Sigrid nodded. “When Miss Anthony attempted to vote, the all-male jury followed the judge’s order to find her guilty as charged. But she did not serve time in jail.
“Before Miss Anthony was sentenced, she told the judge that the courts were wrong. She said they had been wrong on other occasions as well. They had been wrong when they said it was a crime to give a cup of cold water or a crust of bread to an escaping slave making his way to Canada. And they were just as wrong when they robbed women of the fundamental privilege of citizenship—the right to vote.”
“I would think that with that logic the judge had to agree with her,” Kristin said.
“He didn’t. He ordered Miss Anthony to pay a fine. She refused and challenged him to either hold her in custody or send her to jail until it was paid. He refused to do either, because putting her in jail would have enabled her to take her case to the highest court in the nation—the United States Supreme Court. If the Supreme Court judges disagreed with the state jury, they could have forced the state to let all women—not just Miss Anthony—vote in all elections.”
“How long has Miss Anthony been working for women’s rights?” Kristin asked.
“Since 1853.”
Kristin gulped. “But it’s 1902!”
“Much has been accomplished, but a change as drastic as women’s suffrage takes time.”
“I have so much to learn about this country and all that is possible here,” Kristin said with a sigh.
“You can begin now. I have a book at home that would be good for you to read. I’ll be coming back to Great Rock Lake at least once before Midsommarfest. I’m pleased to lend it to you. I’ll also be glad to tell you more about Miss Anthony’s work. She helped found the National American Suffrage Association, to which I belong. We have a chapter in Minneapolis.”
“Does Miss Anthony come to any of the meetings?”
“No. Miss Anthony is eighty-two years old now and doesn’t travel as much as she once did. However, if she, or one of her associates, such as Anna Shaw, does travel here to speak, perhaps you would like to come to Minneapolis to hear her. I’d be very happy to have you stay with me.”
Go to Minneapolis? The city was one of the pair of beautiful cities that had entranced Kristin while she and her family had waited to change trains. Kristin had loved everything she saw as her family rode in a buggy through Minneapolis and its twin city across the Mississippi River, Saint Paul. Kristin bounced to her feet. “I would love to come! Thank you! Thank you!”
“With your parents’ permission of course.”
Kristin knew the look on her face must have given away her thoughts because Sigrid smiled and said, “When the time comes, I’ll speak to your parents and be as persuasive as I can in inviting you for a visit.”
“Maybe if your sister … if Fru Dalquist also tries to persuade them …”
“Unfortunately my sister doesn’t share my political views. You’d be surprised how many women are afraid of change. They’d rather be taken care of—no matter how poorly—than enjoy equality.”
“What about the women in the western states that let them vote? They must not have been afraid.”
Sigrid smiled. “After what they went through to help settle and civilize the western territories, I’m sure they weren’t afraid of anything,” she said.
“Most of the women here in Great Rock Lake already made a big change when they came here from Sweden,” Kristin said. “And yet my own mother doesn’t want to change! She doesn’t understand. She was horrified when I wore men’s clothes.”
Sigrid’s expression didn’t alter as she asked, “Why did you?”
“My own clothes were wet, and there was nothing else to fit me.” Kristin stopped, too embarrassed to tell the whole story. “Mamma was afraid I’d shock people.”
“Your mother is right. If you attempt something too daring, you will. When Amelia Bloomer invented a costume with trousers for women and she and Miss Anthony wore them, people were so upset, they threw eggs at them.”
In surprise Kristin asked, “Do you mean that I wasn’t the first woman to wear trousers?”
Sigrid said quietly, “Change takes time, Kristin, and it must be done properly, not impulsively. When people know, like, and trust you, they’re more ready to listen to your ideas.”
She glanced behind Kristin and murmured, “Pastor Holcomb keeps looking over this way. I think that he wants to talk to you, but he’s uncomfortable conversing with me. Why don’t you join your parents, and I’ll see you later.”
“Today?”
“Next time I’m in town, I’ll stop by your house with the book I told you about. I’d like to meet your parents, too.”
Kristin reluctantly left the table and walked to where her parents were standing with Pastor Holcomb. Without his flapping black robes he was far less intimidating, and Kristin shook his hand without flinching.
His eyes probed Kristin’s as though he could read her thoughts as he questioned her about her childhood and her participation in the Lutheran church. Finally he expressed his pleasure that she had been confirmed and had full membership in the church.
“Your father has told me that he thinks it would benefit you to become involved in the activities of our church,” he said. “As it happens, our teacher for Sunday’s primary class has not been well, and I planned to ask one of the girls to substitute for the next few weeks. However, your father assured me you could handle the children and are well versed. Will you take our four- and five-year-olds and teach them their religion—beginning next Sunday?”
Kristin wished her father had asked her permission before volunteering her but she answered politely, “I’ve never taught. I wouldn’t know how or what to teach them.”
“We have instructions for you to follow,” Pastor Holcomb said. “I will give you the material before you leave this afternoon. It will be a good way for you to join our community.”
