Through Rushing Water by Catherine Richmond Read Free Book Online Page B

from the corner of her eye. “My name is Miss Makinoff. Please tell me your name.”
    After a moment the carpenter said another Ponca word.
    The child whispered, “Marguerite.”
    â€œRosalie,” murmured one behind her.
    â€œSusette.” Another hand slipped into hers.
    Très bien . She smiled and, wonder of wonders, Will smiled back. Or perhaps it was another twitch, so quickly was it over.
    â€œHave you attended school before?” she asked the girls.
    No answer.
    â€œWe must prepare our school.” She stepped into the building, the girls in tow. How could she tell them apart if she was not to look at them? She handed the bucket to the tallest, whom she guessed to be eleven or twelve years old.
    â€œMarguerite,” she said tentatively, earning a nod. “If you would be so kind as to collect some water.”
    To the next, perhaps eight years of age, she handed the broom. “And, Rosalie—no, Susette—if you would sweep.”
    And the rag to the littlest, estimated five years. “And, Rosalie, if you would dust.”
    Perhaps an unconventional start, but surely necessary. And housekeeping skills were considered part of their training. Marguerite walked away, swinging the bucket.
    â€œIs it far, the pump?”
    â€œIt’s a spring.” Will handed her a tin pail covered by a red-and-white checked napkin. “Your lunch.”
    â€œThank you.” Sophia nearly dropped it. “It is quite heavy.”
    â€œFor sharing.”
    â€œAh, yes. The girls did not bring lunch pails. They do not return home to eat?”
    â€œNo.” He started out the door.
    â€œAnd you?” If he left he would not see her fail. But if he left she would have no one to answer her questions.
    â€œBuilding your outhouse.”
    Will Dunn was a man of few words apparently. And for her, the bare minimum. Well, she was not here to win his approval, but to show herself approved of God. She had come for the children, who were busily stirring up a dust storm.
    She guided Susette—no, Rosalie—in brushing off the tables and benches. And Susette in sweeping the floor front to back. All three girls had round faces, brown skin, and black hair. How would she keep them straight when she had more than three to remember? She would learn—immediately, it seemed, since Marguerite had returned with a full bucket and two other children about her age. The newcomers’ hair had been cut ear-level, perhaps an attempt at shingling gone wrong.
    â€œI’m Frank. He is Joseph.” Frank’s shirt and pants sported matching patches. Joseph’s clothes seemed newer, but several sizes too large for his thin frame. Neither had shoes. “We go to school here. In May.”
    â€œMay? I thought Mr. Lawrence said March.”
    The boy watched Rosalie wipe. “Yes. March. The month of sore eyes.”
    â€œSore eyes?”
    Now he stared at Susette. “From the snow.”
    â€œAh, from the sunlight. I understand. Yesterday I had sore eyes from the sun on the river.” Sophia shook the rag out. “If you boys will help Marguerite wash the windows, our school will be ready.”
    Sophia distributed the supplies from the first box. The ledger went on her desk, the slates on the tables, and the McGuffey Readers went on the new shelf. She must take attendance as soon as she found a pencil. Perhaps in the other box.
    â€œBooks!” Susette let the broom clatter to the floor.
    The four older children raced to the shelf, chose a reader, and flipped the pages. They chattered over the simple drawings like a flock of birds feeding on scattered bread crumbs.
    Rosalie dropped the rag. Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a little circle. Slow steps brought her to the front of the room. Her hand stretched toward one of the readers on the shelf and stroked the cover. Then she brought the book to her face, breathed in its smell, and rubbed it against her cheek.