No Small Victory

by Connie Brummel Crook

  “Well, you’ll have a few minutes to think about it,” said Mr. Hubbs. “Keene’s contestant has only just arrived, so it won’t start for a few minutes.”

  “Why not give it a try, Bonnie?” Archie whispered.

  Mr. Hubbs was eyeing a boy who’d come in the side door a moment ago. The Keene teacher pointed him toward the platform. Bonnie, Archie, and Slinky all looked over at the same time. The contestant was Henry, one of the three boys who’d nearly drowned Slinky at the Mill Pond!

  Archie and Slinky sat up straight, as if struck by lightning.

  “He should be ruled out!” Archie hissed indignantly.

  “Or struck out!” Slinky growled, turning to Bonnie and giving her a knowing look.

  Bonnie stared back in disbelief. Slinky was asking her to beat that boy! She would like to. But what if she lost and he won? Wouldn’t that make it worse? Then, as she stared at the ruffian, she realized she must stand up to him—for Lang School, for all her friends there now, for Archie, and for Slinky, whom he’d nearly drowned.

  In that split second, she had made her decision. Bonnie got up. She didn’t feel shaky anymore. Not even thinking about her cough or her twisted handkerchief this time, she took her place beside the other pupils.

  Dr. Kenner announced, “This competition is for Grade Eight and under. So we have encouraged the winner of the first competition to join us.”

  As before, Dr. Kenner began with simpler words and then moved on to the more difficult ones. One girl spelled out on rheumatism. But Bonnie spelled it the right way. The other girl went down on interpretation, but Henry spelled it correctly.

  So Bonnie and Henry were now left to battle it out one-on-one. Bonnie was almost a head shorter than the skinny Keene boy, but she didn’t look at him or anyone as the new words came. Instead, she focused on each word in her mind’s eye. The words flew back and forth: masquerade, fascinate, collateral. There was deep silence in the old town hall as each word was presented.

  “Scissors,” said Dr. Kenner. Bonnie wished she’d had that one. She could have spelled that as easily as rolling off a log.

  “Scissors. S-i-s-s-o-r-s,” said Henry.

  Dr. Kenner shook his head. Then he turned to Bonnie.

  “Scissors. S-c-i-s-s-o-r-s.” Bonnie spelled the word correctly.

  But she still had to spell one more correctly.

  “Crocheting,” said Dr. Kenner.

  “Crocheting. C-r-o-c-h-e-t-i-n-g,” Bonnie said without hesitation. She may not have been good at cutting patterns with Mum’s scissors or at crocheting doilies, but she knew how to spell the words! She’d seen them many times in her mother’s pattern books.

  “We have our winner—our two-time winner—Bonnie Brown from Lang School. Congratulations, Bonnie, and congratulations to all our students who have done so well.”

  Henry looked over at Bonnie and glowered, but Bonnie smiled at him and said quietly, “You’re a really good speller. You nearly beat me out!” He smiled back, rather weakly. But still, it was a smile. Bonnie wondered if he remembered that she’d seen him bullying Slinky.

  This time, Dr. Kenner proudly handed her an envelope. Then, once again, all the participants were ribboned, and the town hall was filled with applause as they walked back to their seats. Archie and Slinky were hopping up and down like jumping beans.

  “Will you two stop it!” Bonnie laughed. “Everyone’s looking at us!”

  “And so they should! You beat out that Henry bully, and you’re our heroine!” Slinky jumped up so high Bonnie was sure he’d crash-land and he almost did, but Archie broke his fall. Marianne and Angela broke out into fits of giggles and gave Bonnie a big bear hug.

  Finally, the noise and the jumping and the hugging stopped, and Mr. Kenner announced, “These pupils are all, indeed, excellent spellers. The words for the Grade Eight and under contest were taken from the Grade Nine speller.” Whoops of surprise and awe broke out around the auditorium, and there was another round of applause.

