His Moment in Time: A Historical Memoir

By Joan Mathy Norgord

His Moment in Time chronicles the life of a gentleman traveling lifes road in sunshine, through storms, and the events of history. Though struggling with personal losses and the ups and downs of business, he carries on with dignity. By the time he retires at age seventy-seven, he has lost his wife, daughters, and his general store.

Gracefully onward, he starts a new life in an old house atop a high hill. There he reads his books of poetry, studies the habits of the birds, and finds great pleasure in watching his great-grandchildren grow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469178141

Joan Mathy Norgord

Joan Mathy Norgord was born and raised in the small town of Prentice, Wisconsin. She and her siblings grew up in the home of their great-grandfather, an elderly gentleman that they would come to love. Long after his death, she was inspired to write about him, but education, marriage and raising two children took priority. After attending Edgewood College in the early 1980s, she began to study ancestry. Curiosity about faces in old photographs, led to an examination of family history, especially in regard to her paternal great-grandfather. It would take more than 10 years to complete her mission.

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Copyright © 2012 by Joan Mathy Norgord.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2012903984

ISBN: Hardcover     978-1-4691-7813-4

Softcover     978-1-4691-7812-7

eBook     978-1-4691-7814-1

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Rev.date: 03/21/2014

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Contents

Introduction

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3

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Afterward

Sources Studied To Obtain Historical Knowledge

Acknowledgments

In Steinbeck, The Viking Press, 1946, New York 17, New York, Author, Lewis Gannett, writes the introduction: John Steinbeck’s Way Of Writing. In this introduction, Gannett quotes Steinbeck as having said, Biography by its very nature must be half-fiction.

His Moment in Time is inspired by the life of its central character, Samuel Winslow Pierson. Fiction has been sparingly used to enhance and tell the story as it moves along via handed down stories, memories, interviews, newspaper articles, letters, telegrams, postcards and historical events. In rare areas where a conclusion wasn’t known, a well reasoned one has been used. Discourse between characters has been created from stories as told to me and, in some incidences, have been buffed. A couple of events are out of chronological order as there was lack of evidence to support the actual time frame. Some parts of the story have been romanticized, and descriptions of a couple of unrelated characters were made up for lack of knowing their actual appearance. Weather reports as described may not be accurate.

DEDICATION

For my beloved children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren…

INTRODUCTION

Samuel Winslow Pierson gracefully slept away on the cold, dreary day of November 5, 1952, not long after the maples, the elms and the oaks had bared their lengthy branches. Like autumn’s last crinkled leaf departing from the limb of an old tree, his quiet soul left his well used being. Fifteen days into the future would have been his ninety-first birthday.

Everyone that knew him admired his kind, gentle ways, his honesty, intellect and patience. Without complaint of stress, strain or misfortune, he ran a general store during the many years that he resided in the small town of Prentice, a picturesque place of lengthy hills, tall trees, and a copper-colored river winding through its very middle.

His grandson, Johnny Mathy, and Johnny’s wife, June, had lived with him since their marriage in early 1937; first in his home south of the river, the home that he built for his beloved wife, Carrie, and the three daughters they would have—Zetta, Sarah, and Stephanie.

Two years later, he, with Johnny and June, and their little daughter, Sarah Jane (Janey), moved into a spacious old house that Mr. Pierson owned atop of what was commonly called Baptist Hill. The desired move from the south side of the river to the hilltop on the north side was to depart from the haunting memories that seemed to linger there. The house on the hill, though badly run-down, had no ghosts. He would reside there with Johnny, June, and their family, for the rest of his days.

By the end of the old gentleman’s life, Johnny and June had four children: Janey, Joan, John III (nicknamed Brother), and Jean Marie (the baby of the family, who was almost a year and a half).

These children were his great-grandchildren, and the strong bond that evolved between him and them was one of mutual admiration and respect. The older three would forever recall the pleasant hours spent in his sun-filled room, playing checkers, reading stories by famous writers and memorizing poetry.

There were also times of quiet conversation and times when the children sang to him, listened to stories over the radio with him or sketched pictures for him.

Throughout the course of his life, he neither became famous nor wealthy, but he didn’t seem to mind. Though he spent the greater portion of his life toiling in an effort to become financially independent, his sincere goal was to better himself as a human being. That meant that he set a standard for the way he lived. In doing so, an indelible mark was made on the hearts of those that loved him. Upon his graceful passing on that dark, gloomy day in the November of 1952, he left a legacy, a soft image of what humankind is like at its very best.

1

Sam, as his friends respectfully called him, or Gramps, as his family fondly referred to him, was born Sven Person in Kristianstad, Scondia, Sweden on November 20, 1861.

His parents, Bengt Person and Sissa Olasdotter Person, were farmers at 2 Wanneberga and belonged to the parish of Winslof (now called Vinslov). The dwelling that they lived in was a small cottage-style house with a patched roof. The square-shaped barn that stood next to it sagged like the old mare that leaned against it.

The farm was pleasantly located in a large clearing, surrounded by pristine pines, somewhere between Hassleholm and Kristianstad but closer to Kristianstad. There the Persons struggled to eke out a living by toiling away long days, producing crops of hay, oats, barley and potatoes.

Bengt had met Sissa in the spring of 1847, when on one warm day she meandered onto the large Swedish farm where he was already employed. She was nineteen, tall, lean and pretty, with long blonde hair.

