Prairie School

by Lois Lenski

  “See the big snowflakes!” cried little Donna Sticklemeyer, pressing her nose against the window pane.

  “Biggest snowflakes in all the Dakotas,” bragged her sister Sophie.

  “Man alive! Are we getting the snow!” shouted Konrad Snider, rushing in.

  “Huh! That’s nothing!” scoffed Emil. “Ground’s not even white. Wait till the drifts cover up the windows and you can’t see out.”

  “That’ll be something, sure enough.” Darrell Wagner shook his head and frowned a little, remembering. He turned to Miss Martin, who was helping him with his Arithmetic. “I don’t like to think about it.”

  “Nor do I,” said Miss Martin softly. “It’s beautiful—but it makes so much extra work for us all.”

  “Extra work!” cried Delores. “You said it.”

  The children were more interested in the snow than in their lessons. They kept lifting their eyes from their books to the falling flakes and the darkening sky.

  “It’s getting colder,” said Wilmer Sticklemeyer. “I hear the wind blowing.”

  “I must put more coal on the furnace,” said Miss Martin.

  She went down cellar and the children could hear the dull thuds of her hatchet against the great lumps of bituminous coal. They could hear the sound of shoveling, followed by the sharp bang of the furnace door.

  Jacob Sticklemeyer threw an arrowhead across the room, trying to hit Emil Holzhauer on the head. But it hit his desk instead, and bounced over on the large open register in the center of the floor, and with a sharp clang, went down out of sight. Jacob jumped down on his knees to see where it went. As he did so, he got his face full of the soft coal fumes rising from the furnace. The children giggled. He jumped back to his seat just as Miss Martin appeared, panting.

  “Delores, please light the kitchen stove, to warm up the lunches,” she said. “Baked beans again today?”

  “No’m,” smiled Delores. “Stew this time.”

  From the front hall she brought a quart glass jar, tightly packed with meat, potatoes, cabbage, beans, and other vegetables cooked in a thick gravy. “Mama said to put water with it and warm it up good.”

  “We brought sauerkraut and potatoes,” giggled Fernetta Sticklemeyer.

  “Would everybody like hot cocoa today?” asked Miss Martin.

  The children cried eagerly, “Yes, yes!” “Yah, yah!”

  “Hulda, would you like to wash the raisins?”

  The children laughed. Washing the raisins was little Hulda’s big job. She wouldn’t let anyone else do it. She emptied Miss Martin’s raisins into a bowl, covered them with water, and washed them between her hands. She set the bowl on the register, to let them get soft. Then she dipped them out of the water and carefully placed them in a glass dish.

  A history lesson was still going on. Suddenly a loud whisper came from the kitchen door. “Stew’s ready. Want me to turn the stove out?”

  Miss Martin shook her head. “Sauerkraut and cocoa,” she whispered back.

  Soon the classes were dismissed for lunch, and a bustle of lunch activity began. The children ran back and forth from schoolroom to kitchen.

  “We haven’t got much today—only bread and cookies,” said Peter Hummel. He and Hulda looked into their half-gallon pail.

  “I’ll give you some of our stew,” said Delores.

  “I ain’t hungry,” said little Hulda.

  “Ma always sends too much sauerkraut,” scolded Fernetta Sticklemeyer. “If we take any of it back home again, she’ll give us heck.— Somebody’s got to help us eat it.” Fernetta spooned out large helpings on china saucers for her brothers and sisters and for the two Hummel children.

  “Want any sauerkraut, Ruby?” asked Fernetta.

  “Not on your life.” Ruby turned up her nose. “I wouldn’t eat anything that smells as bad as that. I’ve got wuerst.”

  The children laughed.

  “She means sausage,” explained Delores. “The Dutch will come out.”

  The children settled down at their desks and, hunched over, began to eat. Solemnly little Hulda passed the-raisins around, then set the glass dish on Teacher’s desk. Delores brought cups and poured hot cocoa out. She passed the cocoa around.

  “Yah, I see, Delores all the time gives Emil Holzhauer that big white enamel cup,” said Fernetta Sticklemeyer.

  “Well, he’s the biggest,” said Delores. “He ought to get the most.”