  Bonnie was so excited she could hardly concentrate on the rest of the performance. There were a few funny recitations by community members and some joshing on stage about school events, and then speeches of congratulations to the departing Mr. McDougall.

  Bonnie wasn’t clutching the edge of the bench anymore. She was hanging on tightly to the two envelopes in her hand. The second one seemed to have a quarter in it, too. And was there a second, smaller coin in one corner of that envelope?

  “It has been a pleasure,” Mr. McDougall was now saying, “to teach such bright pupils and to live in such a fine community.” When he went to sit down, amidst a roar of clapping, he wiped his eyes with a huge, white linen handkerchief. Bonnie was surprised. She didn’t know he had any feelings at all.

  “Now,” said Mr. Hubbs. “We come to the last event—the door prize. I hope you’ve all put your names in that box by the door!” Mr. Johnson carried the box up to the edge of the platform and gave it to Mr. Hubbs. The master of ceremonies picked it up with both hands and shook it well. Then he asked the smallest girl in the first row to come up on stage to pick out a name.

  Smiling, Mr. Hubbs bent over to hold the box for the little red-headed girl in the frilly, blue dress. “Now, pull out just one slip of paper.”

  The little girl giggled as she grabbed one piece of paper and handed it up to Mr. Hubbs.

  “Lawrence Smith.” He stared down at Slinky, who looked as if he’d been struck by lightning for the second time that evening. Then he came to his senses and ambled slowly up the stairs as if he couldn’t care less about winning. But Bonnie could see he was all smiles.

  The prize was a huge box of chocolates.

  As Slinky clambered back down the steps, Mrs. Hubbs stepped over to the piano and started to play “God Save the King.”

  “Bonnie, I’m proud of you,” said Mr. McDougall. He’d come over to congratulate Bonnie after the anthem was over. “And next school year, I’m sure you’ll be able to do those two grades.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McDougall—and I hope you like your new school.” Bonnie guessed he could be nice after all—that is, when one got to know him better.

  Bonnie soon found herself at the centre of a crowd of schoolmates.

  “Three cheers for Bonnie!” said Archie.

  “Hear, hear!” said Slinky, his mouth full of chocolate. “You showed ’em!”

  Bonnie thought back to the time the boys had swung her up into the tree in the schoolyard. She remembered her awful loneliness when she’d first moved to the farm. What a difference! Now, those days seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Bonnie, we have to go!” called Mum from the doorway, adjusting her hat.

  “But…” Bonnie was about to ask to stay longer when she remembered she had something more important to do.

  Bonnie waved to her friends and followed her mother, who was already slipping out the side door.

  As they scurried between the cars next to the town hall on the way to their horse and buggy, Mrs. Johnson caught up with them. “We’re really proud of your wee lass, Amy. A grand performance, Bonnie!”

  “Thank you, Alice,” said Mum. “I must say I was surprised—”

  “Sure was good to see that Henry spelled down!” Angela interrupted. Archie was standing beside her, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Bonnie likes to read novels. I guess that helps her spelling,” said Mum.

  “Those last two words are in most needlework books,” said Mrs. Johnson. “She’s been reading them, too, I’d guess!”

  “Yes, she has—just lately. Maybe she’ll even learn how to follow their directions one of these days.” Still, Bonnie could tell that Mum was proud of her by the way she held her back up so straight and tall.

  “Of course, she will. She’s a bright lass.”

  By the time Bonnie and her mother reached the shed, a number of cars were already gone and Dad was sitting in the buggy. Mum swung up nimbly and gave Bonnie her hand to help her get in. The grand winner of the sp
elling contest landed successfully, if a bit clumsily, on the seat beside her mother.

  “Getty-up, Duke,” said Dad, still holding the reins tightly, for he didn’t want Duke racing through town at a terrible speed. Then he peered around to look at his daughter’s happy face. “I’m so proud of you, Bonnie,” he said. “I knew you’d be a winner in the junior competition, but I could hardly believe my eyes when you out-spelled those Grade Eights!”

