As we went toward the house, we met Ambrosch and Anton, starting off with their milking-pails to hunt the cows. I joined them, and Leo accompanied us at some distance, running ahead and starting up at us out of clumps of ironweed, calling, ‘I’m a jack rabbit,’ or, ‘I’m a big bull-snake.’
I walked between the two older boys—straight, well-made fellows, with good heads and clear eyes. They talked about their school and the new teacher, told me about the crops and the harvest, and how many steers they would feed that winter. They were easy and confidential with me, as if I were an old friend of the family—and not too old. I felt like a boy in their company, and all manner of forgotten interests revived in me. It seemed, after all, so natural to be walking along a barbed-wire fence beside the sunset, toward a red pond, and to see my shadow moving along at my right, over the close-cropped grass.
‘Has mother shown you the pictures you sent her from the old country?’ Ambrosch asked. ‘We’ve had them framed and they’re hung up in the parlour. She was so glad to get them. I don’t believe I ever saw her so pleased about anything.’ There was a note of simple gratitude in his voice that made me wish I had given more occasion for it.
I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Your mother, you know, was very much loved by all of us. She was a beautiful girl.’
‘Oh, we know!’ They both spoke together; seemed a little surprised that I should think it necessary to mention this. ‘Everybody liked her, didn’t they? The Harlings and your grandmother, and all the town people.’
‘Sometimes,’ I ventured, ‘it doesn’t occur to boys that their mother was ever young and pretty.’
‘Oh, we know!’ they said again, warmly. ‘She’s not very old now,’ Ambrosch added. ‘Not much older than you.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if you weren’t nice to her, I think I’d take a club and go for the whole lot of you. I couldn’t stand it if you boys were inconsiderate, or thought of her as if she were just somebody who looked after you. You see I was very much in love with your mother once, and I know there’s nobody like her.’
The boys laughed and seemed pleased and embarrassed.
‘She never told us that,’ said Anton. ‘But she’s always talked lots about you, and about what good times you used to have. She has a picture of you that she cut out of the Chicago paper once, and Leo says he recognized you when you drove up to the windmill. You can’t tell about Leo, though; sometimes he likes to be smart.’