Prairie School

by Lois Lenski

  “Ach! Such a waste!” growled Johannes Wagner. “All the good wheat lying loose on the ground, when so many people in the world go hungry.”

  “Why is it so, Johannes?” asked Mama.

  “Bad management,” said her husband. “I read in the paper, they have not enough freight cars. So they let the good wheat lie and rot. After all our hard work to get a good crop.”

  They drove down the main street, which was crowded with cars, trucks and people. A carnival was set up at a crossing.

  “There’s the merry-go-round,” said Delores. “I wonder, will Teacher and the other kids come?”

  “Do not stop, Johannes. First we go to Lavina’s,” said Mama firmly.

  “I get down here,” called Emil Holzhauer from the back.

  Papa pulled up. “I go with Emil,” said Philip.

  “Darrell, you stay by us,” said Papa. “You go see your Grandma first today.”

  “Oh, shoot!” said Darrell. “Always you make me act the baby.”

  A few minutes later, the Wagners pulled up beside a blue trailer-house on a side street, where the oldest daughter, Lavina, now married to Melvin Nagel, made her home.

  “Such a house for the cold winters!” cried Mama. “It makes me think of the sod-house I lived in when I was a girl, out by Hettinger. Then, there was no brick, no wood, nothing to build our house out of but prairie sod. But now, with hundreds of dollars to spend, they buy such a shack on wheels. Not so good as a sod-house, not so warm.”

  “But it is warm,” insisted Delores. “They’ve got bottled gas. Lavina don’t like to live in the country and Melvin can ride the tractor out to his farm every day.”

  “Yah—twenty eight miles out,” said Papa, shaking his head. “Almost to Mobridge and back every day. In town is no place to bring up two big strong boys. They should have three or four hundred acres to run on and farm work to do. Boys in town do nothing but loaf and get in trouble.”

  The door of the trailer-house opened, and there stood Lavina, with a fat baby boy on each arm, twins a year old. Lavina was plump and smiling. “Come in, come in, everybody,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

  Mama and Papa and the children went in. Papa complained: “No place to put my hat. No place to put my big feet. If I turn around, I bust some dishes. Such a place to live.”

  “Now, Papa, you just stop it!” said Lavina sharply. “I’m tired of that kind of talk from you. Where I live is my business, not yours.”

  Darrell and Delores sat on the narrow couch, which opened up at night for a bed. Mama stirred some soup that was cooking on the tiny electric stove. Lavina put her babies on the big bed in the farther room, and Christy climbed up to play with them. Everybody visited for a few minutes. Then Darrell said: “We gonna stay here all day? I thought we came to the Fair.”

  Papa Wagner reached in his pocket and tossed a half-dollar to Delores. “You two—run over and see the Grandma first.”

  They hurried out. Grandma Wagner’s little white frame house sat on the next corner, with a yard neatly fenced around it. Inside, the lawn looked dry and brown, and several trees were having a hard time to grow. As the children came up, Grandpa Wagner came out the back door. He had a white mustache and walked very straight.

  “Hi, Grandpa!” called the children. “You goin’ to the rodeo?”

  “No,” said Grandpa. “I go take a walk. I go to the store to buy groceries.”

  The children ran in the house, calling, “Your head hurt, Grandma, no? You feel good today?”

  “Ach! Look who iss here!” cried Grandma Wagner. “How you haf scared me!” She threw her arms around her grandchildren and hugged them. She was a tiny little woman, no bigger than eleven-year-old Delores. But her blue eyes flashed, and though she had recently been ill, she hopped about with the lightness of a bird.

  “What you making, Grandma?” asked Delores, sniffing.

  “Prune kuga.” Grandma winked. “I make prune coffee cakes, six big ones.”

  “When will they be ready to eat, Grandma?” asked Darrell, rubbing his stomach.

  “Just before you go home tonight,” laughed the old lady..

  “What you been doing, Grandma?” asked Delores. “Painting the house again? Making crepe-paper flowers? Embroidery? Crocheting?”

  “I show you. Come with me,” said. Grandma. “Your shoes clean?” She looked at their feet and shook her head. “Nein, nein. Get that rag and wipe the dust off. Then I let you walk on my carpet.”

