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Overview
In her Regional America series, author and illustrator Lois Lenski presents realistic portrayals of unforgettable young people facing hardships and triumphs across the diverse United States.
The Newbery Medal–winning Strawberry Girl follows day-to-day life for Birdie and her family on a berry farm in Florida, as they deal with heat, droughts, cold snaps, and difficult neighbors. In Prairie School, a young girl gets stranded at her South Dakota school by a winter storm; in Bayou Suzette, the Cajun Suzette strikes up an unlikely friendship with a Native American girl in the swamps of Louisiana; and Blue Ridge Billy is the story of a boy who dreams of playing the fiddle. Other novels follow the lives of a young farmer who wants to quit school and work on his family’s Iowa farm; an Asian-American boy adjusting to city life in San Francisco’s Chinatown; and an adolescent lumberjack in the forests of Oregon.
Beyond changing the face of children’s literature, Lenski’s stories endure because of their moving and believable depictions of young people from often overlooked communities. Through her art, Lenski gives these characters a voice that continues to ring loud and clear for modern readers.
This ebook includes Strawberry Girl, Prairie School, Bayou Suzette, Blue Ridge Billy, Corn-Farm Boy, San Francisco Boy, and To Be a Logger.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504050791 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 12/19/2017 |
| Series: | American Journeys , #2 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 1415 |
| Sales rank: | 785,206 |
| File size: | 60 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
| Age Range: | 8 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Born in Springfield, Ohio, in 1893, Lois Lenski achieved acclaim as both an author and illustrator of children’s literature. For her Regional America series, Lenski traveled to each of the places that became a subject of one of her books. She did meticulous research and spoke with children and adults in the various regions to create stories depicting the lives of the inhabitants of those areas. Her novel of Florida farm life, Strawberry Girl, won the Newbery Award in 1946. She also received a Newbery Honor in 1942 for Indian Captive, a fictionalized account of the life of Mary Jemison. Lenski died in 1974.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Callers
IT WAS A BRIGHT morning in early April. Birds were chirping and singing in the shady trees. A barelegged ten-year-old girl came out on the front porch. She watered the plants in the lard buckets there. She picked off a dead leaf or two.
"Ma!" she called. "The pink geranium's a-bloomin'. Come see it. Hit shore is purty!"
Mrs. Boyer came out, drying her hands on her apron.
"Come down here, Ma, and look," begged the girl.
The woman came down the steps and stood at her side. The girl's brown hair was braided in two braids, looped up. Her eyes were big in her pointed face. She looked much like her mother.
"Ain't them right purty, Ma? I jest got to come out first thing in the mornin' and look at 'em."
"Purty, yes!" agreed her mother. "But lookin' at posies don't git the work done." She hurried back up the steps.
"Did I get some blue paint and paint the lard buckets, Ma, they'd look a sight purtier, wouldn't they?"
"Blue lard buckets!" laughed the woman. "Never heard of sich as that!" She disappeared in the house.
The girl took up a long broom made of brush — branches from a tree — and swept the yard clean. Its hard smooth surface felt good to her feet. Then she knelt in the path and began to set a row of bricks at an angle, to make a neat border. "I'll plant my amaryllis bulbs in the flower bed right here," she said to herself.
She stood up, her arms akimbo.
"Land sakes, somebody's comin'!" she called. "Ma! Callers!"
"Law me!" cried Mrs. Boyer, peeping out. "The Slaters! And my breakfast dishes not done."
The girl stared at the little procession.
Mrs. Slater, tall, thin and angular, carrying her baby like a sack of potatoes on her hip, was followed by the two little girls, Essie and Zephy. Some distance behind, as if curious yet half-unwilling to be one of the party, came a lanky twelve-year-old boy wearing a broad- brimmed black felt hat. The woman and children plowed the loose, dry sand with their bare feet. With each step forward, they seemed to slip a trifle backward, so their progress was slow. Bushy scrub oaks and a thicket of palmetto grew on the far side of the rough path, while a forest of tall pines rose in the distance.
The old Roddenberry house was not old enough to deserve to be called old. It had been built in the 1880's, the earliest type of Florida pioneer home. Deserted by the Roddenberrys after the Big Freeze of 1895, it had stood empty for some years, but showed few signs of neglect. The sturdy pine and cypress wood which had gone into its making were equal to many more years of Florida sun, rain, wind and heat.
The house was a simple one, but by backwoods standards a mansion. It was a double-pen plank house, with an open hall or breezeway in the middle. On one side was a bedroom, on the other the kitchen. Behind were two small shed rooms used for sleeping quarters. Wide porches spread across front and back.
The Slaters approached the picket fence timidly, staring with all eyes. Mrs. Slater opened the gate.
"Howdy!"
The girl in the path spoke first.
"Hey!" came the feeble response.