Teaching small children their religion was not exactly how Kristin had planned to spend her Sundays, but pride shone in Pappa’s eyes, and Mamma smiled with delight.
Since Kristin had hesitated, Pastor Holcomb urged, “It will not be difficult. Most of the little ones have given up their baby lisps and speak our language well.”
“English?” Kristin asked with excitement.
“No, our language. Swedish.”
Kristin realized she’d have to say yes, but then thought with excitement, Why should they speak Swedish? I can teach them in English! They’ll have the advantage of learning both their religion and English, and this will keep me from forgetting the language!
“I shall be very happy to teach them,” she answered Pastor Holcomb.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS Pastor Holcomb left to chat with others in his flock, Kristin’s parents were captured by the Lundgrens. Kristin wandered away from the group, wondering if she should go in search of Jenny.
“Kristin, wait!” Johan hurried to her side, but once there, seemed tongue-tied. “You—uh—you look very nice today.”
“Better than in my dusty working clothes, you mean?”
His face reddened. “That’s not what I meant.”
Kristin rested her fingertips on his arm and grinned. “I know. I was just teasing.”
He grinned back. “Have you seen much of the town? Or of the lake? There’s a good view of this end of Great Rock Lake from the hill behind the church.”
“I’d like to see it,” Kristin said. “But what about the Young People’s Society? Won’t it be meeting soon?”
“We’ll have plenty of time.”
As they walked past the tables, Johan’s father glanced up from his conversation with Herr Dalquist and studied Kristin. Puzzled, Kristin stared back, and he quickly nodded and smiled before he turned away.
Johan, who was busy telling Kristin about the good lake fishing for bass and carp, hadn’t noticed.
“I like to fish,” Kristin told him as they rounded the corner of the church and strolled up
the hillside.
“You do?” Johan looked surprised. “I know a couple of very young girls who sometimes go fishing with their brothers, but it’s not something most girls your age do.”
“My father used to take me fishing when I was younger,” Kristin said. “For lake fishing we’d sometimes dig for worms and sometimes use minnows.”
“You don’t mind putting a worm on a hook?”
“Of course not.”
Johan smiled. “You’re not like other girls, are you?”
“I don’t know,” Kristin teased. “Maybe you’d better tell me. What are other girls like?”
“I didn’t bring you here to talk about other girls.” Johan reached for her hand and pulled Kristin up to a flat promontory. “There’s a good view of the lake here,” he said, dropping her hand.
Kristin moved close to Johan, aware of the steep drop in front of them, and he put an arm around her waist to steady her. The grassy slopes fell away to dark clumps of pine, and beyond the forest a broad expanse of water glimmered silver-blue in the sunlight. As though something had startled them, a swarm of blackbirds swooped loudly from the pines, shooting into the air with beating wings and circling over the lake before choosing another place to settle.
“It’s beautiful,” Kristin murmured.
“Yes,” Johan agreed. “There’s something special about this place. I’ve been told it’s very much like the southern area my parents came from in Sweden.”
Kristin sighed. “Everyone keeps comparing everything here with the way it was in Sweden and trying to make this part of the United States exactly like Sweden. I didn’t think you’d do it, too.”
She could hear the surprise in Johan’s voice. “I don’t even remember Sweden. I was only a baby when my parents brought me to the United States. My brothers and sisters were born here, and I imagine we’ll all live here the rest of our lives.”
Kristin turned to glance up at him. “Don’t you want to see other places?”
“Maybe, in travel,” Johan said, “but where could I find better land to farm?”
“You want to be a farmer, doing just what your father does.” It wasn’t a question, and Kristin felt a jolt of disappointment as she stated the fact, but Johan didn’t seem to notice and smiled.
“Yes, I want to farm, but not as my father does. His father was content with a small farm in Sweden, but my father came to America because of his love of the land. He knew he could develop a good-sized farm and keep it productive.”
Johan looked down the valley as though he were seeing something else. “My grandfather’s farm was small,” he said, “because there was only so much a man could accomplish with simple hand tools. My father, however, can make use of machines, like his steam-driven threshing machine. It’s more help than four farmhands.”
His enthusiasm growing, Johan went on. “Some of the larger cities have electricity, Kristin. Someday it will be brought out to the rural areas. Can you imagine what electricity can do for farmers?”
“Uh—not exactly,” Kristin said.
“Think about the milk separator, for example. It has to be cranked for what seems like hours, but it could be operated by electricity.”
“Do you know how to do it?”
“No, but someone will figure it out and much more. I’ve read about automobiles that run on a fuel called gasoline. The people who design and build farm equipment—can’t you see them developing machines that run on gasoline to help farmers? Maybe an even better threshing machine.”
Kristin couldn’t picture it at all, but Johan’s enthusiasm was intriguing. “Is that what you want to do, Johan? Do you dream of inventing farm machinery?”
Johan chuckled. “No. I’ll leave that up to others. There’s a good feeling about owning land and working to make it thrive. A man’s land can feed his family, it can produce crops of wheat, corn, and potatoes and provide grazing for cattle, sheep, and horses. It’s solid under his feet. It’s a piece of the earth that belongs only to him. My dream is what I see coming in the future—wheat fields that stretch for miles and miles in this vast country, farms in the United States large enough to supply the world with food because machines will be invented to supply the labor.” He stopped and looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to go on like that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with loving the work you do.”