  “Now, Thomas, don’t give her a swelled head. But, yes, Bonnie, we are very proud of you tonight. Just don’t get conceited. Pride goeth before a fall, you know.”

  “But, Mum, I’ve got money now! Let’s count it and then put it in your purse.”

  “Yes, I should keep it for you. You wouldn’t want to lose it! But we can wait to count it until we get home.”

  “Can’t we count it now?” Bonnie begged.

  “Oh, Amy,” said Dad. “Let Bonnie count it. How much is it?” Bonnie put the envelopes on Mum’s lap and Mum opened them carefully. There lay two quarters and two dimes.

  “Seventy cents!” Mum said. “That’s a lot of money, Bonnie. I’m amazed!” She carefully put the coins in her little black purse and snapped it shut. Then she tucked the small purse safely into her big blue crocheted bag. “Whatever do you plan to do with all that money?”

  “Well, I already have some plans—big plans,” Bonnie said. “I want to use all my prize money to buy more eggs. Then we’ll have lots of chickens!”

  Mum gasped and looked over at Bonnie.

  “Yes!” Bonnie went on. “Seventy cents will buy us seven dozen big eggs. That’s eighty-four eggs. Almost as many as last winter! I do wish it were a hundred, though.”

  “That will be enough for a hundred,” said Mum breathlessly, “because ten cents a dozen is what they charge folks in the store for big eggs, but farmers’ wives get paid only half that and we can buy directly from a number of women I know…”

  “But, Bonnie, we don’t want to take your prize money. You wanted a dictionary. Now’s your chance to buy your very own,” Dad interjected.

  “I can borrow one from the school for the summer. Miss Clarke said I could go by tomorrow and pick it up.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Mum murmured. Bonnie wasn’t sure she’d ever heard her mother sound so unsteady before.

  “No, this money must go for the chicks,” Bonnie insisted. “Please. I want to do this—it’s why I entered the spelling bee in the first place!”

  “By George! That’s great, Bonnie,” said Dad, slapping the reins gently on Duke’s back. “We’ll even have eggs this winter.”

  “And I’m going to watch them really well this time.”

  “Thank you, Bonnie.” Dad laughed. “You’re already beginning to sound like a hen clucking over her chicks.” Even Mum laughed at that. Bonnie could tell she was relieved.

  “Hey, wait!…Wait!” yelled someone coming up behind the buggy.

  “Did you hear someone call?” Dad asked, pulling on the reins to slow Duke down.

  “Wait, wait!” the person called again, panting this time.

  “What on earth?” Dad asked. “Is there something wrong?” Then he yelled, “Whoa!” and pulled on the reins to stop Duke in his tracks.

  Dad and Mum looked around. Bonnie didn’t need to turn her head because she knew the voice!

  Slinky came rushing up to Bonnie’s side of the buggy, his long, straggly hair flying behind him. He handed her a parcel.

  “Top row’s all gone,” he gulped, “but nobody touched the bottom layer—I saved that for you!”

  “Gee, thanks, Slinky!” Bonnie managed to say, a bit shocked.

  Then Slinky disappeared into the gathering darkness.

  Dad winked at Mum as Bonnie opened the box with the utmost care. A soft, delicious aroma drifted up, and Bonnie stared at the chocolates, each sitting in a tiny brown paper holder. Yes, Slinky had saved the whole bottom layer for her. It was glistening there in the moonlight, just waiting to be eaten up.

  But first, Bonnie held the box out to her mother. “You and Dad choose first.”

  Mum smiled and handed the box to Dad first, then took one herself. “Sure is good,” said Dad, smacking his lips. “Thank you, Bonnie.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Mum.

