' On summer
afternoons he used to sit for hours on the sidewalk in front of his
laundry, his newspaper lying on his knee, watching his girls through the
big open window while they ironed and talked in Danish. The clouds of
white dust that blew up the street, the gusts of hot wind that withered his
vegetable garden, never disturbed his calm. His droll expression seemed to
say that he had found the secret of contentment. Morning and evening he
drove about in his spring wagon, distributing freshly ironed clothes, and
collecting bags of linen that cried out for his suds and sunny
drying-lines. His girls never looked so pretty at the dances as they did
standing by the ironing-board, or over the tubs, washing the fine pieces,
their white arms and throats bare, their cheeks bright as the brightest
wild roses, their gold hair moist with the steam or the heat and curling in
little damp spirals about their ears. They had not learned much English,
and were not so ambitious as Tony or Lena; but they were kind, simple girls
and they were always happy. When one danced with them, one smelled their
clean, freshly ironed clothes that had been put away with rosemary leaves
from Mr. Jensen's garden.
There were never girls enough to go round at those dances, but everyone
wanted a turn with Tony and Lena.
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