Prairie School

  Prairie School

  by Lois Lenski

  For my prairie children, with love

  CONTENTS

  Excerpt from Journey Into Childhood, an Autobiography by Lois Lenski

  Foreword

  CHAPTER I First Day of School

  CHAPTER II The Fair

  CHAPTER III The First Snow

  CHAPTER IV The Christmas Program

  CHAPTER V Christmas Vacation

  CHAPTER VI Coal for Christmas

  CHAPTER VII The Lasso Rope

  CHAPTER VIII Slumber Party

  CHAPTER IX A Knock at the Door

  CHAPTER X Sick of School

  CHAPTER XI Rough Going

  CHAPTER XII After the Storm

  CHAPTER XIII Digging Out

  CHAPTER XIV Last Day of School

  A Biography of Lois Lenski

  Excerpt from Journey Into Childhood, an Autobiography by Lois Lenski

  THE BIG EVENT OF THE 1940s was the award of the Newbery Medal to Strawberry Girl in 1946. No one was more astonished than I to receive it. Had it been given to my book Indian Captive, the Story of Mary Jemison, which I considered my major and most scholarly work, I would not have been surprised. I had envisioned a series of Regional books, for I knew there were many regions little known and neglected in children’s books. The series was barely started, and I had already daringly broken down a few unwritten taboos, I had written more plainly and realistically than other children’s authors, I had taken my material and my characters direct from real life instead of from the imagination, and my Regionals were not yet entirely accepted or approved. I was an innovator and a pioneer in a new direction, and I knew I had a long and difficult task ahead to earn the acceptance which I was not expecting so soon. But the award focused national attention on Strawberry Girl and the books to follow, so I was very grateful.

  The convention of the American Library Association was held at Buffalo that year, and at various meetings and receptions, I received invitations from librarians to go to many parts of the country—Seattle, Utah, California, Kansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Minnesota—to write about their region. Afterwards, the award brought much publicity, including requests for personal interviews and radio appearances, for personal appearances at libraries and schools, most of which I was unable to accept. Those that I did accept were strenuous and wearing, and I was glad when the flurry subsided, and I could retire to private life again.

  An entire book could be written about my experiences in other regions during the 1950s—in San Angelo, Texas, for Texas Tomboy, in Perry, Oklahoma, for Boom Town Boy, in McLaughlin, South Dakota, for Prairie School, in Remsen, Iowa, for Corn Farm Boy, and other places. The list goes on and on, always a new environment and way of life to be studied, and always good people who shared the intimacy of their lives with me, each region more exciting and stimulating than the last, each region calling for one’s deepest powers of observation, understanding, and compassion.

  As soon as I return from a region, I have a big job to do. I have to copy all the notes I have taken, classifying them under various headings, making them readily and quickly accessible. Then I make an outline for my story, listing the various incidents I wish to include under the different chapter headings. I write my text in longhand first, and often revise it in longhand, then revise again as I type it. (The subject has, of course, been approved by the editor in advance.) I send the typed manuscript in, to be read and approved, copyedited (improving or disapproving of my punctuation!) and sent to the printer to be set into type. If any changes are suggested by the editor, the manuscript or portions of it may be returned to me for this purpose. If any changes in format are contemplated, I am always consulted. For many years, with Lippincott, I worked directly with the head of the manufacturing department in planning all details of type and format. It was in this way that a beautiful format was devised for the Regionals.

  While the manuscript is at the printers, while I am waiting for the galley proofs, having kept a carbon of the manuscript, I am working on the illustrations. For the Regionals, these are graphite pencil drawings on 3-ply Bristol board, and are reproduced by high-light halftone offset. The drawings for the Roundabouts are ink drawings, reproduced by letterpress.

  When the galley proofs reach me, two sets are sent, one for me to read and correct, and to answer editorial or printers’ queries; the other set for me to cut up and paste into a blank dummy, allowing space on the proper page for each illustration, of which I usually make about fifty.