  “And me—you give me the worst cup of all,” complained Ruby. “It’s cracked and got a chip out. My cocoa’s cold too.”

  Nobody paid any attention to Ruby. She rushed up to Miss Martin’s desk, and helped herself to a big handful of raisins, saying, “Why don’t you pass the raisins, Hulda?”

  Suddenly a clatter of pounding hoofbeats was heard outdoors. A herd of ten or twelve horses came galloping over the brow of the hill and stopped short. Children and teacher ran out on the porch to see them. The sight was a thrilling one—the horses with arched necks and wild-blown manes silhouetted against the cloudy sky.

  “Here, Sugar! Here, Sugar!” called Delores eagerly.

  The horses, with one movement, turned their heads and pricked up their ears, looking at the children. But they did not come closer.

  “Are they your horses, Delores?” asked Miss Martin.

  “Sugar and Nellie are,” said the girl. “The others are wild, or else they belong to the neighbors. Sugar and Nellie get wild when they run with them. We had to walk to school this morning—we couldn’t catch them.”

  “They usually come this way ahead of a storm,” said Darrell. “We have to chase them home tonight. Looks like they’re going over to the Shenkelbergers.” The horses were galloping off in the opposite direction.

  After a run in the snow, and a first attempt at snowballing, the children came back indoors, their cheeks glowing red from the cold. Delores and Fernetta offered to wash up the lunch dishes. They went out in the kitchen and closed the door. Sixth and seventh grade spelling came first; When Miss Martin asked Emil to spell sausage, he spelled w-u-e-r-s-t and made the others laugh. All the children knew two languages, but they were ashamed of their German. Suddenly a loud bang was heard in the kitchen and the children laughed louder than ever.

  “It’s those girls, trying to be fresh,” said Jacob Sticklemeyer.

  “Go see what’s happened, Darrell,” said Miss Martin.

  Darrell went into the kitchen and looked. “Stovepipe’s fell down,” he announced. “Soot all over everything. What we gonna do?”

  “Have a minstrel show!” Emil burst out. The boys laughed.

  Delores and Fernetta came to the door, their faces and clothes covered with soot. “We weren’t doing a thing, Miss Martin,” said Delores. “It just came loose of itself.”

  Everybody ran to the kitchen door to see. The oilcloth-covered table, the floor and the chairs were covered with soot. The rusty stovepipe from the coal-burning Heatola lay in several pieces on the floor.

  “We need a new stovepipe,” Miss Martin said. “I’m glad I forgot to put more coal on the fire this morning—it’s nearly dead. Darrell, take these pieces out, they’re rusted clear through.”

  Darrell took the rusty pipes out to the trash-heap by the barn. Miss Martin stood on the teacherage porch for a moment, and studied the sky. It looked threatening. A great gray blanket of cloud was pushing forward, and the wind was blowing steadily. It looked as if it might snow heavily.

  “The girls will help me clean up the soot,” she said, when the boy came back in. “Have you eaten enough lunch, Darrell? Would you take my car and drive to town for me?” Darrell thought for a minute.

  “Heck, Miss Martin, I hate to say no,” he replied, “but Delores and I got to get those horses home. Pop will be mad if…” Miss Martin turned to Emil Holzhauer who was gobbling down a final sandwich. Emil was a year older than Darrell, but less responsible.

  “Can you go, Emil?” she asked.

  “By golly, yes,” said Emil, delighted to miss
part of a day at school. “In your car? I sure can.”

  The children went back to their seats, and Miss Martin gave Emil careful instructions.

  “Take the car to Schweitzer’s garage and tell Ed to winterize it,” she said. “Then go to Gustaf Wagner’s hardware store and buy new stovepipe for the kitchen. I’ve written it down, just how much to get. Then go to the Brown Owl and buy these groceries for me.” She handed him a written list and a small purse. Then she added in a low voice: “If Holzers have any Christmas trees in yet, buy a nice big one and bring it out.”

  “A Christmas tree, by golly!” Emil burst out. “Is it time for Christmas?”

  The children laughed. They looked at the calendar on the wall. It advertised Wagner’s Hardware Store and had a brightly colored picture of a combine on it.

  “Why, it’s only the fifteenth of November!” cried Delores.

