American Struggle

by Veda Boyd Jones

  Beside the house, Nellie had made a little flower garden. Mixed among the stones and rocks that formed the border, she had placed the five stones she had brought from Tennessee. They were a reminder of the past, but they were mixed with new stones to show that she was a combination of her past and her present.

  Now Nellie sat on the front porch in a new rocking chair that Old Rivers had made. She held Snow Bird, who reached up his little hand and played with Nellie’s gold cross necklace. Old Rivers had given it to her and said that treasures were people, not things, and that he wanted her to wear the cross.

  He had taught her to pray to stop the bad thoughts of fear and hatred, and they had gone. A song burst from her heart for a new beginning, and she sang a lullaby to her little brother.

  ANOTHER NOTE TO READERS

  The Cherokee who completed the journey over the Trail of Tears were not finished with hard times. Those who had signed the false treaty that forced the 1838 removal of the Cherokee were assassinated. The old Cherokee settlers, who had been many years in Indian Territory, and the new Cherokee immigrants fought to head the government. A time of lawlessness reigned for several years.

  Finally, the Cherokee settled down under one government and organized public schools, courts, and a Cherokee English newspaper.

  The fight with the white government was not over. Later legislation took tribal ownership from the Cherokee and gave acreage to individual Indians. The rest was sold to white men with the fees given to the Cherokee government.

  In 1907, the state of Oklahoma was established from Indian Territory. Although today’s Cherokee are citizens of the United States, they maintain their own Cherokee Nation headquarters in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, and elect their own councils. Many students study their oral language and Sequoyah’s syllabary. The Cherokee Phoenix, a newspaper printed with articles in English and in Cherokee, is still being published today.

  Meg Follows a Dream

  Norma Jean Lutz

  A NOTE TO READERS

  While the Buehler and Hendricks families are fictional, many of the people you will meet in this story actually lived. John P. Foote worked hard to bring art and culture to Cincinnati, and Robert Scott Duncanson was a free black painter whose landscapes were considered among the best produced in America during the middle of the nineteenth century.

  William Lloyd Garrison was a leader in the movement to end slavery. With other people in the antislavery movement, Mr. Garrison worked to create stores that only sold products made by free people.

  This wasn’t easy to do because slaves operated all the cotton gins—machines that separated cotton from seeds, hulls, and other material. A group of people opposed to slavery donated enough money so that they could buy a cotton gin to be run by free blacks and whites. Finally stores could buy fabric that hadn’t been touched by a slave in any stage of its production. While this didn’t put slave-run gins out of business, it became one more way for people to fight slavery.

  CONTENTS

  1. The Boy Named Damon

  2. Fred’s Fight

  3. Attacked by a Rooster

  4. In Trouble with Mrs. Gravitt

  5. Meg’s Punishment

  6. A Good Idea

  7. An Evening with the Hendrickses

  8. The Accident

  9. The Exhibition

  10. Meg’s Secret

  11. The New Mitt

  12. Meeting Damon

  13. Lost in the Blizzard

  14. The Doctor’s Plan

  15. To Yellow Springs

  16. The Surprise Guest

  17. A New Meg

  18. The Prize

  CHAPTER 1

  The Boy Named Damon

  Two long lines of students stood waiting outside the large stone edifice of the Ohio Mechanic’s Institute. Twelve-year-old Margaret Buehler—Meg to all her friends—stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of the taller students in front of her.

  “Why are we waiting?” she asked her best friend and cousin, Susannah Hendricks. “Can you see?”

  Although Susannah was only eleven, she was half a head taller than Meg. But Susannah shook her head. “Can’t see a thing.”

  A taller boy in front, named Ellis, turned around. “Someone said Mr. Gallagher is at the doorway talking to President Foote.” Mr. Gallagher was the new fifth-grade teacher at Liberty School, and Meg felt Susannah was fortunate to have him. He was interested in art—something Meg had never seen in an instructor before. Her sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Gravitt, was a stern-faced widow who wore nothing but black. Meg found that to be depressing.