  After their shoes were carefully dusted in the entry, Grandma led the children into the front room, where the shades were pulled and everything looked dark and mysterious. Crocheted tidies covered chair backs and arms, artificial flower bouquets stood on small stands and the window sills. A sign on the wall, printed in shiny red, blue and gold, said: “How Beautiful Heaven Must Be.” Grandma pointed to the what-not in the corner. “See!” She stood back proudly. The children stared at a new bunch of artificial flowers in a blue glass vase.

  “What are they made out of?” asked Darrell. “That’s not crepe paper. What kind of fuzz is it? Cowhair?”

  “Ach, you dumb-bell!” scolded Delores. “Cowhair nothing.” She turned to Grandma and asked softly. “Is it velvet?”

  “Nein, not velvet,” said Grandma. “Chenille it iss called. I learned it from Mrs. Musser, who had it from Mrs. Hunstad, who had it from a lady in Pierre. I send off by mail to buy the chenille in the bright colors.”

  “They are BEAU-TI-FUL!” said Delores. “They are more beautiful than real flowers.”

  “Real flowers—they wilt and die,” said Grandma, “but these never. When first I came to America, to this dry prairie country where the flowers do not grow, I thought I should die. My heart, it was sore, it broke in two. I cry all the time, day and night. I plant the flower seed, they come up, they wilt and die. Never to have flowers to bloom, and to make bouquet in the house—what kind of country is this we come to?”

  Delores put her arm around her grandmother’s waist. “Now you have pretty flowers,” she said.

  “That will never wilt and die,” added Grandma.

  “Aw, heck! Who wants flowers anyhow?” cried Darrell. “I thought we came to the Fair. The rodeo will be over.”

  “Run along, children,” said Grandma Wagner. “Come back tonight for the prune kuga.”

  Dutifully, they kissed her good-by and ran swiftly down the street.

  The Fair Grounds was close at hand, on the west edge of town. Cars were parked on all sides, and the grandstand was nearly filled with farmers, townspeople, ranchmen and Indians. The band was blaring noisy music.

  “Jeepers! We’re late,” said Darrell. “Hurry up.”

  Delores thought she had never seen so many Indians before. They had come in from Fort Yates to the north, and from the Indian towns on the Grand River to the south. There were old wrinkled Sioux Indian men, fat women and young squaws carrying babies wrapped in gaily colored blankets, and leading little children by the hand. Their wagons stood beside their smoky tents in the field adjoining the Fair Grounds, while their horses were hobbled nearby to graze. There they built smoky campfires, cooked their food in big kettles, and lived during the three-day holiday.

  “Hi, kids! Where you goin’?”

  It was Uncle Gustaf, their favorite uncle, who had a hardware store in town. He pulled Delores’ curls, jerked Darrell’s hat off his head and pulled his shirttail out. He found seats for them at the top of the grandstand. The performance was half over. A calf-roping contest was going on.

  “Oh look!” cried Darrell. “There comes Fritz—Emil Holzhauer’s brother. Boy, how he can ride. Just watch him.”

  The calf was turned out of the chute first, and then the rider. Fritz galloped madly across the arena after the calf, roped and threw it to the ground. His horse kept the rope tight so the calf couldn’t get away, as Fritz tried to tie the calf up in so many seconds. Then it was hauled off, and another calf came in. The crowd was excited and hilarious, giving
each rider a noisy welcome. Uncle Gustaf bought the children orange pop to drink and Russian peanuts to chew.

  “Don’t know why they call them peanuts,” said Delores. “They’re nothing but sunflower seeds, roasted and salted. Grandma said the only kind of flower that would grow in the West River country was sunflowers. She used to roast the seeds in a kettle herself—then chew them.”

  “Your Grandma and grandpa learned to chew them in Odessa,” said Uncle Gustaf. “When they went from Germany to live in Russia, in the days of the old Czar, to show the Russians how to be good farmers, they learned to chew sunflower seeds there. They called them ‘the popcorn of the Ukraine.’”

  “I don’t care what they called them,” said Darrell, “I call ’em Rooshian peanuts.” He put a few in his mouth and began to chew, spitting the hulls out at one side.