  Miss Martin smiled. “I just want to be on the safe side,” she said. “The last two years trees have been brought down from Canada in trucks early in the season. They’re gone before you know it. It wouldn’t be Christmas…without a tree.” She paused, and Delores thought her eyes looked sad. She turned to Emil again. “If you should see Johannes Wagner, Darrell’s father, in town, tell him we’re about out of coal.”

  “I’ll tell him at home tonight, Miss Martin,” said Delores.

  “Jeepers!” exclaimed Emil, as he went out the door. “Hope I can remember everything.”

  The children watched the car make its way over the hill and disappear, then they went back to their lessons. About half an hour after Emil left, Miss Martin lighted her kerosene lamp and set it on her desk. The room grew gradually darker. Then Darrell asked to go out and look at the weather. When he came in, he said to Delores, “We better get the horses and go home.’’

  “I want to finish my Arithmetic,” said Delores. “You fuss like an old mother hen.”

  “O. K., stay if you want to.” Darrell turned to Miss Martin. “I think I better go after our horses.”

  Miss Martin respected Darrell’s weather sense and judgment. “Do as you think best,” she said.

  The next minute Darrell had his cap and jacket on and was gone. Delores knew the horses had gone over by the Shenkelbergers. That wasn’t far. He’d walk over there and ride Nellie home. He’d beat her home sure. But after he left, she couldn’t keep her mind on her Arithmetic at all. She wished she had gone with him.

  At three o’clock, Pete Hummel, Sr. came in his car for Peter and Hulda. He was a gruff, bewhiskered man with a loud voice. He said the wind was blowing the snow a little. He brought a loaf of bread, a bottle of cream and a slab of bacon. “From the wife,” he said.

  “Expecting me to be snowbound?” laughed Miss Martin.

  “Kids got to eat,” he said. “I brought water too. Don’t want my kids carryin’ water in quart jars, walkin’ so far.” He put a ten gallon can of water into the front hall.

  “When are we going to get the school pump fixed?” asked Miss Martin.

  “No use fixin’ it,” said Pete Hummel, driving off. “Water’s alkali.”

  After the Hummels left, Miss Martin told the other children to go home. “Jacob, go hitch up your horse. You’ll walk home, Delores, won’t you?”

  “Sure!” said Delores. “Man! I wish I’d put on my four-buckle overshoes like Mama told me to.”

  Konrad Snider rode off on his horse and Jacob Sticklemeyer brought Buckskin and the cart to the front door. All six Sticklemeyer children came running and began to climb in. Delores and Fernetta lifted the twins up. It was snowing more now, and the wind was cold.

  “Ruby, is your father coming for you?’’ asked Miss Martin.

  Ruby did not answer. She began to cry.

  “Jacob,” said Miss Martin, “your cart is full already, but could you squeeze in one more? Ruby could ride part-way with you, then take the short-cut across the prairie.”

  “Sure, Miss Martin,” said Jacob. “We got plenty o’ room.”

  Fernetta held Buckskin’s bridle. “Pile in, Ruby,” she called. “Buckskin won’t know the difference.”

  With Ruby in, the little cart was overflowing with children. Jacob took the reins and called, “Giddap!” but Buckskin did not move. He planted his feet firmly and refused to take a step.

  “It’s you, Ruby,” said Fernetta. “Buckskin don’t like you. You’ll have to get out.”

  “Oh shoot!” glared Ruby. “I don’t care if he likes me or not.”

  “There’s too many, Miss Martin,” called Jacob.

  “I’ll ride on Buckskin’s back,” said Wilmer, “then Ruby can go with us.”

  Wilmer climbed on and patted and pounded the horse. But no amount of force or coaxing would make him move. Miss Martin brought a handful of sugar out from the teacherage. Buckskin licked it up, but would not move.

  “You’d better wait here at the school, Ruby,” said Miss Martin. “Maybe someone will come for you.” “

  “Goody, goody!” cried Ruby. “I hate your old horse, Fernetta, and that crazy old cart’s half falling to pieces.”

  Miss Martin turned to Delores. “Getting the children home every day is such a business, and it’s worse after winter really gets here.” She waited, but still the Sticklemeyer horse did not go.

  “Build a fire under Buckskin,” shouted Delores, “and he’ll go.”