  After I wrap up a large package containing original manuscript, the original illustrations, corrected galley proofs, and the printer’s dummy and ship it to the publishers, my work on a book is finished. The rest is up to the publisher. I see and hear nothing more until months later, when a book package arrives out of the blue, containing the first copy, hot off the press, for me to hold in my hands and marvel at. There is no other thrill so great for an author-illustrator as seeing the first copy of a book he has labored over and believed in and deeply loved.

  From Journey Into Childhood by Lois Lenski © 1972 by permission of Sterling Lord Literistic for the Lois Lenski Covey Foundation, Inc.

  Foreword

  A LETTER FROM South Dakota reached me in May 1948. My book, Strawberry Girl had found its way into a tiny one-room rural school just west of the Missouri river, near the North Dakota state line. The pupils wrote to tell me how much they had liked the book, and what a difficult time they had to find others I had written.

  “When there was snow, and the cold winds blew,” the teacher wrote, “we gathered in a circle around the register and the children listened with rapt attention and speculated on the outcome.” Little did I dream, as I read those words, that one day I would visit that school and tell its story.

  During the winter 1948–1949, which 1 spent in Florida, I read about the terrible snowstorms on the Great Plains, and the dramatic rescues by private airplanes and U. S. Army bulldozers. As I read, I kept thinking about that little school, the teacher and children there. I wondered how they had managed to live through those storms. But I could not write to inquire. I had not taken their letters to Florida, and could not remember the teacher’s name or their post office address.

  In February 1949, another letter came.

  “The children are having a tough time,” the teacher wrote, “but they never complain. Since the severe blizzard the first week in February, they have had to walk as much as two or three miles, since no horse, car or truck can get through the drift.. Today it is twenty-five below. We are having school in the kitchen of the teacherage and it is crowded, but they are cheerful about it. We are finding out what an old time winter is like.”

  For the rest of that winter, and all through 1949–1950, a winter described locally as “worse than 1948–1949,” vivid letters from teacher and pupils came to me, describing their rigorous and dramatic life. I knew now that theirs was a story that needed to be told—the modern instead of the old-fashioned blizzard, when man’s mechanical devices of which he is so proud, fail before the fury of the elements.

  I planned to go to South Dakota in April 1950, but reports of a late spring, bad roads and continued snow deterred me. I went in May, and was marooned for a week in the small hotel in the town, by a blizzard on May fifth. Here I wrote the first draft of five chapters—my first experience of actually writing a story on location, in the region. When I was finally able to go out in the country, nine miles to the school, I made the trip, appropriately enough, in a skidding jeep during a blinding snowstorm!

  During my stay, I saw and felt and sketched the real prairie for the first time. I slept on a cot in the back of the schoolroom—one night entirely alone in the building—and I learned to feel quite at home there. I ate my m
eals with the teacher in the teacherage, and shared the children’s lunches. All the children’s dramatic experiences at school, in their homes, coming to school and going home, became real to me, as I witnessed their setting, and as I came to know the children themselves.

  This is no synthetic, manufactured adventure. Their story, as I have told it, is the essence of truth. It is an understatement—I feel keenly my own inability to do it justice. Many important facts, incidents, sidelights, etc., have had to be omitted.

  “They never complain—they are cheerful about it,” writes their teacher. Of such solid stuff is childhood made. And their teacher too. I hope that this book gives high honor to the prairie children. And I hope that it pays a well-deserved tribute to the heroic rural teachers of the Great Plains, in South Dakota and the surrounding prairie states.

  To Ruth Carter and the children of Maple Leaf School, McLaughlin, South Dakota, go my most sincere and grateful thanks. This is their story, not mine. Without their help, this book could not have been written. Not all the incidents used happened to them in person. In many ways, the story is a composite, for the sake of enrichment. Names and incidents have been chosen from the region, and will be recognized as authentic by those who live the prairie life.