  “I wish they’d hurry,” Meg said with an air of impatience in her voice. She’d anxiously awaited this day when the fourth- through eighth-grade classes would tour the galleries of landscape art newly hung in the institute.

  She’d heard so much about Mr. John P. Foote, president of the Society for Promotion of Useful Knowledge. At a recent school assembly, Mr. Gallagher had explained how President Foote had aroused community interest in fine arts and mechanical arts. Meg stood on tiptoe again to see if she could catch a glimpse of what was happening.

  Ellis looked down at Meg. “No reason to be in a hurry, Shorty. Just a bunch of boring paintings hanging on the walls. A painting can’t do anything!” He gave a grin. “On our next field trip, we’ll view the exhibits of industrial and scientific inventions. Now that will be something to see.”

  Ellis sounded much like Meg’s younger brother, Fred, who was fascinated with anything mechanical or scientific. Fred teased her mercilessly about her love of drawing. He told her it was a waste of time, but she knew he was only echoing what Mama had said.

  While they waited, Meg admired the towering maples and oaks that surrounded the institute. They were splashed with tones of gold and crimson, and the sunlight streaming through made each leaf glow.

  Meg had been told that the botanical gardens were designed especially as a place for art students to come and paint. Stone benches were strategically positioned along the walks among the shade trees. For a moment Meg tried to imagine what it would be like to be one of those students sitting there sketching. Sitting there, with all the time in the world!

  “Meg! No time for dreaming,” Susannah said. “Let’s go.”

  Meg turned to see the lines suddenly moving forward and hurried to catch up.

  The students were led up the outside stone steps into the high-ceilinged marble entry. Tall cathedral windows allowed the brilliant sunshine to flood in. Meg noticed how the light fell in geometric patterns on the glossy floor, but there was no time to study it now. The large group made their way up the broad staircase that led to the second floor. A short hallway opened into a spacious gallery where landscapes of all sizes and descriptions were hung.

  Meg had wanted to come to the institute and see the galleries ever since it opened the year before, but there never seemed to be time in their household for such frivolous things. This field trip had excited her from the first day it was announced, and now she was here.

  Still she was frustrated. The pushing and shoving of so many students made it difficult to spend time studying any one painting, and her small size prevented her from pressing her way to the front.

  After unsuccessfully trying to view a few paintings, Meg discovered that lagging behind allowed her a clear view. The soft pastoral scenes were probably her favorites. Ones that portrayed sunlight streaming through the trees of a thick forest also fascinated her.

  Then Meg caught sight of an ocean storm scene. The gilt-framed canvas was gigantic, and as Meg gazed up at it, she felt she was right in the midst of the crashing, breaking waves, feeling the spray from the breakers as well as heavy drops from the wild thunderstorm. Blacks, blues, and purples filled the canvas with power and excitement. How Meg longed to know the techniques used in such a fine work of art. But how?

  In her bedroom at home, hidden away in the trunk that held quilts, was a stack of her sketches. But she dared not let anyone see them. Fred delig
hted in making fun of her work, and when Fred teased, seven-year-old Julia tended to join in. Mama wasn’t much help because she believed drawing was a frightful waste of time. The frustration of it all made Meg’s heart ache.

  “Meg,” said a soft voice beside her. “Mr. Gallagher says we’re to move right along and stay with our group.”

  “Susannah, I’m sorry.” Meg glanced about, shocked to see most of the students had moved into the next gallery.

  Susannah looked up at the powerful oceanscape. “You like that one?”

  “More than like. I can’t even express how I feel when I look at beautiful art such as this. If only …” She gave a little sigh. “But then, ‘if onlys’ aren’t much good, are they?”

  Susannah shook her head. “Like a cat chasing her tail. Going nowhere.”

  Meg looked back up at the canvas. “I may never see the ocean, but this artist not only allowed me to see this terrifying storm but to feel it as well. Why, looking at this,” she said, her voice going soft and dreamy, “I can almost hear the pounding thunder.”