  Jacob glared at her and made no reply. He and his brothers and sisters were fond of the stubborn old horse.

  “Somebody’s coming,” called Wilmer. Over the brow of the hill came Sam Englehart on his white horse.

  “Oh, goody!” said Ruby. She climbed up behind her father and rode off. Buckskin started to go and the Sticklemeyers waved good-by. Delores went running up the slope. “Good-by, Miss Martin,” she called back.

  “It’s going to storm,” answered Miss Martin. “Don’t you want to stay here all night?”

  Delores remembered the prairie fire and the horses on the night before the first day of school. “No, thank you. I have to go home.”

  Miss Martin looked lonely, standing there on the teacherage porch, with the snow coming down and the wind blowing her skirt about her. Delores felt suddenly ashamed and disloyal. Miss Martin wanted somebody to be with her. She ought to go back. Then she heard Teacher calling Spike and saw the dog rush up on the porch beside her. Spike would take care of Teacher and the schoolhouse. Spike would keep Teacher from being lonely.

  “Tell your father we need more coal,” called Miss Martin.

  “I will!” Delores shouted back.

  She would never forget how her father’s horses had thumped around the schoolhouse on the night of the prairie fire. Now they were out in the snow and Darrell was driving them home. Maybe Philip had found them before Darrell got there. Why hadn’t she gone with the boys? She would have had a horse to ride, at least. Now she had to walk all the way home.

  It wasn’t snowing much, but the wind was getting worse. Blue jeans were never warm, and it was too early to start wearing snowpants in November. Delores began to run. The wind came against her back. It whipped her coat about her. She tied her scarf more tightly under her chin, put her hands in her pockets and let the wind carry her along.

  She thought of Emil Holzhauer on his way to town in Teacher’s car. He couldn’t drive a car half as well as Darrell could. She wondered when he would get back to the schoolhouse with Miss. Martin’s stovepipe and groceries. Emil liked to spend the night at his grandparents’ in town. He didn’t care how much school he missed.

  Almost everybody’s grandparents lived in town. The old folks had come to the prairie country when they were young. They farmed until they grew old. They were always telling how hard they had worked. They grew old too soon—they couldn’t stand hardships any longer. So they moved to town and left the farms to their children and grandchildren.

  The walk home seemed twice as far as usual to Delores. Walking south along the railroad track, the wind whipped her from one side and chilled
her through. Far ahead in the distance, she could see her father’s house and the farm buildings, tiny specks across the whitened prairie. She ran and ran, and got home just as the boys rode in the barnyard with the horses.

  “What took you so long?” she yelled.

  “They’d left the Shenkelbergers,” answered Darrell. “Phil found them clear over to the Holzhauers. Good thing you didn’t come with us. You’d be frozen stiff.”

  “I would not!” Delores answered.

  The farmhouse, a story and a half high, stood bleak and unadorned at one side of the barnyard, which was full of farm machinery. There were no shrubs or trees for shelter, so the gaunt structure had taken the punishment of summer heat and winter storms. Heavy posts with cross-arms supported clotheslines across the barren yard. A row of men’s overalls whipped up and down in the wind, making a stark pattern against the sky.

  The only cheerful note was a light shining from the kitchen window. Delores ran up the back steps, opened the door, turned around and called: “Hurry up, you guys. What makes you so slow?”

  Three-year-old Christy came running out.

  “Shut that door, Delores,” called her mother. “Bring Christy back in.” .

  Christy yelled: “I wanna go see the horses.” But Delores pulled him back indoors. She closed the door and stood on the rug that lay just inside. She cleaned the snow off her thin-soled shoes. Christy crawled under the table, and Mama took bread out of the oven. The room had the sweet smell of home-baked bread. It was warm and comfortable.

  “Save me the first crust, Mama,” said Delores. She went over to the coal range and stood there shivering.

  “Look at you now!” scolded her mother. “Your shoes are soaking wet. Take them off quick. Why you not wear your snowpants and overshoes to school like I tell you? When it comes winter, you must dress for winter. All this foolishness like those town girls, wearing only thin cotton jeans without any warm underwear, and ankle socks just to be stylish—I won’t have it. Go change your shoes now quick.”