child of Charles and Mary Virginia Cather. When she was ten years old, her family moved from Virginia to a small settlement west of Red Cloud, Nebraska. Cather was at first homesick and had difficulty adjusting to the rough, open landscape of the Nebraska prairie. However, she found that her diverse collection of neighbors was a striking and welcome contrast to the flat, drab countryside. At that time, immigrants came from all over Europe to farm in Nebraska. Young Cather was befriended by some of the older immigrant women, and their unique experiences made a strong impression on her. Later, Cather relates:

I have never found any intellectual excitement any more intense than I used to feel when spent a morning with one of these old women at her baking or butter making. . . . I always felt . . . as if I had actually got inside another person’s skin.

About My Ántonia

            Willa Cather’s My Ántonia is written as a young man’s reflections on the people and places of his youth. The narrator, Jim Burden, is a New York City lawyer who grew up on the Nebraska frontier. His memories show his affection for the past and his connection to his childhood friend, and paint a vivid portrait of life in Nebraska in the late 1800s and early 1900s. From its first pages, My Ántonia depicts the ethnically diverse, hardworking people who came to the American plains. The novel also powerfully depicts the open landscape of the prairie and the rugged lifestyle of its settlers. In 1920, H. L. Mencken, a famous literary critic and essayist, wrote:

I know of no novel that makes the remote folk of the western farmlands more real than My Ántonia makes them, and I know of none that makes them seem better worth knowing. The primary focus of the novel is Ántonia.

            The novel is set mainly in the Nebraska Divide, a rural farming area in southern Nebraska, and in Black Hawk, a town just east of the Divide.  Cather grew up in this area and based the fictional town of Black Hawk on the real town of Red Cloud, which sits on the Republican River. Another setting described in the novel is Lincoln, Nebraska, where narrator Jim Burden attends school for a brief period. 

The Homestead Act

            The novel begins in the late 1880s and covers a period of about thirty years of the narrator’s life.  This was an eventful time in the actual history of Nebraska. In 1862 Congress passed the first Homestead Act, which granted 160 acres of free land in the West to anyone at least twenty-one years old who promised to settle it. The concept of providing free land to hardworking settlers was first suggested by western pioneers who were struggling to build farms on undeveloped land. They argued that, because the land was worthless until developed, Congress should give them parcels of land as a reward for helping to improve the country. Close to a million people requested homestead applications between 1863 and 1890. More farms were created in this time period than any other in U.S. history. The Homestead Act was also a key factor in the United States’ expansion westward.

            The Homestead Act created opportunities for many struggling American citizens and immigrants to the United States. Between 1881 and 1920, southern and eastern Europeans, including Bohemians, were part of a major immigration movement to the United States. Many of these immigrants, like the Shimerdas in My Ántonia, came to the United States to take advantage of available prairie land.

            In 1865 the Union Pacific Railroad began building its line farther into Nebraska territory. They advertised Nebraska farmland in the East as well as in Europe. From 1869 to 1879 Kansas and Nebraska attracted a large number of settlers. Between 1874 and 1877, however, swarms of grasshoppers invaded the area and damaged much of the crops. Many settlers left their farms and returned east. Drought, bad credit policies, and low prices on agricultural products caused further distress to Nebraska farmers. In My Ántonia, Cather captures the hardships facing pioneers as they tried to build new lives to in unfamiliar territory.

Immigrant Families

            In the settling of frontier land, immigrant families often faced greater challenges than U.S.-born settlers. Because many immigrants left their countries under difficult circumstances, they often did not have a great deal of money with which to begin their new lives. Once in the United States, some struggled with a language barrier that made meeting people and conducting business difficult. Many immigrants also experienced prejudice against their customs and religious practices. Some U.S.-born settlers were resentful of having to compete with immigrants for land or work.