  “I agree, Meg,” Susannah said, “but that doesn’t alter the fact that we must catch up with the others.”

  “Of course.” Meg took one last look at the powerful scene.

  As she did, a stern voice sounded from behind them. “Come along, girls. You were told to stay with the group. Please stop dawdling.” Mrs. Gravitt came strutting along behind them like a cranky mama goose gathering up her goslings.

  Meg’s face burned. She was sorry she’d caused Susannah to receive a reprimand. Following Susannah out of one gallery into the next, she wondered what was the use of coming to the gallery if a person were going to rush through it.

  “I believe there will be time for your art one day,” Susannah whispered softly.

  “I’d like to believe that,” Meg whispered back as they joined the group of students, “but I don’t see how. Mama’s favorite saying is Arbeit macht das Leben süss.“

  “And that means?” Susannah asked.

  “Very simple. ‘Work makes life sweet.’ Though Papa doesn’t exactly say so, I know he agrees.” Meg gave a little sigh. “I don’t believe Mama and Papa know anything except work.”

  “For some people, art is their work,” Susannah replied.

  Meg smiled. “Not my mama.”

  Later, as they emerged from yet another gallery, they came to the rotunda area in the center of the institute where the open balconies from the second and third stories looked down on the first floor. In the rotunda, Meg could look through the tall windows and get a better view of the formal gardens laid out toward the back of the main building.

  As she turned about, she spotted a tall, lean young man below her on the next landing. He had dark, curly hair and wide expressive eyes. One hand held the railing, and the other was tucked into the pocket of his informal morning coat. Mellow sunlight played on the glossy dark curls, making them shine.

  Beneath the boy’s high cheekbones, Meg could make out the barest hint of whiskers trying to make a showing. The straight nose gave him the appearance of nobility, yet without a hint of arrogance. How she would love to sketch such a wonderful profile!

  Quickly she tried to study the features so that later she might remember every detail. She was sure he was not with their school group. The way he stood looking out over the gardens made it seem as though he owned the entire museum.

  “Susannah,” Meg said, touching her cousin’s arm. “Who is that boy on the landing?”

  Susannah glanced down and shrugged. “Why just another student, I suppose.” She then turned around and saw Mrs. Gravitt’s dark scowl. “Whoops, time to move on again, Meg. We’re heading for the last gallery.”

  Taking one look back at the dark-haired boy, Meg moved along with the group. How could her mind hold the details of all these paintings and still remember the chiseled face that she so desperately wanted to recreate in her sketchbook? “Meg? Meg, did you hear me?”

  Meg suddenly realized that Susannah was talking to her. “Did you say something?”

  Susannah smiled. “No wonder Fred accuses you of dreaming all the time. I’m afraid I see his point.”

  Meg nodded in agreement. “I know. Isn’t it pathetic? Yet I can’t seem to help it. Fred calls it ‘owling about.’ Though I hate his teasing, he’s partially right.”

  A chuckle escaped from Susannah’s lips. “Your brother has his own ways of ‘owling.’ Only his head is full of noisy machines and smelly chemicals.”

  “Oh, don’t speak badly of him, Susannah. Fred has such a keen mind.” Though Fred was only ten, he’d read many books about the telegraph and steam engines, and he actually knew how a railroad locomotive worked. Meg knew about the bottles of chemicals he kept hidden in his room. In a way, she was very proud of him.

  “You have a good mind, too, I might add,” her cousin said firmly.

  Meg sighed. “I’m not so sure. My mind seems to play funny tricks on me all the time. But let’s drop all that.” She waved a gloved hand as though to brush away the uncomfortable subject. “What were you saying when I was off owling about?”

  “I asked if you were coming by the store after school.”

  Meg thought a moment, trying to remember what Mama had said that morning. Perhaps she’d not been listening. Giving a shrug, she said, “I’ll ask Fred.”

  She and Fred and Julia loved to spend time at Hendricks’ Mercantile, the store owned by Susannah’s parents. But often Mama wanted them to come straight home and help with chores.