The farmer’s wife promptly obtained her as one of their five farm maids, believing that her physical appearance made it obvious that she was used to hard work—large hands and broad shoulders were proof enough that she was strong and healthy.

Bengt stood in the doorway of the barn, a long weed protruding from the corner of his mouth, watching her slowly stride up the grassy drive to the farm maid’s shack. He was fourteen that spring and had been functioning as a young farmhand, often being responsible for performing the most arduous of tasks.

Though his character was pure as the driven snow, he was a homely lad; bushy eyebrows sat atop deep-set eyes, and his nose resembled the beak of an eagle.

It was plain to see that he was shy and had little confidence, for in years gone by he had been the victim of poverty and abuse. Often holding his head down, he minded his own business and stayed aloof from people. Yet the flaws lacking in his outward appearance were redeemed by a gracious smile that revealed straight clean teeth, and his voice was soft and pleasant to the ear.

By the time Sissa arrived seeking employment there, Bengt had been a hand for over a year but disliked the place immensely because of the sense of fear he had derived from the cruel treatment of older and stronger farm workers. Shortly after he came to know Sissa, he confided in her that his poor behind had been kicked so many times that it pained him to sit down. That’s why he stood all the time.

The young woman was only there for a short while before she realized that she was attracted to Bengt, and he to her. Realizing this, they quite naturally began to invest maximum time in a friendship. Similar to schoolchildren, they began poking, teasing and chasing each other through the hayfields.

It was all quite innocent until one evening after a hard day’s work in haymaking time, when they bathed in the skinny creek that ran through the farm owner’s great tract of land. There in the tall, dry reeds that lined either side of the winding stream, their naked bodies touched and their mouths met in an unrestrained moment of passion; a kiss that neither would ever forget.

Bengt, seemingly older than his years, a fault of the negative experiences in his young life, begged Sissa to make love to him. At first, she opted to bow to temptation but pushed him away, clothed herself and ran, guilt bearing heavily on her shoulders for encouraging him. Weeks later, she confessed to the pastor at the parish of Winslov.

For years afterwards, their friendship was subjugated to arm’s length, until Bengt was eighteen and could no longer bear to be without love. Courageously, he expressed his feelings to her; he was happy about the time he held her close, and she had kissed him with such intensity that it had cast a spell on him. Vividly, he revived his mind’s image of their holding each other, the night he felt like a man for the first time, and he longed to hold her again.

Sissa was too fond of him to stay him off, for her own desire was as strong as his. Henceforth, they fell in love, ultimately becoming one another’s outlet for the miserable life they led as hired farmhands. More than that, they became each other’s world, the very reason to be living.

Perhaps it was inevitable that the marriage ceremony took place at the little parish in Winslof, for the banns were published in May of 1855. Two months later, Bengt and Sissa became man and wife. She was twenty-six and he was twenty-one.

Soon after the wedding, they moved to the small farm at 2 Wanneberga, under the moving certificate number 35, but remained as part of the community of the parish of Winslof.

Though it was located in the southern third of Sweden where winters are mild and summers cool, there was little rainfall. Hence, the Person’s farm produced crops deficient in quantity and quality as well. To survive, Bengt hired out to other farmers in the daytime and worked his farm in the evenings and on weekends.

Fifteen months after they married, a son, Per, was born. Three years later, a girl, Bengta, came into the world. Then on November 20, 1861, Sven was introduced.

2

While Bengt and Sissa struggled to survive in Sweden, war was brewing in the United States. The root of opposition between the northern and southern states was the ownership of slaves.

After Abraham Lincoln became president, and all efforts of compromise had faded, seven southern states seceded and became the Confederate States of America. With that in mind, Lincoln’s aim was to preserve the Union.

In the spring of 1861, four more southern states seceded, and the Confederate president, Jefferson Davis, and his Congress ordered their army and navy to take Fort Sumter on the coast of South Carolina. A long and bitter war began on April 12.

In late 1863, President Lincoln traveled to Pennsylvania to dedicate Gettysburg’s battlefield as a national cemetery. With a heavy heart, he spoke the eloquent words of his own handwritten Gettysburg Address:

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this

continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the

proposition that all men are created equal… .

As the war, known as the Civil War, in the States continued into 1864, Prussia attacked Denmark, causing growing uneasiness in Sweden. A great spiritual movement was sweeping across the country as well, converting a significant number of Lutherans to the new First Baptist Church that they were forced to support while still supporting the Lutheran Church, which was the States’ church. Furthermore, areas of the country had been hard-hit by famine, a main cause of widespread emigration; thousands of people headed to America.

Bengt and Sissa had their fourth child in January of that year, a son, Nils. More than ever, they wanted to leave their homeland but feared traveling with a new baby, and they were well aware that the war in the States was intensely burning.

The Persons knew a family that had moved to America at an earlier time and had settled in New Sweden, Maine. It was through correspondence with this family that they were able to follow the events of the Civil War. Month after month, news-filled letters went to and fro, until the war’s end. Bengt and Sissa were elated when word came that the great Southern General, Robert E. Lee, surrendered to the great Northern General, Ulysses S. Grant, on April 9, 1865.

In America, there was enormous hope that the war-exhausted country would pull together and begin to heal. But five days after the war ended, President Lincoln was assassinated. The Persons decided to stay in their homeland.