  “I’m glad Grandpa and Grandma came to America,” said Delores. “Instead of being Germans or Russians, we’re Americans. Miss Martin told us that in America, people come from every country in the world.”

  “If your grandparents had stayed over there,” said Uncle Gustaf soberly, “your Pop and your uncles would have been killed in the wars a long time ago. You might not even be here.”

  “Oh, look at those crazy cattle!” cried Darrell.

  Brahma bull riding had begun. The cumbersome but powerful animals were hard to stick with, and their riders were having a difficult time.

  “Look at their funny drooping ears, and the big humps on their backs,” said Delores. “They don’t look like cattle at all.”

  “Remind me of the buffaloes that used to range all over the Great Plains,” said Uncle Gustaf, laughing. “But when I go hunting, don’t let me meet one.”

  The people cheered wildly, as one event followed another. The afternoon wore on until the sun began to descend in the west. Then suddenly, the rodeo was over, and the people made their way back to main street and the carnival and cafés in town.

  “Got to leave you kids now,” said Uncle Gustaf. “Might be some customers waiting at my store. Don’t want to lose any trade.” He hurried off.

  “Oh, there’s Miss Martin and Ruby and the Sticklemeyers,” said Delores. She ran over to join them, while Darrell slipped off in the crowd to look for Philip and Emil.

  “Why, here’s Delores!” said Miss Martin.

  “Where have you been?” asked Fernetta Sticklemeyer. “We looked for you everywhere and thought you never came.” Fernetta and the younger children had their mouths full, stuffed with candy.

  “Let’s take a ride on the merry-go-round,” said Miss Martin. She bought tickets, and they all climbed on, and went round and round to the music. Then Miss Martin took them all to Jen’s Café where they had hot-dogs, pop and ice cream. The little children poured their pop over the ice cream and said it tasted good. It was getting dark when they came out, and heard the beating of drums.

  “We must see the Indian dance,” said Miss Martin. “We’re just in time—before the crowd gets too thick.”

  At the main intersection the Indians were dancing in the street, circling around the flag pole. The Indian women had started the squaw dance. They wore long graceful costumes, capes and shawls decorated with beads, fringes, tiny mirrors and animal teeth. The monotonous chant began and they started around the circle with shuffling step. The setting sun shot rays of brilliant red across the western sky, as the crowds gathered and watched.

  The squaws stepped aside. The beating of the tom-toms began again, and the braves came forward by ones and twos. Their costumes were of skin, decorated with bells, shiny mirrors, cattle horns and turkey feathers. The crouched figures moved with up-bended knees. The music grew wilder and the figures moved faster, until they seemed in a frenzy of movement. Then the music as suddenly stopped. The dance was over.

  The watching children caught their breath in surprise. For a few moments they had been carried into another way of life, a way of life lived long ago. Then the illusion was broken. They were back again, standing in their own familiar Main Street. The moments of magic were gone.

  “Don’t they look silly,” giggled Ruby Englehart, “when they dance?”

  “Silly?” answered Delores. “That’s the way they’ve always done it.”

  “Since long before the white men came,” added Miss Martin. “It’s about all we’ve let them keep of their rightful heritage.”

  “Just the same,” Ruby went on, “I wouldn’t like to be an Indian and live in a log hut down on the river bottom.”

  “If you had been born there,” said Miss Martin, “you would like it as much as they do.”

  “But I wasn’t!” answered Ruby. “My Daddy’s a good farmer.”

  “Does he own his farm?” asked Delores.

  “No, he leases it from the Indians,” said Ruby.

  “So do all our fathers,” said Delores.

  “All the farms around here are on Reservation land,” said Miss Martin. “We owe a great deal to the Indians.”

  “Here comes old Eddie Good Dog, selling bows and arrows,” said Delores. “I wonder who buys them.

  The crippled old Indian passed by, mumbling to himself. A group of white boys followed at his heels, teasing and poking sticks. The old man turned and tried to catch them, then went on his way again.

  “There’s Ma and Pa,” cried the Sticklemeyer twins. Fernetta gathered her brood together, and said good-by. Ruby went to join her parents at the Café. Delores was left alone with Miss Martin.