  “Oh, look,” Meg breathed as she stopped at yet another landscape. This one depicted a French countryside where hay was being cut in the summer sunshine. Men in peasant garb stood near the ox-drawn carts loaded with golden hay. What techniques did the artist use to make the painting burst with the colors of summer? She might never know.

  Susannah leaned near her ear. “You could do that.”

  “Don’t tease with me.” Meg turned from the picture. Once again, the group had left them behind. She didn’t want to get Susannah in more trouble.

  “Why do you say I am teasing? I have seen enough of your sketches to know you possess a keen eye and a steady, talented hand.”

  “But I’ve no inkling about the oils or the watercolors. How the colors are mixed and shaded. How light and shadow are created so perfectly.” Now she was walking ahead of Susannah, lifting her skirts as she went.

  “But we prayed, remember?”

  Meg remembered. The two of them had prayed that Mama and Papa would one day allow her to take art lessons. Truth be known, Meg had no faith that such a thing could ever happen. The one time she’d asked her parents, Mama had quickly but firmly said, “Nein. Drawing der pictures is but a waste of God’s good time which He gave to us.” Papa agreed with her.

  “I believe God will answer our prayers,” Susannah continued. “Why, even my mama believes you are a gifted artist. She’s praying with us.”

  “There are so many other important things for God—” Meg stopped in midsentence. There was the dark-haired young man. He was standing with Dr. Foote, seemingly in deep conversation. The two were standing in the hallway, gazing out the windows right where she and Susannah were headed. Meg’s breath caught in her throat. How could she look at him and yet not look at him, all at the same time?

  Susannah continued to talk about how God cares about the sparrows that fall and how He numbers the hairs on our head, so He surely must care about the little things in our lives. As her voice droned on, Meg’s heart was thudding in her ears.

  The young man’s back was to them, and again she was able to see his profile and study his features, trying to burn them into her memory. Slowly, in ladylike fashion, they strolled past, and as they did, Meg heard Dr. Foote address the young man as “Damon.”

  Damon. Meg rolled the name around on her tongue a few times. Damon. She’d never met anyone by that name. It was the perfect name for a beautiful young man.

  “Meg, this way.”

/>   When Meg looked up, Susannah was turning down a hallway to her left. “Oh, of course. How silly of me.” She tripped along to catch up.

  “You probably didn’t hear half of what I was saying, did you?” “Maybe half,” Meg said, giving her cousin a sheepish grin. But her thoughts were still back in the rotunda with a boy named Damon.

  CHAPTER 2

  Fred’s Fight

  As the class walked back to the schoolhouse from the institute, Meg could hear several of the boys behind them taunting two young German girls. Meg recognized the girls as neighbors of her Oma Schiller. The two sisters, Hulga and Ida, like many of the German immigrants, spoke with heavy accents.

  “Donkey, donkey, donkey-shane. For bitter, bitter, bitter shame.” Over and over the boys chanted the singsong words.

  Meg knew they were making fun of the German words danke schön, which meant “thank you very much,” and bitte schön, which meant “yes, please.”

  Meg’s oma, or grandmother, used the words often. Meg’s heart ached for the girls. How thankful she was that although Mama’s accent was slight, Fred, their younger sister, Julia, and Meg herself had no trace of a German accent.

  “I wish someone would shush them,” Susannah said softly. Finally, Mr. Gallagher came along and did just that. But Meg knew his shushing made no difference. The cruel words and jeering would simply come at another time—when no teachers were around. It was difficult to understand why one should be teased for being different. After all, didn’t God purposely make each person different?

  The field trip had taken up most of the afternoon, and school dismissed only a short time after they’d returned. Out in the schoolyard, Meg and Susannah met up with Fred and Julia. Julia ran up to Meg with a happy grin on her face. “We had a spelling contest, and I won,” she announced.

  “I’m proud of you,” Meg said. She could picture her little sister boldly standing in front of the other second graders. Meg couldn’t help but envy Julia’s bubbly personality. Turning to her brother, she asked, “Fred, were we allowed to stop by the mercantile this afternoon?”