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Updated: May 9, 2025
"I I wish you wouldn't call me that, Mr. Gwynne. Hit hit makes me feel kind o' kind o' lonesome-like. Jest as ef I didn't have no friends. Call me Moll. That's all I am." He studied for a moment the half-averted face of this girl of the forest. He could not help contrasting it with the clear-cut, delicate, beautifully modelled face of another girl of the dark frontier, Viola Gwyn.
There set Bill jist as I knowed he was settin', lonesome-like, sad-like; his head hangin' down; he never looked up at me; never said a word knowed I wuz there all the time, but never said a word an' never made a sign. How changed Bill wuz oh, Bill, how changed ye wuz! There wuz furrers in yer face an' yer hair wuz white as white as as white as mine!
I used to watch her coming and going, and I could see that her steps were getting heavier. One day in December, the snow began to fall. Late in the afternoon I saw Ántonia driving her cattle homeward across the hill. The snow was flying round her and she bent to face it, looking more lonesome-like to me than usual. ‘Deary me,’ I says to myself, ‘the girl’s stayed out too late.
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