Rural Nebraska

            Setting, particularly the landscape surrounding Jim’s grandparents’ farm, plays a crucial role in the development of My Ántonia. Cather takes great care in detailing the natural environment that surrounds her characters. For example, to illustrate the movement of prairie grass, she writes, “I felt motion in the landscape; in the fresh, easy-blowing morning wind, and in the earth itself, as if the shaggy grass were a sort of loose hide, and underneath it herds of wild buffalo were  galloping, galloping. . . .” As you read, notice how the setting reflects the characters and influences their moods.

My Ántonia and Latin

            In Book II, Sections I – VII (p. 70 – 94), Jim’s Latin homework introduces him to the work of Virgil, a poet who lived in ancient Rome. Virgil wrote pastoral poems that idealize and celebrate rural environments. Literary works that are pastoral often contrast the innocence and simplicity of country life with the corruption of urban environments. Jim is reading Georgics, a work that deals with issues of farming and rural life in Italy. He finds two quotations from the selection particularly moving. As you read, think about why Jim finds these ideas moving and why the work of Virgil is thematically fitting for this novel.

Repetition

            Though My Ántonia is a collection of memories that do not follow a conventional plotline, Cather ties the events of the novel together in a variety of ways. One method is her use of repetition. For example, in this section, images of nature and farming move the narrator and Ántonia to reflect on their pasts and repeat stories about what happened. There is also repetition of characters that are important to the theme. As you read this section, pay attention to how Cather reintroduces Mr. Shimerda to the story through the characters of Jim and Ántonia. Then think about why Cather brings Ántonia’s father back into the story.

Elegiac or Nostalgic?

            My Ántonia has been labeled by critics as both elegiac and nostalgic. An elegy is a sad poem that laments death or loss. Nostalgia is a longing for one’s home or past. Characters throughout the novel refer to their pasts, both to celebrate and to express regret or resentment. Their pasts either draw them back or make them want to move forward. For example, Jim and Ántonia are continually looking back at their happy childhood experiences and wondering if they can ever find that happiness again, while Lena Lingard’s unhappy memories of farming motivate her to change her way of life completely. Ántonia clings to her Bohemian heritage, while other immigrant workers try to adopt the language and customs of the United States. After finishing the novel, think about whether the novel is more an elegiac or a nostalgic literary work.

Characterization

            Writers use specific techniques to create characters. These include direct description, showing characters’ behavior, showing how others react to characters, and showing characters’ thoughts. Writers use these methods not only to give readers insight into individuals, but sometimes to characterize groups of people.  As you read, notice Cather’s techniques of characterization, and draw conclusions about the family.

Giants in the Earth

Book 1

THE LAND-TAKING

Toward the Sunset

I

Bright, clear sky over a plain so wide that the rim of the heavens cut down on it around the entire horizon. . . . Bright, clear sky, to-day, to-morrow, and for all time to come.

. . . And sun! And still more sun! It set the heavens afire every morning; it grew with the day to quivering golden light--then softened into all the shades of red and purple as evening fell. . . . Pure colour everywhere. A gust of wind, sweeping across the plain, threw into life waves of yellow and blue and green. Now and then a dead black wave would race over the scene . . . a cloud's gliding shadow . . . now and then. . . .

It was late afternoon. A small caravan was pushing its way through the tall grass. The track that it left behind was like the wake of a boat--except that instead of widening out astern it closed in again.

"Tish-ah!" said the grass. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . . Never had it said anything else--never would it say anything else. It bent resiliently under the trampling feet; it did not break, but it complained aloud every time--for nothing like this had ever happened to it before. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" it cried, and rose up in surprise to look at this rough, hard thing that had crushed it to the ground so rudely, and then moved on.

A stocky, broad-shouldered man walked at the head of the caravan. He seemed shorter than he really was, because of the tall grass around him and the broad-brimmed hat of coarse straw which he wore. A few steps behind him followed a boy of about nine years of age. The boy's blond hair was clearly marked against his brown, sunburnt neck; but the man's hair and neck were of exactly the same shade of brown. From the looks of these two, and still more from their gait, it was easy to guess that here walked father and son.