  This “prairie school” is closed now. The building stands deserted and neglected, as the cold winds whistle through. But the prairie children are, and always will be, very much alive.

  Lois Lenski

  McLaughlin,

  South Dakota,

  May 1950

  Greenacres

  Harwinton, Connecticut

  August 30, 1950

  The song Born of the Wind, Song of the Prairie Children, with words written by Lots Lenski and music by Clyde Robert Bulla may be freely used or mimeographed by any schools or teachers interested in its use for children. Its reprinting for any commercial use is, however, forbidden by copyright. It is hoped that the song will be an incentive to the making of dramatizations of the story.

  CHAPTER I

  First Day of School

  “SHE HASN’T COME YET.”

  A boy and a girl on a small, spotted horse came galloping up to the prairie schoolhouse. They slid off and turned the horse loose. “No, she’s not here,” said the girl. “We’re in plenty of time.” The schoolhouse looked shabby and deserted. The front porch was sagging and weeds grew high in the yard.

  “Look, Delores!” said her brother. “Somebody’s broken a window.”

  “Konrad Snider did that last year, don’t you remember?” said the girl. “His ball landed on Miss Martin’s desk.”

  The two children had blue eyes and straw-colored hair. Their cheeks were rosy from their ride over the South Dakota prairie. They were dressed in faded checked shirts and blue jeans. The boy was half a head taller than the girl.

  “Look at these steps,” said Darrell. “Broken down again. I’ll have to bring hammer and nails and fix them, I suppose.”

  “Wish we could go to that nice new brick school in town,” said Delores. “I’d like to ride on a bus.”

  “You’d end up frozen stiff in a snowbank,” said her brother. “They can’t run busses so far out. There’s our town—Oak Leaf!”

  He pointed to the north, where the tiny Oak Leaf depot stood beside the railroad track. Just beyond rose a tall grain elevator. Off to the right stood a single house, empty and deserted. On the other side of the tracks a grass fire was burning, sending up dark, smoldering smoke.

  “Some town!” laughed Delores.

  “First they called it Kukuk,” said Darrell. “Mrs. Kukuk was Russian and named the postoffice after herself. Then somebody changed the name to Tuttle, and that got changed to Oak Leaf—I don’t see any oak trees around anywhere.”

  “Oak Leaf had sixty people once,” said Delores, “but they all moved away. I guess it was too windy for them, or too snowy in winter, or too far out. Papa said there used to be two stores, a lumber yard and lots of houses. I wonder what became of the houses.”

  “They moved one or two into town,” said Darrell, “and the wind blew the others down. So everybody moved away.”

  “Even the Swartz’s have gone,” said Delores. She looked across the prairie to the deserted house. “Poor little house—it looks lonesome.”

  “It’ll soon have company,” laughed Darrell. “The field mice and prairie chickens and skunks will soon be moving in. What’s that—a jackrabbit?”

  “Looks more like a dog,” said Delores. “He’s coming this way.”

  “It’s Spike. The Swartz’s Spike,” cried the boy. “Here, Spike! Here, Spike! Come here, old boy.”

  The dog, a large shaggy shepherd, came bounding up.

  “Do you suppose they forgot him?” Darrell patted the dog to make him stop jumping. “They moved to town last spring. I wonder if he’s been here alone all summer.”

  “He acts like it,” said Delores.

  “He’s so glad to see us. He must be hungry,” said Darrell.

  “I wish Miss Martin would come,” said Delores. “She’ll bring food and give us something to feed him.”

  They walked back to the teacherage door.

  “Wonder why she’s so late,” said Delores. “She ought to be getting here. The first day of school is tomorrow. Look, Darrell, is the grass fire getting worse?”

  The children looked across to the field beyond the railroad track, where a cloud of smoke was rising. Now and then it lifted and showed leaping flames beneath.

  “The wind’s not in this direction,” said the boy, “so there’s no danger. The prairie grass always burns off every year.”

  “Let’s ride over to the track and watch it,” said Delores.