  Bonnie could hardly decide which one to choose but it didn’t really matter. She knew she’d like any of them. She soon found she’d popped a cherry-filled chocolate into her mouth and then handed the box back to Dad. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “But you don’t need to give us all your candy.”

  “I want to share them.” Bonnie smiled, handing the box to Mum.

  The family travelled on in happy silence. Before long, Duke was turning onto the road into the woods. Nearing home, the horse picked up his pace even in the semi-darkness, and the trees closed around them like an embrace. Bonnie stared at the beams of moonlight streaking across their path. She wasn’t afraid of these woods anymore.

  Then Mum said, “Bonnie, you were very brave this evening. I know how hard it was for you to stand up there in front of all those folks. Yet, you did. For you, that was no small victory. It was a big one!”

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Lang is now the site of Lang Pioneer Village, a living museum, located ten minutes southeast of Peterborough, Ontario, and nestled along the banks of the historic Indian River. The Pioneer Village shows over twenty restored heritage buildings, including a working grist mill. Guides in authentic costume show visitors a glimpse into the daily lives of early pioneers through trade demonstrations, traditional crafts, rare farm animals, and heritage gardens. As well as re-enactments of historic times and tasks, the village has contest days with hay-loading, log-stacking, nail-driving, log-sawing, spelling bees, tongue twisters, three-legged races, and more. Every June, Lang Pioneer Village hosts many busloads of schoolchildren. Many days I am there, too, to give readings, sign books, and remember with today’s children the turbulent days of my own childhood.

  Not only Lang, but the whole of Canada suffered during The Great Depression of the twentieth century. Those years became commonly known as The Hungry Thirties or The Dirty Thirties. Yet, there were surpluses of many things—including food. The potatoes of Prince Edward Island were left to rot in the fields, and wheat was burned on the Prairies because no one had enough money to ship them to market. Wagonloads of tomatoes and peas from Massassaga, Ontario, were rejected by canners because those factories had no money to pay for them. In 1932, 400,000 automobiles were produced in Canadian factories but only 40,000 were sold. There was a great deal too much of most things—apart from jobs and money.

  From 1931 to 1933, thousands were laid off from their jobs with no unemployment insurance and no severance pay. Many found no new employment until the end of the decade. By 1933, Canada’s unemployment rate had reached 26.6 percent, and people in every occupation were affected—from professionals to labourers. Many girls trained to be registered nurses but most could not find work until 1939, when World War II began. School teachers earned very low wages. In a number of cases, school boards, both urban and rural, could not afford to pay them, so teachers worked only for their meals and lodging. By 1936, two-thirds of Canadian young people could not find jobs because work was going to more experienced applicants. Youth actually suffered the most during this decade.

  Braithwaite, Max, The Hungry Thirties, 1930–1940. Canada’s Illustrated Heritage Series. Toronto: 1977.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Connie Brummel Crook has lived in the Peterborough area of Ontario, Canada, for most of her life. After attending early elementary school near Belleville, she moved with her parents to a farm near Peterborough, then to a farm north of Norwood, where she walked three miles to high school. Connie studied English, history and psychology at Queen’s University before becoming a teacher. Today, Connie enjoys giving presentations at Lang Pioneer Village as part of her life-long quest to bring Canadian history to life for young people.

  A young
Connie Brummel with two four-legged friends. Boots, standing beside her, was her inspiration for the doggy character of the same name.

  OTHER BOOKS BY CONNIE BRUMMEL CROOK

  NOVELS

  The Meyers Saga

  Flight

  Meyers’ Creek

  Meyers’ Rebellion

  The Nellie McClung trilogy

  Nellie L.

  Nellie’s Quest

  Nellie’s Victory

  The Story of Laura Secord

  Laura’s Choice

  Historical Years in Upper Canada

  The Hungry Year

  The Perilous Year

  PICTURE BOOKS

  Maple Moon (Lune d’érable)

  Laura Secord’s Brave Walk

  CHAPTER BOOK

  Mary’s Way