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Baker Publishing Group - Vogel Sawyer Kim

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173 pages

English

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Description

Edythe Amsel is delighted with her first teaching assignment: a one-room schoolhouse in Walnut Hill, Nebraska. Independent, headstrong, and a strong believer in a well-rounded education, Edythe is ready to open the world to the students in this tiny community. But is Walnut Hill ready for her? Joel Townsend is thrilled to learn the town council hired a female teacher to replace the ruthless man who terrorized his nephews for the past two years. Having raised the boys on his own since their parents' untimely deaths, Joel believes they will benefit from a woman's influence. But he sure didn't bargain on a woman like Miss Amsel. Within the first week, she has the entire town up in arms over her outlandish teaching methods, which include collecting leaves, catching bugs, making snow angels, and stringing ropes in strange patterns all over the schoolyard. Joel can't help but notice that she's also mighty pretty with her rosy lips, fashionable clothes, and fancy way of speaking. When Edythe decides to take her pupils to hear Miss Susan Anthony speak on the women's suffrage amendment, the town's outcry reaches new heights. Even Joel isn't sure he can support her newfangled ideas any longer. And if he can't trust her to know how to teach the boys, how can he trust her with his heart?

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Historical fiction

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 janvier 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441214164
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2011 by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Published by Bethany House Publishers a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287. www.bethanyhouse.com
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 02.07.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-In-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4412-1416-4
Cover design by Brand Navigation
Cover photography by Steve Gardner, PixelWorks Studio, Inc.
Dedicated to my brother Brad , who is an inspiration to his students
(and to me).
“In the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.” P SALM 138:3, KJV
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other Books by Kim Vogel Sawyer
Ad
Back Cover
Chapter ONE
Walnut Hill, Nebraska September 1882
This certainly isn’t the way I imagined it.
Standing on the raised planked platform with her name— Miss Amsel – chalked in flowing script across the center of the black-painted board behind her, Edythe searched the somber faces for any small sign of enthusiasm. Row upon row of unsmiling lips and apprehensive eyes greeted her. Her stomach trembled.
Pressing her palms to the smooth front of her taffeta overskirt, she donned a bright smile. Someone had to smile. “Now . . .” Her dry mouth made her voice sound growly, and a little pigtailed girl in the front row cringed. Edythe cleared her throat. “Now that you know my name, it’s time I learned yours. Each of you take up your slate and slate pencil”—the shuffle of slates sliding over worn desktops indicated instant compliance—“and print your name in your neatest penmanship on the slate. Then hold it up for me to see.”
Heads bent over desks. Slate pencils created a soft skritch-skritch . A fragrant breeze flowed through the schoolroom’s open windows, and Edythe filled her lungs with a satisfied breath. Ahh, her pupils following her directions. For how many years had she anticipated this moment? At least a dozen. Pa had said it would never happen, and at times she’d believed him. Yet here she was, standing before her very own class of students.
Some dreams do find fruition, Pa.
She blinked away happy tears as a second round of scuffles signaled slates being lifted. Fresh-scrubbed fingers held slates beneath chins. Opening the student log that rested on her desk, she checked the names that corresponded with those printed on the slates. Martha Sterbinz , Jane Heidrich, Andrew Bride, Henry Libolt, Louisa Bride . . .
Some names were legibly written, others a bit difficult to decipher. Regardless, Edythe acknowledged each offering with a smile of approval, but not one child smiled in return. She had longed to teach in a little country school, where children from big to little mingled together like a family. Being accepted as the schoolmarm for the farming community of Walnut Hill, Nebraska, was her fondest hope come to life. But none of her imaginings had included taciturn students.
On the right-hand side of the room, two freckle-faced boys shared a desk seat and a slate. A smile quavered on Edythe’s lips as she noted their names—Johnny and Robert—penned one above the other with arrows indicating which name applied to which boy. She laid her pen on the logbook and crossed to stand beside the boys’ desk. In the silent room, the gentle swish of her skirts against the wood-planked floor seemed intrusive.