  “Can we take you home to the teacherage?” she asked. “I’ll ride in the back of the truck with the boys, and there’ll be room for you in front.”

  “Thank you, Delores,” said Miss Martin. “I have to leave my car at Schweitzer’s garage for a few days.” She turned uncertainly.

  Just then a young man, whom Delores had never seen before, stepped up and touched his cap politely. He had a brown weathered face and friendly brown eyes.

  “All ready to take off, Miss Martin?” he asked.

  Delores stared. Did Miss Martin have a boyfriend that nobody knew about? She had always said she was too old to get married. Nobody knew her exact age, but Delores insisted she looked young. She had only a few gray hairs.

  “This is Paul Kruger, Delores,” said Miss Martin. “Don’t look so worried. He won’t run off with me.”

  “Who is he?” asked Delores. “I never saw him before.”

  “He’s one of my boys,” answered Miss Martin, “one of the first .pupils I had in Twin Butte School fifteen years ago. Little did I realize then that Paul would fly the Hump fifty times in the war. He’s had plenty of experience. He’s going to fly me home.”

  Delores’ mouth dropped open in surprise. “You gonna fly?”

  “Don’t you be frightened, Delores,” said her teacher. “I’m not. I’ll be home in the teacherage before your father gets his truck started. Good-by.” Miss Martin and Paul Kruger walked off and left the astonished girl standing on the street corner.

  “Good-…by…” stammered Delores.

  She turned and ran as hard as she could go back up the street to Grandma Wagner’s house. The house sat on a slight rise at the south end of town, overlooking a wide stretch of open prairie. Delores stood for a minute and looked north. Down by the Fair Grounds she heard a roaring that faded into a softer humming. Then she saw an airplane lift its wings from the ground, go soaring overhead like a huge butterfly, and disappear in the sun-streaked evening sky.

  ‘‘Jeepers!’’ she said aloud.

  She felt suddenly hungry. It was a long time since the last hot-dog. She turned to go in.

  “Grandma’s prune kuga will be ready to eat,” she said to herself.

  CHAPTER III

  The First Snow

  “OH LOOK! HERE COMES the real Galloping Goose!” shouted Peter.

  It was a mild day in the middle of November, and the children were playing ball in front of the schoolhouse.

  “The train! The train!” they shouted, forgetting
their game.

  The daily passing of the train was always an event in their lives.

  The engine pulled a combination passenger-baggage car and a caboose. It had been nicknamed the “Galloping Goose” —-no one knew why. The branch line railroad ran across the state line into North Dakota, and was used for hauling freight, baggage, mail, express, and sometimes passengers.

  “That’s a new Diesel engine,” said Darrell, pointing to its striped front.. “I like it better than that smoky, pokey old steam engine.”

  “Bet she can’t pull so good,” said Emil Holzhauer.

  “Bet she can pull ten times as good,” said Darrell. “We’ll count the freights when she comes back down from North Dakota tomorrow and see.”

  “Bet she can’t pull through the snowdrifts in winter,” said Emil.

  “Look! The Goose is stopping at Oak Leaf depot,” said Delores.

  “Getting ready to haul those grain cars full of wheat back down to town tomorrow,” said Darrell.

  “There’s our Galloping Goose.”

  Hulda Hummel pointed to the pet goose, which came waddling up on the porch. The children took bread from their lunch pails and fed it. It waddled slowly off again with a proud air, as if it owned the whole prairie.

  At the morning recess, Delores came running in.

  “Look, Miss Martin,” she cried. “It’s snowing already. When Papa saw how gray the sky was this morning, he said, ‘It looks like snow,’ and Mama told him he was talking through his hat. But maybe he was right.”

  “It’s been such a nice fall,” said Miss Martin. “It can’t be snow—yet.”

  But it was. The snow came down gently at first, as if testing out its welcome. To the children, the first snow was always an exciting thing. The rigors of the previous winter forgotten, they thought only of the wonder and novelty of the falling white flakes. They ran and danced in it, they held up their hands and tried to catch it, they let the wind blow it into their upturned faces. Even after they came indoors, they could not forget it.