Behind them a team of oxen jogged along; the oxen were drawing a vehicle which once upon a time might have been a wagon, but which now, on account of its many and grave infirmities, ought long since to have been consigned to the scrap heap--exactly the place, in point of fact, where the man had picked it up. Over the wagon box long willow saplings had been bent, in the form of arches in a church chancel--six of them in all. On these arches, and tied down to the body on each side, were spread first of all two handwoven blankets, that might well have adorned the walls of some manor house in the olden times; on top of the blankets were thrown two sheepskin robes, with the wool side down, which were used for bed-coverings at night. The rear of the wagon was stowed full of numberless articles, all the way up to the top. A large immigrant chest at the bottom of the pile, very long and high, devoured a big share of the space; around and above it were piled household utensils, tools, implements, and all their clothing.

Hitched to this wagon and trailing behind was another vehicle, homemade and very curious-looking, so solidly and quaintly constructed that it might easily have won a place in any museum. Indeed, it appeared strong enough to stand all the jolting from the Atlantic to the Pacific. . . . It, too, was a wagon, after a fashion; at least, it had been intended for such. The wheels were made from pieces of plank fitting roughly together; the box, considerably wider than that of the first wagon, was also loaded full of provisions and household gear, covered over with canvas and lashed down securely. Both wagons creaked and groaned loudly every time they bounced over a tussock or hove out of a hollow. . . . "Squeak, squeak!" said the one. . . . "Squeak, squeak!" answered the other. . . . The strident sound broke the silence of centuries.

A short distance behind the wagons followed a brindle cow. The caravan moved so slowly that she occasionally had time to stop and snatch a few mouthfuls, though there was never a chance for many at a time. But what little she got in this way she sorely needed. She had been jogging along all day, swinging and switching her tail, the rudder of the caravan. Soon it would be night, and then her part of the work would come--to furnish milk for the evening porridge, for all the company up ahead.

Across the front end of the box of the first wagon lay a rough piece of plank. On the right side of this plank sat a woman with a white kerchief over her head, driving the oxen. Against her thigh rested the blond head of a little girl, who was stretched out on the plank and sleeping sweetly. Now and then the hand of the mother moved across the child's face to chase away the mosquitoes, which had begun to gather as the sun lowered. On the left side of the plank, beyond the girl, sat a boy about seven years old--a well-grown lad, his skin deeply tanned, a certain clever, watchful gleam in his eyes. With hands folded over one knee, he looked straight ahead.

This was the caravan of Per Hansa, who with his family and all his earthly possessions was moving west from Fillmore County, Minnesota, to Dakota Territory. There he intended to take up land and build himself a home; he was going to do something remarkable out there, which should become known far and wide. No lack of opportunity in that country, he had been told! . . . Per Hansa himself strode ahead and laid out the course; the boy Ole, or Olamand, followed closely after, and explored it. Beret, the wife, drove the oxen and took care of little Anna Marie, pet-named And-Ongen (which means "The Duckling"), who was usually bubbling over with happiness. Hans Kristian, whose everyday name was Store-Hans (meaning "Big Hans," to distinguish him from his godfather, who was also named Hans, but who, of course, was three times his size), sat there on the wagon, and saw to it that everyone attended to business. . . . The cow Rosie trailed behind, swinging and switching her tail, following the caravan farther and farther yet into the endless vista of the plain.

"Tish-ah, tish-ah!" cried the grass. . . . "Tish-ah, tish-ah!" . . .

II

The caravan seemed a miserably frail and Lilliputian thing as it crept over the boundless prairie toward the sky line. Of road or trail there lay not a trace ahead; as soon as the grass had straightened up again behind, no one could have told the direction from which it had come or whither it was bound. The whole train--Per Hansa with his wife and children, the oxen, the wagons, the cow, and all--might just as well have dropped down out of the sky. Nor was it at all impossible to imagine that they were trying to get back there again; their course was always the same--straight toward the west, straight toward the sky line. . . .

Poverty-stricken, unspeakably forlorn, the caravan creaked along, advancing at a snail's pace, deeper and deeper into a bluish-green infinity--on and on, and always farther on. . . . It steered for Sunset Land! . . .