The long winter of 1867 brought more responsibility to the Person family. Their fifth child, Anna, was born in December, and they took in a foster child, a little boy whom they called Jons. He was a good-looking little boy, blond hair and blue eyes, the same age as Per. His mother gave him up after their home burned down, during which time his father died.

Bengt had become a worn-out man by then; his thin body bent forward, his temples had turned gray and furrows were carved into his leathery brow. But his face extended a fabulous expression of warm humaneness and deep compassion.

He was a quiet man by nature, a believer in dreams; his greatest dream being to take his family to America, where Lincoln claimed, All men are created equal.

Sissa appeared tired and haggard; her neck and shoulders leant forward much as did Bengt’s, and she was as thin as a branch on a willow tree. Though her expression was taut, her features were those of a sweet child’s. But her silvered hair, pulled into a bun, revealed a mature face and experienced eyes.

She was an intelligent woman, but plain, always appearing in cotton dresses of gray or blue; her aspirations were less than Bengt’s, for she desired only enough security to provide for her family. But she told him that wherever he should go, she would be there by his side.

By 1870, the Person family was all but destroyed financially and physically. They had long tried to recover from the famines caused by droughts. In doing so, they became indebted to lenders who threatened them when the money wasn’t repaid at a set time.

Sissa, caring for six children, had become sickly and was unable to take eggs and milk to the marketplace as she usually did. In order to stave off starvation that winter, Bengt went to work in an iron mine. However, by spring, he developed a chronic cough and was forced to leave the mine. The Lutheran Church that they belonged to was unable to help them, and they were ostracized for threatening to join the new Baptist Church. Like many others, they struggled to survive.

As time went on, Bengt’s health continued to deteriorate and he sought a new source of employment. But there were no jobs available that could pay enough to support a family of eight. That realization was the turning point for Bengt.

As the new year approached they began selling their belongings. The copper boiler they had received as a wedding present fetched a fair price as did a set of fine china and tableware. Pots, pans, and furniture would be left behind.

In April, the Persons left their home illegally. Quiet as darkness descending on evening, they crept away without obtaining an exit permit. Their names were soon transferred to a government list of absent people.

Weeks later, Bengt’s sister, Karna, had the event transcribed in the record book of the Lutheran Parish of Winslof, regarding the emigration of the Bengt Person family: They have left their homeland and are destined for New Sweden, Maine.

It was later learned that they embarked from the port of Goteborg on April 28, 1871, under the contract number 5:160:3631. Then they boarded the canal vessel Rollo and sailed to Hull, England, from whence they traveled by train to the port of Liverpool. There they spent ten days in a grubby boarding house waiting for a huge Atlantic liner that was destined for America.

After their arrival in the United States, a so-called process of Americanization took place. Their surname, Person, was changed to the more common name Pierson, which is French. Bengt became Ben and Sissa became Zetta for a while, but she later changed her name back to Sissa. And Per became Henry, Sven became Samuel (Sam), Bengta became Belle (nicknamed Bennie), and Nils became Nelson. Four-year-old Anna remained Anna. Their foster son, Jons, went to live with distant relatives in New York. His name was changed to Stanley.

The family lived for little more than two years in New Sweden, Maine, then bought a large parcel of land in Presque Isle, moved there, cleared away the trees, plowed its loamy soil and planted potatoes. It became their sole livelihood and to the credit of their diligent efforts, potato farming was lucrative.

Sven was almost ten when they arrived in America. Little is known of his childhood, but in the summer of 1884 an enterprising young man of twenty-three made his appearance in the new logging town of Ogema, Wisconsin. He introduced himself as Sam Pierson.

3

Ogema, located in the north central part of the state, is the home of tremendous forests filled with lofty, green pines and towering, leafy trees. It was the first place settled in Price County, promoted by the coming of the railroad in 1873, and by an Irishman who brought in a crew of men about a year later. They latched onto a site near the Little Jump River, cleared it and built a lumberyard, a sawmill, a general store and a few log homes.

Two years later, the Irishman, going by the name of B. M. Holmes, built a boarding house and erected a row of one-room houses for the sawmill workers.

Time passed and a number of establishments were built, followed by a couple of Protestant Churches, a post office and a large hotel. More settlers came and the budding town began to grow.

With the new settlement expanding rapidly, two schools were built. But the immigrant children that attended them didn’t speak English, and frustrated teachers often left their positions without giving notice.

Into this atmosphere, Sam Pierson stepped off the Wisconsin Central Train on a sunny day in late June of 1884; a princely man, tall and thin; thick, dark hair sheared away from his ears and a well-groomed mustache indicated that he was properly kempt.

Though his nose was prominent, his face long and narrow, his blue eyes too pale, he was in a classic way quite handsome. It had to do with the air about him; straightness of back, head held high and an unfeigned expression.

Clad in a dark suit with a white shirt buttoned high at the neck, he appeared professional; no doubt a gentleman, soft-spoken, articulating words as carefully as a grammar teacher, perhaps to hide a hint of Swedish accent.

To greet him at the depot was Mr. Andrew P. Morner, formerly a schoolmaster in Foglum, Sweden; a man of thirty-four, broad-shouldered, dark and handsome, a resident of Ogema for the last five years.

When he first arrived in Ogema, he fell in love with the entire area. By the time Sam got there, he had begun his second two-year term as superintendent of schools for Price County.