“I wouldn’t call the way I feel about the land loving it.” The mischievous twinkle appeared in Johan’s eyes, and his arm tightened about Kristin’s waist as he said, “Loving is the way I’d feel about a beautiful girl.”
Kristin tried to sidestep, but there wasn’t much room on the promontory. “Any beautiful girl?”
“No. It would be a very special girl.”
Kristin glanced at the drop below their feet. “Sometime you must tell me all about this special girl, but not here and now, when we’re likely to fall off the top of this mountain.”
Johan laughed. He released Kristin, jumped down from their perch, and reached to help her down.
As he took her hand and led her back toward the church, he said, “Tell me about the things you like to do. Do you weave and embroider? I bet you’re already a good cook.”
So he is just like everyone else! Kristin thought. He believes the only job for a girl is to become a housewife! Rebelliously Kristin said, “I like to sing.” The memory of Rose on board ship dancing a fast Irish jig to the tune of her uncle’s fiddle popped into Kristin’s mind. “And I think it would be great fun to learn to dance.”
Johan chuckled. “Dance? That’s a good joke! Imagine what our pastor would have to say if he caught you twirling around the room! He’s pretty rigid about any kind of dance except traditional folk dancing.”
Kristin shrugged and smiled at Johan as she said, “My voice may not be the best, but at least Pastor Holcomb could find nothing morally wrong with my singing.”
“That depends,” Johan said. “If you sang in the Lutheran church, he’d beam with approval; but if you added your voice to the Methodists, you’d find out how indignant he can get.”
Kristin stopped and stared at Johan. “Why in the world would I sing with the Methodists?”
“They have a church not far from here,” he said, “and last month they began what they call a singing school for young people on Wednesday evenings.”
“A singing school? They teach hymns?”
Johan smiled broadly. “I understand they throw in a hymn or two, but they have song sheets with the words of popular songs on them. There’s a new one called ‘In the Good Old Summertime.’ ” He hummed a couple of bars.
“Johan! How do you know all this?”
“One of our neighbors is Methodist, and they have a son who’s a friend of mine. Want me to sing the words for you?”
Matching his own mischief, Kristin said, “Instead why don’t you take me to this singing school?”
Johan stopped and studied Kristin’s face. He doesn’t know if I’m serious or not, she thought, and it was hard to keep from bursting into laughter.
“Go to the Methodists?” he asked. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
Kristin managed to keep a straight face. “It’s not as though we were joining their church. There’s nothing wrong with singing, and even though I’ve never met one, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Methodists.”
Johan rubbed his chin and frowned a little. “But Pastor Holcomb strongly disapproves.”
With a swish of her skirts Kristin turned and began to march back toward the church. “Maybe I’ll just go by myself, Johan. I’ll tell you all about it and how much fun we had—after I get back.”
He hurried to catch up. “Kristin,” he said, “let me think about it for a little while. The singing school is going to be held every Wednesday evening during the summer, so we don’t have to hurry into a decision.”
Kristin couldn’t hold back the laughter any longer. She twirled and caught Johan’s hands, watching the concern on his face dissolve int
o a grin.
“You had me fooled,” he said. “I guess I still don’t understand you.”
“Don’t try,” she answered, and tugged him toward the area where the others were gathered. “Isn’t it time for the Young People’s Society to be meeting?”
The members of the society—about twenty people from the various Lutheran churches in the area—gathered inside the schoolhouse. After Kristin had been introduced to everyone she hadn’t met earlier, there was a short business meeting, presided over by Paul Erickson—the boy from Scandia Jenny had been teased about. He seemed nice, Kristin thought, but in her opinion Johan was much, much nicer. It was voted unanimously that the girls in the society would help make new altar cloths for the small church in Hay Lake, and the boys would repair its leaking roof.
Once the business had been taken care of, three members of the Scandia Club entertained with violin music. After the program, punch and cookies were served, and Kristin heard about the local celebration of Midsommarfest, which would be held on Sunday, June 22, the Sunday closest to the traditional midsummer day of June 24.
“There’ll be a bandstand and music,” Ida told Kristin.
“And a dinner for the public,” Minnie added. “People come from miles around.”
“And dress in their native costumes,” Clara told her.
“There’ll be a maypole,” Josie said.
“Just like at home!” Kristin broke in. The maypole dance was her favorite part of Midsommarfest. “With flower garlands hung on the crossbar?”
“What crossbar?” Clara asked.
Jenny explained to Kristin, “Our pole has a circle on top covered in greenery, and the ribbons are fastened below it.”
“Don’t forget the games and footraces for the children,” Esther added, and she asked Kristin, “Did you have these in Sweden?”
“Yes,” Kristin said. “And don’t you love it when the fiddle music stops and everyone is quiet waiting for the sun to reappear?” She was remembering the magical moment when at midnight the sun barely dipped below the horizon before rising again.
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