  They called Sugar and mounted, then rode quickly over, with the dog Spike following. The fire was licking its way along the railroad embankment, leaving a charred stretch of black behind it. Darrell pulled up the horse in front of the depot, and they watched the fire in silence.

  “Good thing Pop plowed that fireguard,” said Darrell. “Two furrows along the fence—that’ll stop it.”

  “It won’t jump the track, will it?” asked Delores.

  “I told you the wind’s in the other direction.”

  “I hear a car.” Delores turned and looked. “Teacher’s coming.”

  Over the brow of the rolling hill beyond the schoolhouse, a car was crawling on the winding prairie road, coming closer and closer.

  “That must be Miss Martin,” said Darrell. “Nobody else would be coming this way today.”

  They raced Sugar back to the schoolhouse and dismounted just as the dust-covered car drove up.

  “Hello, hello!” called Miss Martin, smiling. “Glad to see you.” Miss Martin was small, thin and wiry. She was dressed in a new checked suit and wore a red hat with a gay feather. Her eyes were bright and sparkling. “How nice to have a welcome—and some help with my unloading. But what’s the matter? You both look so serious. Aren’t you glad school opens tomorrow?”

  “We came to tell you…” began Delores. She stood on the teacherage steps and looked over to the elevator and depot.

  “There’s a pretty bad prairie fire, Miss Martin,” said Darrell.

  “You think I’m afraid, don’t you?” Miss Martin smiled.

  “Mama said if you are afraid, you’re to come home with us and sleep at our house,” said Delores.

  “It has burned off three sections,” said Darrell. “Down by our place the men burned a backfire to make it come this way. They’re still fighting it with sacks and water over on the other side.”

  “Yes, I saw it from the road,” said Miss Martin. “I wonder how it started.”

  “Pop says he bet somebody’s been burning tumbleweeds,” said Darrell. “Summer’s been so dry, there’s an extra big crop.”

  “You mean Russian thistles?” asked Miss Martin.

  “Yes,” said Darrell. “When they get dry, they break off at the stem and roll along like a ball. The wind sends them tumbling across t
he prairie until they pile up against somebody’s fence. Some people don’t want their fences broke down by tumbleweeds, so they set fire to them. Then the prairie grass starts burning too.”

  “It sure is windy today,” said Delores. “It’s a bad day for prairie fires—the grass is so dry. That fire might come awful close.”

  “The Bauers over in the brakes had to move,” said Darrell. “They were burned out—lost everything.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Miss Martin. “They are Peter’s and Hulda’s grandparents, aren’t they?”

  She opened the door of her car and stepped out. Spike came running up, panting.

  “Why, whose dog is this?” asked Miss Martin. “Yours?”

  “It’s Spike, the Swartz’s dog,” said Darrell.

  “Oh yes, I see it is,” said Miss Martin. “It’s good to see Spike again. He’s always friendly.” She began to walk around the building. “It hasn’t changed much,” she said. “Still the same broken steps, the same broken window—and weeds right up to my door. I’ll have to clear a path to get in.”

  The children helped her pull tall ragweeds up by the roots. Then she went up the teacherage steps, took a key out of her purse and unlocked the door.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said. Delores followed.

  “I’ll unload your car, Miss Martin,” said Darrell. The teacherage was a name given to two small rooms at the back of the building, where the teacher lived. The door led into a small square kitchen. The furniture was simple—a table, cupboard, chair and two stoves. One was a two-burner kerosene stove for cooking and the other a coal heater marked Heatola. Delores looked up at the ceiling and smiled. “How do you like your smokehouse, Miss Martin?”

  The shadow of a frown passed over the teacher’s face. “It hasn’t been painted!” she exclaimed. She went into the bedroom. “Oh dear! No bureau. I’ll have to get used to living out of cartons and egg crates again.”

  Delores did not know what to say. “At least I have my own bed,” Miss Martin went on. “That makes it homelike. It won’t take me long to get settled.”