As Sam stepped off the train that sunny day, Morner smiled and came forward to shake hands. An expression of recognition crossed both men’s faces, and Sam eagerly grasped his hand. I’m Sam Pierson.

Morner smiled. Indeed you are, and I’m Andrew Morner. Remember me?

Yes, sir. I believe I do, Mr. Morner. It’s been a long time.

A day or two after Sam was settled into the Holmes’ boarding house, Morner called for him to take the hike through the woods to a school which was approximately three miles southeast of town. If it met with Sam’s approval, he’d be offered a teaching job.

There were no roads at the time, just rough paths that had been created by foot travelers or by pioneers that had cut the brush down.

Sam was right at home in the woodsy atmosphere, pointing out the beauty of long lines of hazy sunlight streaming through colossal pine branches. It’s a lovely place to behold, he said. And the sound of the wind sweeping through the trees and the pleasant serenade of the birds are most gratifying.

When they reached the school, he realized it was a delightful jaunt, even though the terrain was uneven and rugged.

Breathing heavily as he leaned against the trunk of a towering pine, he removed his white shirt. Long underwear, wet with perspiration, clung tightly to his body and divulged an extremely thin man. Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he said, I’m glad to be here, to see this natural setting and the school.

Morner smiled. I’m happy to hear that. Let’s look it over.

The one-room schoolhouse was solidly built from the tall timber that encompassed it. Placed there alone, secluded from the world as it was, it reminded Sam of the New England school that he attended as a boy.

He mentally noted that it appeared to be a heavy building, well weathered and turning black in some places. A circular vent had been sunk into the logs high above the door, adding a touch of décor to the otherwise drab facade.

The interior of the little school was clean and the board floor was well used. Sam commented that he thought it still smelled like the pine trees outside and he liked the way the room was laid out.

In the front was the teacher’s large rectangular desk, which faced five rows of classroom desks that grew in size as they neared the entrance. On the wall, directly behind the teacher’s desk, was a wide blackboard framed with wood. In the right corner was an American flag that hung from the top of a brass pole, anchored into a large base. Close to the entrance was a black potbelly stove and a strongly built woodbin was placed near it.

Morner spoke first, Well, Sam, what do you think of it?

Sam thought for a few seconds. It’s a fine little school, Mr. Morner, but a bit remote, isn’t it?

Morner explained that it was, but the school had been built three miles from town so to serve country children.

Sam nodded and asked, What are the expectations of a schoolteacher way out here?

Morner pondered a moment, smiled and began a prepared lecture. A schoolmaster here will be responsible for approximately twenty to thirty boys and girls, ranging from the ages of five to eighteen. The subjects to be taught are reading, printing and writing in cursive, spelling, and arithmetic for the young students, and accelerated math for the older ones. And, too, they must be taught grammar and history. They should also memorize poetry and read good literature. The schoolmaster may use any sources that may be available for instruction. Besides that, he must keep the school clean, the woodstove burning, the water jar filled, and a supply of papers in the privy. He will also be responsible for correcting papers and making out periodical reports to the parents on how well their children are doing. That’s about all there is to it, Sam, except on occasion, some of the big farm boys get a bit unruly and they’ll need discipline.

Sam wrinkled his brow in contemplation. Well, sir, I do not believe in physical discipline.

Morner nodded. Perhaps you can handle unruliness in another manner. It will be up to you.

And just how much will you pay someone in such a position?

Providing that he goes before the state board of examiners, which I highly encourage, he will earn at least twenty dollars a month, plus the community will be responsible for his room and board.

And just where does one go for this examination? Sam asked.

The County Seat is in Phillips, about twenty miles north of Ogema. There are examiners there every Monday, but you may have to wait your turn if others are ahead of you.

On Monday of the following week, Sam boarded the Wisconsin Central train, the 101. Destination: Phillips.

On the way north, the train stopped in Prentice, another new logging town that appeared to be erecting establishments all along a roughly carved main road, running parallel with the railroad tracks. A footbridge had been built over the rushing waters of the Jump River.

Sam liked what he saw and thought it an opportune place for someone who might want to start out there. But just as the train passed through the town, so did the town pass from his mind, for he knew that he must concentrate on taking the Wisconsin Teachers’ Exam, facing the state board of examiners.

Ten days after the review, his Wisconsin Teacher’s Certificate arrived in Ogema by train and a messenger brought it directly to him. Andrew P. Morner had signed it.

4

Sam dressed to go to Morner’s for dinner on the Friday evening after receiving his teaching certificate. He wore the same dark suit that he had arrived in but was running late as Mrs. Holmes had taken a great deal of time to wash and press his white shirt.

She was that kind of woman, sweet and caring. And though she was short and on the heavy side, she had a pleasant face and was jolly. She winked at him as he was leaving. Shur’n ya luke smart, Mr. Pierson, and ya’ll be stealin’ the hearts of all the ladies in this tone.

He winked back at her. Mrs. Holmes, I’m quite sure that I’ll not meet a lady with a heart better than your very own.

He was the last to arrive at the party, but Morner happily greeted him at the door. Come on in. We’re all here, seated, ready to eat.

Sam apologized for being late. Morner simply smiled and led him into a brightly lit dining room where eight well-dressed people were sitting at a long table covered with a white linen cloth.

Emma Morner sat at the far end of the table, which was perfectly set with Blue Willow china and ornate silverware. A glass jar, holding a large bouquet of wild flowers, was pleasantly placed on the table’s center and was flanked on either side by lighted candles in sterling holders. A new prism lamp hung overhead and cast shades of colored light on the otherwise pale faces of the guests.

