Through Rushing Water by Catherine Richmond Read Free Book Online

unpack her prayer book and icon.
    Below her window she heard a heavy clip-clop , accompanied by the rattle of harnesses and the creak of wooden wheels. She hurried downstairs to meet the dray.
    Will loaded her baggage and his toolbox in the wagon’s box, then hopped up beside them. James arrived after the work was done, in time to hand her up to the seat. He shook the reins and they bumped across the grass.
    â€œWere you the first teacher here, James?”
    â€œNo, the year before, they had a lady, Mrs. Reed, for a few months.”
    â€œThen you taught until your promotion to agent?”
    â€œI was sent elsewhere until my appointment this year. Others came here, but none stayed long.”
    Guilt threatened to choke her; she did not plan to stay either. “So the students have not had the benefit of regular schooling?”
    â€œIt’s been hit or miss.”
    â€œMostly miss,” Will said.
    James shot an angry look at the carpenter. “Even when we have a teacher, the Indians are not in the habit of following the calendar.”
    Will rested his arm on his bent knee. “Likely they’re hungry or sick. Can’t come in winter without coats and boots.”
    â€œI found the Ponca students excel at writing, speaking, and memorizing, but not comprehension,” James said. “They are suspicious of strangers—”
    â€œSmart of them,” Will muttered.
    â€œâ€”but teachable.”
    â€œWhat would you say is the current rate of literacy among the Poncas?” When the answer was not forthcoming, Sophia rephrased her question. “How many can read and write?”
    James muttered, then nodded east. “Miss Makinoff, your schoolhouse.”
    It was the same size as most of the houses, about twenty by forty feet, and painted white. A bell topped the roof. A pair of cows trimmed the lawn.
    â€œIt is new,” Sophia said.
    â€œThe previous one was uninhabitable.” James unlocked the door, then handed her the key.
    Another change. No one locked doors at the College. A rush of hot musty air blew past.
    â€œWhen was the schoolhouse in use most recently?”
    â€œWe had a teacher here in February and March.”
    â€œThree months ago? Surely children cannot learn in such sporadic sessions.” Sophia wondered, with a surge of panic, how long it would take for the Mission Board to send her successor.
    â€œGovernment’s breaking the treaty.” Will pulled a rag from his back pocket and cleared the cobwebs, working his way around the partition forming the anteroom.
    â€œWith your experience,” Sophia asked James, “could you not keep the school open?”
    â€œMy duties as agent fill the day.” His expression hardened, a clear message that his assistance—and interference—would be limited. That was something to be thankful for.
    â€œThere’s room for fifty students, but you probably won’t see that many.”
    Instead of desks, the schoolhouse was furnished with long tables and benches in gradually decreasing height. The teacher had a kitchen chair and a desk made of packing crates.
    Sophia closed her eyes for a moment, seeing her classroom at the College: her walnut desk and matching chair, shelves stocked with Pylodet’s Littérature Contemporaine and Otto’s Grammar , the wall map of France.
    â€œWhere are the maps? How can you teach geography?”
    â€œI hope you brought your own.” James pressed his finger to the space between his eyebrows.
    â€œI did. Where are the bookcases?”
    â€œNo books.” He rubbed his forehead with his knuckle.
    â€œNo books? None at all? No bookcase?” What would Catharine Beecher say?
    â€œTell me what size and I’ll build one,” Will said.
    Sophia turned to Will. “About waist high, to fit under the—Is there not a chalkboard?”
    Will pointed. “I can paint the wall black.”
    Sophia nodded and ventured a