Little Red Schoolhouses
are ripe in the Land of Mears
-Gray dawn finds me emerging eastward from New Era , from the cluster of very white houses that form the glorified vil- lage of the Dutch . The mixing of linseed oil and the spreading of white lead are essential elements in the religion in the thrifty lives of these ambitious folks from the Netherlands . In the mist I could see the iron horse standing on the railroad tracks and harnessed to the canning fac- tory to give it steam . This locomotive is on the payroll . The iron horse helps to can the string beans as much as the girls on the snipping belt . That might be celery growing in that lowland on the left . I make out a white horse feeding in a pasture by the swamp of pointed cedars . More white houses and white barns and a flock of turkeys I leave behind as I walk on up the hills on a winding sand road that seems to have no houses for two miles . Of course long before this I was up and astir in Mears for the alarm clock was set for four o'clock in the morning . I have walked a few miles under the stars and caught some rides to reach New Era before six o'clock . And now on a high spot on the road I stand to look at a lovely little lake on the left while the great red sun is rising , and by its light I sit down five minutes to read in a precious trade journal I have carried in my pocket . In the perusal of its adver tising , in the study of its type faces and arrangements and attention appeals I may forget time and spoce and the breathless beauty of the sunrise lighting the lake . There is coveted concentration to drink every- thing from a printed page . Five minutes here and I leave Inman Lake and go walking on . I unlock the door of the little red schoolhouse on the hill , so quiet now at half past seven . I build a wood fire in the round oak stove . The north windows look out on a second growth for est , the south to the willow trees in the vale and the green grain on a hill that seems to run up to the sky . I never saw before a school ground with pink grapes on the fence for the children to eat . There is no thunder in the bell in the little tower . It tinkles pleasantly to call the pupils back to songs and crayons and books and pictures and games and adventures with numbers and journeys to the world of the Tigris and Euphrates . How beautiful is the setting of the little red schoolhouse in the wilderness with the friendship of forest and marshes , and little lakes in a land of pioneering newness . How beautiful also that families who love the poise of woodland freedom can send their children to the
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