Upon entering the room, Morner abruptly announced, This is Mr. Sam Pierson, Ogema’s newest schoolmaster, an immigrant from Sweden.

Sam’s faded eyes swept the guests up one side of the table and down the other. There was an empty chair to Mrs. Morner’s right and he thought it must be for him.

To Mrs. Morner’s left was a pretty, young woman with long, black hair, laughing green eyes and flawless skin. She smiled sweetly when Sam looked her way, and it warmed him.

As Mr. Morner began to introduce him to the guests, Sam’s eyes kept wandering back to her. He barely heard Morner say, Sam, I’d like you to meet my wife, Emma.

How do you do, Mr. Pierson? I’ve heard all about the thin, young man who visited Andrew’s classroom in Foglum, Sweden.

Sam replied, Ahh, yes, yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I hope what you’ve heard hasn’t been all bad.

My dear sir, quite to the contrary. Andrew has said that Ogema could use more good people like you. He was impressed with you when you were just a boy.

Sam smiled. I’m certainly beholding to him, ma’am.

Morner continued to introduce Sam to his guests. Among them were Charles and Anna Ohrstrom, Mr. and Mrs. Ole Pearson, Mr. and Mrs. Norlin, and Ogema’s lovely, new schoolmarm, Miss Caroline O’Rourke.

The gentlemen all stood up and shook his hand with each introduction, and the whole group graciously welcomed him. Sam nodded as he shook their hands and repeated each time, I’m happy to make your acquaintance.

With the handshaking done, Morner helped Sam to be seated in the empty chair next to Mrs. Morner, and he sat down at the far end of the table. A scrumptious pheasant dinner was then served on the shining blue dishes.

During the course of the evening, Sam learned that Charles and Anna Ohrstrom were trying to establish a settlement west of town, and Mr. Norlin owned his own general store, which Morner was in the process of buying.

Very interesting was Ole Pearson, a master builder from Sweden. He had helped to build several homes in town, Norlin’s general store, and a one-room schoolhouse in the area.

Most captivating was Miss O’Rourke. Sam learned little about her personal life except that she was an authentic Colleen, a full-blooded Irish lass, born in America. But what interested him more than her beauty was the fact that she was well read in every subject:—history, music, art, philosophy, literature and poetry. If he named it, she knew about it.

Regarding history, she named the six wives of Henry the VIII, told about the accomplishments of Peter the Great, and pointed out the reasons for the French Revolution. And, she named famous composers—Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Strauss and Verdi—and told of their music, their lives, and misfortunes.

In the realm of art, she spoke of Michelangelo’s colossal statue of David in Florence and his tremendous fresco depicting creation on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. But she favored Leonardo da Vinci, the universal man of the Renaissance. About him, she said, He was a man extremely aware of the structure of nature and science. His sketches are testimony of this, and his designs of…

Sam interrupted with a sigh, That’s very impressive.

She continued, "And his painting of the Mona Lisa and mural of the Last Supper are proof of his great talent."

From art she jumped to England’s Sir Thomas More and analyzed his great book of 1516, Utopia, describing an ideal state. And she said that the English were lucky to have had John Locke deny the existence of innate ideas, saying, I, like him, believe that knowledge is the result of experience.

It was obvious that she was no taciturn woman; she was rather talkative and bold, and could spin out words as gracefully as a caterpillar spinning a cocoon. And it wasn’t so much that she lectured, it was more that she was enthused about passing on knowledge. Sam became well aware of how she captivated her audience and they seemed to cheer her on.

Her favorite subject was literature, and she praised various poets and writers and seriously stated that Scotland’s Sir Walter Scott had greatly influenced the romantic novel. Her eyes twinkled like stars as she spoke of him. Did you know that the first of his Waverly series was published anonymously?

Sam cleared his throat. "I didn’t realize that, Miss O’Rourke, but I certainly enjoyed Rob Roy and Ivanhoe."

Miss O’Rourke went on. I believe he died trying to get out of debt. Poor fellow. There will be no more romantic novels as great as his.

Sam grappled for words and tried to sound intelligent. But then, Gustave Flaubert was monumental in the development of the romantic novel as well.

She promptly retaliated. "In my opinion, Flaubert’s work should be classified as realism. Take for example the controversial novel of Madame Bovary, who after hideous deception died a dreadful death at the end of the story. That isn’t very romantic, is it, Mr. Pierson?"

Perhaps not, but romance was certainly involved. He didn’t hesitate. And what of Victor Hugo? Has he not contributed greatly to romantic literature?

"Perhaps, but I believe Hugo to be a great humanitarian, one that promotes social reform. The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and Les Miserables reveal this quite clearly."

Sam was overwhelmed with her knowledge of literature and, like everyone else at the table, realized that she reigned supreme in that particular subject. But Sir Walter Scott empathized with the poor and unfortunate as well.

I agree, she replied.

Wouldn’t you say that Dostoevsky’s novels reflect that too?

She shook her head negatively. "I think not, Mr. Pierson. His themes seem to suggest that redemption prevails over evil. Have you read Crime and Punishment or The Idiot?"

Taken aback by her quick answers, Sam believed her to be a show-off and thought he could trip her up if he tried, but not that night. He would have to brush up first, for he was beginning to think that he was the loser of a sparring match, and he could feel the twinges of embarrassment.