“Johnny . . . and Robert.” She looked fully into their faces as she spoke their names. Both stared at her with unblinking brown eyes. With thick, curling lashes, round, freckled cheeks, and matching cowlicks, they gave the appearance of a pair of bookends. “Are you twins?”
The one on the left shook his head. “No’m. Brothers. I’m eight.” He jabbed his chest with his thumb and then jerked it toward his brother. “He’s seven.”
“I see.” Edythe swallowed. Surely the other children in the room were boring holes through her, so intent were their gazes. “You’ve done a commendable job of writing your first names, but you’ve neglected to include your surname. Can you tell me what it is?”
She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but their eyes grew even larger. The younger one—Robert—sucked in his lips. His chin quivered. What on earth had she done to frighten him so? She looked at Johnny and gentled her voice. “Do you know your surname?”
The pair exchanged a nervous glance, but neither spoke. The wall clock’s heavy pendulum ticked off the advancing seconds as loudly as a gong. Then a slight movement from the back row caught Edythe’s attention. A tall, slender girl with blond hair slicked away from her face held her hand in the air.
Edythe searched her memory for the girl’s name. “Martha?”
The girl’s shy nod indicated Edythe had guessed correctly.
“Did you have something to ask?”
Martha rose, licking her lips. She pressed her palms to the desktop as if in need of support. “Just wanted you to know, ma’am . . . those’re the Townsend boys. They live on a farm south of town.”
“Thank you, Martha.”
The girl sank into her seat, her shoulders wilting.
Edythe turned back to Johnny and Robert. “So you are Johnny and Robert Townsend.”
They nodded in unison.
“Do you know how to write Townsend , boys?”
Johnny dropped the slate with a clatter and covered his face with his hands. Robert stared at her. One tear spilled from its perch on his lower lashes and rolled down his cheek. From the front row, the little pigtailed girl began to weep, filling the room with her distress. Edythe looked around in confusion. The face of every student reflected fear or resentment.
Edythe put her hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Look at me.” Very slowly he lowered his hands and peered up at her. “Why are you frightened?”
“You . . . you gonna”—his shoulders jerked as he fought back tears—“whomp me if I spell it wrong?”
Edythe frowned, confused. “Whomp you?”
“Yes’m.” Johnny’s lips quavered so wildly his words came out in a squeak. “I ain’t wrote my second name all summer long, an’ now I can’t ’member how to do it. Please don’t whomp me.” Another tear rolled down Robert’s face. The boys clutched hands.
Edythe looked around the room, meeting the gaze of each student in turn. So much trepidation—and now she understood why. Catching her skirts, she whirled to the front of the room, stopping directly in front of the bench where the little pigtailed girl continued to wail.
“Children, what means did your former teacher use as discipline in the classroom?”
A sullen-looking boy on the second row shot one hand in the air and yanked up his slate with the other. William Sholes , the slate read in precise block letters.
Edythe said, “Please tell me, William.”
William bolted from his desk. “If we made mistakes, Mr. Shanks bent us over his knee an’ whupped us good with that stick.” He bobbed his head toward the tray at the front of the room.
Edythe stepped onto the teaching platform and lifted a slim, peeled hickory stick perhaps three feet in length. When she had discovered it lying in the tray the evening before as she’d readied the classroom for the first day of school, she’d assumed it was intended as a pointer. She held it aloft. “Are you referring to this stick?”
The little pigtailed girl’s wails changed to frantic, hiccupping sobs. The child, so small her legs stuck straight out rather than bending toward the floor, couldn’t possibly have experienced the sting of the switch—perhaps the older students had warned her of its threat. If Mr. Shanks had been in the room at that moment, Edythe would have told him what she thought of his discipline methods. Teachers should inspire more than hysteria in small children.
Edythe stomped to the front edge of the platform. Curling her fists around opposite ends of the stick, she held it chest-high. “I assure you, the only thing going over my knee is this.”
Raising her knee slightly, she smacked the stick across her thigh. Gasps sounded across the room as the stick snapped in two. The pigtailed girl’s cries ceased with a startled gulp. Edythe marched to the window and tossed the useless halves onto the playground. Then she faced the students, swishing her palms together. “From this day forward, no one in this room will be whomped for mistakes. Making mistakes is part of learning, and we’re here to learn. All I ask is that you always do your very best. Will you promise me that?”
The little pigtailed girl stared at Edythe in wonder. All across the classroom, heads nodded. Voices rang. “Yes’m. I promise.”
“Good.” Edythe raised her chin and sent a serious look across the classroom. “And I promise to do my best, as well.” Her heart gave a happy skip. At last, her students were smiling.

“Then she busted it— boom! – right acrost her knee an’ threw it out the window!” Johnny gestured with his frie