For more than three weeks now, and well into the fourth, this caravan had been crawling across the plain. . . . Early in the journey it had passed through Blue Earth; it had left Chain Lakes behind; and one fine day it had crept into Jackson, on the Des Moines River. But that seemed ages ago. . . . From Jackson, after a short lay-up, it had pushed on westward--always westward--to Worthington, then to Rock River. . . . A little west of Rock River, Per Hansa had lost the trail completely. Since then he had not been able to find it again; at this moment he literally did not know where he was, nor how to get to the place he had to reach. But Split Rock Creek must lie out there somewhere in the sun; if he could only find that landmark, he could pick his way still farther without much trouble. . . . Strange that he hadn't reached Split Rock Creek before this time! According to his directions, he should have been there two or three days ago; but he hadn't seen anything that even looked like the place. . . . Oh, my God! If something didn't turn up soon! . . . My God! . . .

The wagons creaked and groaned. Per Hansa's eyes wandered over the plain. His bearded face swung constantly from side to side as he examined every inch of ground from the northeast to the southwest. At times he gave his whole attention to that part of the plain lying between him and the western sky line; with head bent forward and eyes fixed and searching, he would sniff the air, like an animal trying to find the scent. Every now and then he glanced at an old silver watch which he carried in his left hand; but his gaze would quickly wander off again, to take up its fruitless search of the empty horizon.

It was now nearing six o'clock. Since three in the afternoon he had been certain of his course; at that time he had taken his bearings by means of his watch and the sun. . . . Out here one had to get one's cross-bearings from the very day itself--then trust to luck. . . .

For a long while the little company had been silent. Per Hansa turned halfway around, and without slackening his pace spoke to the boy walking behind.

"Go back and drive for a while now, Ola.¹ . . . You must talk to mother, too, so that it won't be so lonesome for her. And be sure to keep as sharp a lookout as you can."

"I'm not tired yet!" said the boy, loath to leave the van.

"Go back, anyway! Maybe you're not, but I can feel it beginning to tell on me. We'll have to start cooking the porridge pretty soon. . . . You go back, and hold her on the sun for a while longer."

"Do you think we'll catch up with them to-night, Dad?" The boy was still undecided.

"Good Lord, no! They've got too long a start on us. . . . Look sharp, now! If you happen to see anything suspicious, sing out!" . . . Per Hansa glanced again at his watch, turned forward, and strode steadily onward.

Ole said no more; he stepped out of the track and stood there waiting till the train came up. Then Store-Hans jumped down nimbly, while the other climbed up and took his seat.

"Have you seen anything?" the mother asked in an anxious voice.

"Why, no . . . not yet," answered the boy, evasively.

"I wonder if we shall ever see them again," she said, as if speaking to herself, and looked down at the ground. "This seems to be taking us to the end of the world . . . beyond the end of the world!"

Store-Hans, who was still walking beside the wagon, heard what she said and looked up at her. The buoyancy of childhood shone in his brown face. . . . Too bad that mother should be so scared! . . .

"Yes, Mother, but when we're both steering for the sun, we'll both land in the same place, won't we? . . . The sun is a sure guide, you know!"

These were the very words which he had heard his father use the night before; now he repeated them. To Store-Hans the truth of them seemed as clear as the sun itself; in the first place, because dad had said it, and then because it sounded so reasonable.

He hurried up alongside his father and laid his hand in his--he always felt safer thus.

The two walked on side by side. Now and then the boy stole a glance at the face beside him, which was as stern and fixed as the prairie on which they were walking. He was anxious to talk, but couldn't find anything to say that sounded grown-up enough; and so he kept quiet. At last, however, the silence grew too heavy for him to bear. He tried to say indifferently, just like his father:

"When I'm a man and have horses, I'm going to make a road over these plains, and . . . and put up some posts for people to follow. Don't you think that'll be a good idea?"

A slight chuckle came from the bearded face set toward the sun.

"Sure thing, Store-Hans--you'll manage that all right. . . . I might find time to help you an hour or two, now and then."