Looking at Mrs. Morner, who didn’t seem to be having a very good time, he thought how graceful she was, her back straight against the chair, quietly listening to the conversation. Inclined to compliment her on a grand dinner at the price of interrupting Miss O’Rourke’s literature lesson, he said, Excuse me. I wish to tell our hostess that the dinner she prepared was delicious, and the table setting beautiful.

The other guests readily agreed in tune, and she graciously thanked them for acknowledging her efforts and told them that she had arranged the centerpiece with wild flowers from the woods.

Sam smiled. I’m very impressed, Mrs. Morner. Everything is absolutely lovely!

No sooner had he said this than Miss O’Rourke stood up and thanked the Morners for a wonderful evening. But, she said, I truly must run!

The guests appeared surprised, and Sam thought it was almost as if she couldn’t bear to see someone else in the limelight, even for a moment.

As she stood there with flushed cheeks, her thin lips forming a pout, Sam realized that she was a petite woman with a decently proportioned figure, a figure that he considered to be almost perfect. She was charmingly thin and had a medium-sized bosom and a small waist. And as she turned away from the table, he saw that she had an appropriate behind, quite in proportion with the rest of her body, especially since it wasn’t too wide. He guessed her to weigh about a hundred and five pounds, and he wondered how her lovely little head could hold so much knowledge.

The gentlemen at the table stood up when she rose to her feet. After she gracefully dispensed words of praise and gratitude again to the host and hostess and words of farewell to the other guests, Mr. Morner suggested that Sam see her home. She doesn’t live very far from you, Sam. She’s just up the hill from where you’re boarding.

Why, of course, Sam replied. It would be my pleasure to see you home safely, Miss O’Rourke.

Thank you, Mr. Pierson. Truly I appreciate it, especially so since Mr. Morner recommends it!

The kerosene lamps were warmly burning, and the moon, almost full, cast a glow of golden light upon them. Sam wondered what words Sir Walter Scott would have used to describe such a scene.

As they slowly strolled along the boardwalk and turned west, Miss O’Rourke slipped her soft, white hand around Sam’s arm as if it were the natural thing to do. His heart pounded with excitement, and he suddenly felt warm and protective, like a man about to fall in love, but he didn’t realize it.

All too soon they came to a path in the woods that led up a long hill to the new two-story home of the Molines, a middle-aged couple that originally emigrated from England to Boston; good people, quiet, shy, aloof from society, but they had never said why they had come to Ogema.

Miss O’Rourke said, They work very hard keeping their home and property perfect, and they don’t bother anyone, though they are involved in certain causes.

Sam hoped the walk would take a little longer as the night air was fresh and cool, and he enjoyed Miss O’Rourke’s company. But like two surefooted mountain goats, they quickly reached the top of the hill where tall trees shielded most of the moon’s glorious light. Puffing, Sam asked, Miss O’Rourke, do you use a lantern when you walk alone?

I rarely walk anywhere this late at night, Mr. Pierson. We schoolmarms must be in before dark. It’s a rule. Tonight is an exception, because I got permission from the superintendent himself!

Yes, I see, he replied.

As they stood there, the moon peeking through the trees, shadows dancing on their faces, Miss O’Rourke extended an open hand and said:

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!

Here will we sit, and let the sound of music

Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night

Becomes the touches of sweet harmony.

Sam smiled. That’s a lovely poem.

Do you know who wrote it? she asked.

Sam quickly replied, I know it’s Shakespeare, but I don’t remember from what play it comes.

"It’s Moonlight, from the Merchant of Venice, the fifth act."

Oh, yes, now I remember. His eyes gleamed and he asked, How about Longfellow? And he began to recite, The Day is Done.

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight. (lines 1-4)

Miss O’Rourke’s eyes twinkled. Mr. Pierson, you pleasantly surprise me. I would not have guessed that you are a man well versed in poetry. It is truly amazing for so few of your gender are. Smiling, she stood quiet for a few seconds, then blurted:

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist

And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me

That my soul cannot resist. (lines 5-8)

Sam laughed. Ah, yes. You know that poem, too. I cannot stump you, Miss O’Rourke, and I will try no more this night.

As he humbly looked down at her, she softly bid him good night.

May I see you again? he asked.

You may, she replied sweetly. I am not busy on Sunday. With that she quickly turned and skipped up the private stairway to her attic apartment.

Sam stood below as if glued to the ground. Stunned by her person, he waited for a lamp to light her window.

5

Sunday brought a lovely day with a few fluffy clouds moseying across a bright blue sky. Sam ate breakfast at the boarding house that morning because he loved the huge pancakes that Mrs. Holmes made, always served with freshly churned butter, maple syrup, thick bacon slices and a glass of fresh milk.

When he finished eating, he thanked her for a fine meal and went outside to enjoy the warmth of the sun. A pleasant breeze ruffled his hair as he pulled on the silver watch fob that hung from his vest pocket. It was only 9:00 a.m., far too early to call for Miss O’Rourke.

He stood quiet for a moment, breathing deeply to inhale the crisp, fresh air, and then strolled down the boardwalk and looked into the windows of the little shops on Main Street.

He soon sat down on a wooden bench in the shade of the barbershop. Relaxing there, he watched members of the new Baptist Church as they filed past, on their way to Sunday service.

Good morning, sir, said Mrs. Hattie Peterson, an old widow whose greatest joy was attending church service on Sunday. Aren’t you, Mr. Pierson, the new schoolmaster here?

Good morning, madam, he replied standing up. Yes, I am the new schoolmaster here.

Will you be attending church this morning?

He answered politely, Ah, no, madam, I have an appointment!

Oh, I see, she said a little disappointed, and hurried on her way.

As the Lutherans passed by, they invited him to services, too. Sam thanked them and simply said, Perhaps another time.

An hour later he was still sitting there when Hattie returned from church. You missed a good sermon, Mr. Pierson, she said. I hope you made your appointment.

Appointment? he asked.

Yes, she replied, sounding a bit like an old hen. Didn’t you say that you had an appointment this morning?

Oh, that, of course. I had to see Mr. Norlin about renting the loft above the general store.

Renting the loft? But the shoemaker works at one end, and school is temporarily being taught at the other.

Sam blushed. He had gotten caught telling a little white lie. Tipping his hat, he said, Well, then, I guess I’ll not be able to rent it.

She responded sarcastically, To be sure!

He withdrew his watch again. He had managed to pass a couple of hours, just sitting there, wasting time—the idea of which he didn’t like. His mother once said, Everything is based on time and therefore one must always use it wisely.

At noon, he returned to the boarding house as Mrs. Holmes had invited him to Sunday dinner. Indulging in mashed potatoes and roast beef, he said, Mrs. Holmes, you’re a very good cook, and Mr. Holmes is a lucky man.

Almost asleep at the table, Holmes, the owner of the saw mill perked up and said, I yem a looky mon! Thet I yem! And he slapped his hands against his protruding belly and chuckled. Tis, thet I yem fur certin, a looky mon!

Sam looked at his pocket watch for the eighth time. It was almost one o’clock. He quickly thanked Mrs. Holmes for dinner and told her that he would be calling on Miss O’Rourke.

Mrs. Holmes was elated. So ya ave yer eye on the Irish lass. Tis thot she’s a beauty, thot one, and the best school marm in the coonty. Shur’n the two of ya will create a turnin of heads.

Sam bent over and kissed her on the forehead as he passed through the door. Good day, ma’am, he said. Then he ran toward Moline’s hill and scurried to the top. To his surprise, he found Miss O’Rourke sitting in the tall grass, picking daisies.

She was lovely, clean and pressed, wearing a pale turquoise dress with a ruffled V-neck, notably complementing her black hair and bringing out the green in her eyes.

Good afternoon, Miss O’Rourke, Sam pleasantly called as he approached her.

Good afternoon, Mr. Pierson. You’re a bit early!

Are you picking daisies for me? he asked playfully.

She looked up at him and laughed. Are they your favorite?

Not exactly. Are they your favorite?

No, she replied emphatically. I prefer violets.

Sam took her left hand to help her up. Getting a glimpse of cleavage, he turned his head away and cleared his throat.

Thank you, Mr. Pierson, she said as she broke the daisies from their long stems and placed them above her ears.

She wore an upsweep that day, with a few strands of hair purposely pulled out of place, as if to say she hadn’t fussed. But two perfectly formed curls on the nape of her neck gave her away.

There, she said. How is that?

Sam blushed and expressed an accolade opinion. Why, you certainly look fine, Miss O’Rourke, fresh as an early summer morning after the dew.

She lazily batted her eyelids. Thank you, Mr. Pierson. How kind of you to say so.

Without hesitation, she opened her parasol and took his arm and he escorted her down the hill. Just what are we about today, Miss O’Rourke?

She answered with a question. Can you row a boat, Mr. Pierson? Yesterday, I called on Mr. Morner and asked him if we might borrow his boat on Sunday. He said we could. That is, if you are willing.

I do row a boat, Miss O’Rourke. With great expertise I might add, and I am certainly willing.

Arm in arm they strolled across the railroad tracks and turned right toward the river, just beyond the boarding house.

The Little Jump was dark and calm that day, and beautifully mirrored the sky and the trees that leaned over it. A soft breeze pushed miniature waves onto the shore and gently rocked the little boats that were tied to the pier.

Miss O’Rourke raised her long dress as Sam helped her get seated near the tip of Morner’s boat. When he stepped in and turned around to untie the rope, he unexpectedly lost his balance and almost went overboard. But somehow he jumped outward toward the riverbank and spared his entire person from getting soaked and only got wet up to his knees.

Miss O’Rourke laughed so hard that tears came to her eyes.

He was embarrassed but laughed because she was laughing. Lucky the water isn’t very deep here, or I might have drowned!

Miss O’Rourke piped, I wouldn’t have allowed you to drown, Mr. Pierson.

He raised an eyebrow. I suppose you can swim, too!

Of course. Can’t you?

Of… of course. I swim very well, he replied while lifting a dripping leg over the side of the boat. Without too much effort, he awkwardly got in, seated himself, removed his shoes and stockings, and rolled his pants legs up.

She continued to laugh. You looked like a Mississippi frog leaping for its life.

He drew his brow down in displeasure. I see that it doesn’t take much to amuse you, Miss O’Rourke.

Mr. Pierson. You now look like the scowling coyote that I saw on Moline’s hill this morning.

You certainly have a pocket full of similes, Miss O’Rourke.