The boy knew by his father's voice that he was in a talkative mood. This made him so glad, that he forgot himself and did something that his mother always objected to; he began to whistle, and tried to take just as long strides as his father. But he could only make the grass say: "Swish-sh, swish-sh!"

On and on they went, farther out toward Sunset Land--farther into the deep glow of the evening.

The mother had taken little Anna up in her lap and was now leaning backward as much as she could; it gave such relief to her tired muscles. The caresses of the child and her lively chatter made her forget for a moment care and anxiety, and that vague sense of the unknown which bore in on them so strongly from all directions. . . . Ole sat there and drove like a full-grown man; by some means or other he managed to get more speed out of the oxen than the mother had done--she noticed this herself. His eyes were searching the prairie far and near.

Out on the sky line the huge plain now began to swell and rise, almost as if an abscess were forming under the skin of the earth. Although this elevation lay somewhat out of his course, Per Hansa swung over and held straight toward the highest part of it.

The afternoon breeze lulled, and finally dropped off altogether. The sun, whose golden lustre had faded imperceptibly into a reddish hue, shone now with a dull light, yet strong and clear; in a short while, deeper tones of violet began to creep across the red. The great ball grew enormous; it retreated farther and farther into the empty reaches of the western sky; then it sank suddenly. . . . The spell of evening quickly crowded in and laid hold of them all; the oxen wagged their ears; Rosie lifted her voice in a long moo, which died out slowly in the great stillness. At the moment when the sun closed his eye, the vastness of the plain seemed to rise up on every hand--and suddenly the landscape had grown desolate; something bleak and cold had come into the silence, filling it with terror. . . . Behind them, along the way they had come, the plain lay dark green and lifeless, under the gathering shadow of the dim, purple sky.

Ole sat motionless at his mother's side. The falling of evening had made such a deep impression on him that his throat felt dry; he wanted to express some of the emotions that overwhelmed him, but only choked when he tried.

"Did you ever see anything so beautiful!" he whispered at last, and gave a heavy sigh. . . . Low down in the northwest, above the little hill, a few fleecy clouds hovered, betokening fair weather; now they were fringed with shining gold, which glowed with a mellow light. As if they had no weight, they floated lightly there. . . .

Grapes of Wrath -- Chapter 1

The Grapes of Wrath
(1939)