She sighed. I’m sorry, Mr. Pierson. You’ve been a good sport, and I will not make jest of you again. Truly, I’m happy to take a boat ride with you on this wonderful day. Then placing her hand over her mouth to cover her smile, she said, It was funny.

He shook his head and smiled at her. Yes, indeed. And he took to rowing the little boat, for he didn’t want to allow a spill in the river to ruin that lovely day. Where do you come from, Miss O’Rourke?

She knew he wanted to divert attention away from himself and thus appeased him. I was born and grew up in the town of Lyndon, here in Wisconsin, in Sheboygan County.

Is that where you were educated?

I attended grammar school there and then went to high school in Milwaukee and also to State Normal School in that same lovely city.

How many years of school in all?

I was able to skip one high-school grade because of excellent test scores, which gave me extra points. By the time I was in my third year, I had enough to be pushed up to the graduating class.

And what did you learn at Normal School?

Oh, my, where may I begin? She thought for a minute. English grammar of course, expressive writing, penmanship, spelling, history, Latin, geography, trigonometry, sketching, music and, of course, literature. It was a preparation for teaching in such a way that one would understand the overall theory of it.

And what was the theory of it?

She answered softly, Well, in theory, teachers were teaching us to be teachers. Not just teachers but good teachers, who could translate their knowledge with patience and concern. At least that was my understanding of it.

How did it happen that you ended up in Ogema, Wisconsin with so much education?

Through my great sense of adventure, Mr. Pierson. You see, I have two sisters working for the government in the Phillipines, in Manilla. That didn’t appeal to me, so when I received a list of teaching positions, Ogema sounded most appealing because it was newly established, and the monthly wage that they offered was most generous.

Sam scratched his head and thought for a few seconds. I hope it’s better than mine, he said. What year were you born, Miss O’Rourke?

Are you asking my age, Mr. Pierson? For shame!

I’m sorry, madam. It’s just that you seem to have many years of education and teaching behind you, yet, you look so young.

I am not yet twenty-seven, Mr. Pierson. And you?

He smiled. Ah, well, I’m not yet twenty-seven either.

How far from twenty-seven are you, sir?

At the present moment I am twenty-two and heading for the next number.

And when will that be?

I believe my mother chose November twentieth, and every year I change my age on that day.

And my birthday is November 27. We shall have to celebrate together. That is, if you do celebrate, Mr. Pierson.

Glory be! Every year, Miss O’Rourke!

Wonderful! Then we’ll make it a date on the twenty-third. That’s halfway between our birthdays.

Yes, that will be just fine, Miss O’Rourke. He blushed at the thought of entertaining an older woman and thought how well preserved she was, how young she seemed. All the while he was listening to her, he kept thinking that she was admirably forthright and ever so bright. How long have you been here? he asked.

I came last January, she answered. Before that I taught in Sheboygan and then in Milwaukee.

And is Ogema a true challenge?

Yes, indeed it is. Mostly because one has to teach English to children who speak other languages, mostly Swedish, which won’t be a problem for you. Suddenly she stopped speaking and looked at Sam with a serious face. How came you to Ogema, Mr. Pierson?

I thought I should like to start out in a new town and try to grow with it. That’s what life is all about, isn’t it, growing, bettering oneself?

I have always thought exactly that.

Do you have siblings, Miss O’Rourke?

Many, Mr. Pierson. The oldest is Eleanor, and then comes Patrick. He was, in 1871, the youngest state senator ever.

Sam was astounded. The youngest state senator?

She didn’t verbally answer right away but nodded her head and smiled generously, showing elegant, white teeth. He studied law and graduated from the University of Wisconsin in Madison and read law with Stevens and Flower there. Without hesitation, she continued, And brother Dennis lives in Nebraska, and the youngest of the family is Michael. He is still at home and is anticipating starting a mercantile store in the future, perhaps in Merrill, Wisconsin.

And your parents, are they still living?

Mam, who refers to herself as Elizabeth Rogers, is still alive. But Pap, Michael by name, passed away ten years ago. They were both from Ireland. She was from County Meath, and he from County Carlow. Pap immigrated to Quebec, Canada with his family, and she to Syracuse, New York with hers. Later, he and his brother traveled to New York. It was there that Pap met and married Mam.

What brought them to Wisconsin?

"Pap’s brother moved to Chicago and wrote about the good job that he could get Pap in a factory there. So they moved to Chicago only to find out that the job wasn’t that good. Then they moved to Granville, in Milwaukee County and started a family. But with so many mouths to feed, Pap needed more security. When they heard about one of the many communal living experiments created before the Civil War, they decided to try that. The one they moved to was called Spring Farm, near Lyndon, in Sheboygan County. It was a farming commune and they settled there in 1849. That’s where I was born, after Elizabeth, Patrick, Eleanor, Marianne, Catharine, Isabella, and Margarette. After me, came Dennis, Sarah, and Michael. Counting Mam and Pap, there are thirteen of us. The farm dissolved after the war, but my parents remained there. Pap continued farming, but it killed

him."

Very interesting. It sounds like Brook Farm in West Roxbury, Massachusetts. Hawthorne wrote of it.

Carrie’s face lit up. "Then you have read The Blithedale Romance, Hawthorne’s fictionalized account of it?"

Sam smiled. It was that very book that gave me knowledge of the place. And by the look on your face, I’d say that you’ve read it as well!

Indeed, Mr. Pierson! And I have been to the east and have seen the area that was believed to be Brook Farm.

"You