Chapter 1

John Steinbeck

To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.  The plows crossed and recrossed the rivulet marks.  The last rains lifted the corn quickly and scattered weed colonies and grass along the sides of the roads so that the gray country and the dark red country began to disappear under a green cover.  In the last part of May the sky grew pale and the clouds that had hung in high puffs for so long in the spring were dissipated.  The sun flared down on the growing corn day after day until a line of brown spread along the edge of each green bayonet.  The clouds appeared, and went away, and in a while they did not try any more.  The weeds grew darker green to protect themselves, and they did not spread any more.  The surface of the earth crusted, a thin hard crust, and as the sky became pale, so the earth became pale, pink in the red country and white in the gray country.
        In the water-cut gullies the earth dusted down in dry little streams.  Gophers and ant lions started small avalanches.  And as the sharp sun struck day after day, the leaves of the young corn became less stiff and erect; they bent in a curve at first, and then, as the central ribs of strength grew weak, each leaf tilted downward.  Then it was June, and the sun shone more fiercely.  The brown lines on the corn leaves widened and moved in on the central ribs.  The weeds frayed and edged back toward their roots.  The air was thin and the sky more pale; and every day the earth paled.
        In the roads where the teams moved, where the wheels milled the ground and the hooves of the horses beat the ground, the dirt crust broke and the dust formed.  Every moving thing lifted the dust into the air:  a walking man lifted a thin layer as high as his waist, and a wagon lifted the dust as high as the fence tops, and an automobile boiled a cloud behind it.  The dust was long in settling back again.
        When June was half gone, the big clouds moved up out of Texas and the Gulf, high heavy clouds, rain-heads.  The men in the fields looked up at the clouds and sniffed at them and held wet fingers up to sense the wind.  And the horses were nervous while the clouds were up.  The rain-heads dropped a little spattering and hurried on to some other country.  Behind them the sky was pale again and the sun flared.  In the dust there were drop craters where the rain had fallen, and there were clean splashes on the corn, and that was all.
        A gentle wind followed the rain clouds, driving them on northward, a wind that softly clashed the drying corn.  A day went by and the wind increased, steady, unbroken by gusts.  The dust from the roads fluffed up and spread out and fell on the weeds beside the fields, and fell into the fields a little way.  Now the wind grew strong and hard and it worked at the rain crust in the corn fields.  Little by little he sky was darkened by the mixing dust, and the wind felt over the earth, loosened the dust, and carried it away.  The wind grew stronger.  The rain crust broke and the dust lifted up out of the fields and drove gray plumes into the air like sluggish smoke.  The corn threshed the wind and made a dry, rushing sound.  The finest dust did not settle back to earth now, but disappeared into the darkening sky.
        The wind grew stronger, whisked under stones, carried up straws and old leaves, and even little clods, marking its course as it sailed across the fields.  The air and the sky darkened and through them the sun shone redly, and there was a raw sting in the air.  During a night the wind raced faster over the land, dug cunningly among the rootlets of the corn, and the corn fought the wind with its weakened leaves until the roots were freed by the prying wind and then each stalk settled wearily sideways toward the earth and pointed the direction of the wind.
        The dawn came, but no day.  In the gray sky a red sun appeared, a dim red circle that gave a little light, like dusk; and as that day advanced, the dusk slipped back toward darkness, and the wind cried and whimpered over the fallen corn.
        Men and women huddled in their houses, and they tied handkerchiefs over their noses when they went out, and wore goggles to protect their eyes.
        When the night came again it was black night, for the stars could not pierce the dust to get down, and the window lights could not even spread beyond their own yards.  Now the dust was evenly mixed with the air, and emulsion of dust and air.  Houses were shut tight, and cloth wedged around doors and windows, but the dust came in so thinly that it could not be seen in the air, and it settled like pollen on the chairs and tables, on the dishes.  The people brushed it from their shoulders.  Little lines of dust lay at the door sills.
        In the middle of that night the wind passed on and left the land quiet.  The dust-filled air muffled sound more completely than fog does.  The people, lying in their beds, heard the wind stop.  They awakened when the rushing wind was gone.  They lay quietly and listened deep into the stillness.  Then the roosters crowed, and their voices were muffled, and the people stirred restlessly in their beds and wanted the morning.  They knew it would take a long time for the dust to settle out of the air.  In the morning the dust hung like fog, and the sun was as red as ripe new blood.  All day the dust sifted down from the sky, and the next day it sifted down.  An even blanket covered the earth.  It settled on the corn, piled up on the tops of the fence posts, piled up on the wires; it settled on roofs, blanketed the weeds and trees.
        The people came out of their houses and smelled the hot stinging air and covered their noses from it.  And the children came out of the houses, but they did not run or shout as they would have done after a rain.  Men stood by their fences and looked at the ruined corn, drying fast now, only a little green showing through the film of dust.  The men were silent and they did not move often.  And the women came out of the houses to stand beside their men - to feel whether this time the men would break.  The women studied the men's faces secretly, for the corn could go, as long as something else remained.  The children stood near by drawing figures in the dust with bare toes, and the children sent exploring senses out to see whether men and women would break.  The children peeked at the faces of the men and women, and then drew careful lines in the dust with their toes.  Horses came to the watering troughs and nuzzled the water to clear the surface dust.  After a while the faces of the watching men lost their bemused perplexity and became hard and angry and resistant.  Then the women knew that they were safe and that there was no break.  Then they asked, Whta'll we do?  And the men replied, I don't know.  but it was all right.  The women knew it was all right, and the watching children knew it was all right.  Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole.  The women went into the houses to their work, and the children began to play, but cautiously at first.  As the day went forward the sun became less red.  It flared down on the dust-blanketed land.  The men sat in the doorways of their houses; their hands were busy with sticks and little rocks.  The men sat still - thinking - figuring.