The girl tipped her head and smiled. "My name's Birdie Boyer," she said. "Come in and see Ma."
She led the way onto the front porch and across the breezeway. The boy did not come in.
"Can I borrow a cup o' sugar, ma'am?" inquired Mrs. Slater.
"Shore can!" said Mrs. Boyer heartily. "Ary time you need somethin', you call on me and welcome. That's what neighbors is for. Mighty nice to be near enough for neighborin'."
They sat down stiffly. An awkward silence fell.
"We had sich a heap o' work to do, to git this ole place fixed up," began Mrs. Boyer. "We ain't what you might call settled yet. Them Roddenberrys ..."
"They got froze out in the Big Freeze," said Mrs. Slater. "They went back to wherever it was they come from. All their orange trees got bit back to the ground by the frost. Ain't no use messin' with oranges here. Hit's too cold in the wintertime."
"But the trees were seedlings," said Mrs. Boyer, "and they've come up again from the roots. When we git 'em pruned good and the moss cleaned out, they'll make us a fine grove."
"I got me a orange tree," said Birdie, "'bout so high." She raised her hand to a height of about three feet. "I planted a bunch of seeds from an orange once. This seedling was the strongest — it come from the king seed. We brung it along with us and I planted it where the water drips from the pump. Soon I'll be pickin' my own oranges!" "Yes, soon we'll be pickin' oranges to sell," added her mother.
"To sell?" asked Mrs. Slater in surprise.
"Yes, ma'am. We're studyin' to sell oranges and strawberries and sweet 'taters and sich and make us a good livin'."
"Sell things? Messin' with things to sell?" said Mrs. Slater. "Then you'll purely starve to death. Why, nothin' won't grow here in Floridy. The only way we-uns can git us a livin' is messin' with cows and sellin' 'em for beef."
"We're studyin' to always have us a few cows too, and cowpen the land. We git real benefit from our cattle, usin' 'em for beef and fertilizer, and for milk and butter too," said Mrs. Boyer.
"Why, them scrubby little ole woods cows don't give enough milk to bother with milkin' 'em," laughed Mrs. Slater.
"Where we come from," said Mrs. Boyer slowly, "we feed our cows."
"Feed 'em!" Mrs. Slater laughed a shrill laugh. "With all the grass they is to eat? Where you folks come from anyway?"
"We come from Marion County last month," said Mrs. Boyer. "We come there in a covered wagon from Caroliny 'bout ten year ago."
Silence fell. Mrs. Slater's girls stared, tongue-tied, at the new girl.
"What's the matter with 'em, ma'am, they don't talk?" Birdie asked their mother.
"Ain't nothin' the matter with 'em but meanness," snapped Mrs. Slater.
Birdie took the little girls by the hand and led them out to the back porch. Here, her little brother, aged two, was playing in the water in the basin on the wash-shelf. A comb hung by a string from the porch post.
"What's that?" asked Essie, pointing.
"What — this? Why, a comb!" exclaimed Birdie. "Lemme comb out your hair."
"We ain't got us a comb, but Ma uses a shucks brush sometimes," said Zephy.
The two little girls sat down on the top step. Birdie began to comb out their short, straggly hair. Combed smooth, it looked soft and pretty, curling up at the ends. In the bright sunshine, it shone like warm, glistening silver. Birdie brought the washbasin and washed their thin, pale faces. Their features were fine, their eyes blue as cornflowers.
"What's his name?" asked Essie, pointing to the little brother.
"Robert, but we call him Bunny," said Birdie. "We all got us pet names. My big brother's name's Bihu, same as Pa, so we jest call him Buzz. My other brother's Daniel Alexander or jest plain Dan. My big sister's Dixie Lee Francine — we call her Dixie. My little sister's Dovey Eudora — we call her Dovey or Dove — she's asleep now. Me — I'm Berthenia Lou, but Pa calls me Birdie, 'cause he says I look like a little bird. Sometimes he calls me his little wren."
The lanky boy had ventured round the house and now stood staring.
"What's your name?" asked Birdie.
"Jefferson Davis Slater," he said gruffly.
"Purty good name," said Birdie.
"All but the Slater," said the boy, biting his lips.
Was he ashamed of his family? Birdie wondered. "What they call you — Jeff?"
"Naw. Shoestring —'count of I'm so long and thin. Never couldn't git no fat to my bones."
"Shoestring!" laughed Birdie. "That shore is a funny name!"
"Shore is!" agreed the boy, smiling. "I answer to Jeff, too."
Birdie took the mirror off the nail in the wall and held it in front of Essie. "See how purty you look!"
The little girls had never seen a mirror before.
"Oh!" they exclaimed. "Lemme see me in it!" They stuck out their tongues at their reflections and laughed.
Shoestring sat down. Birdie reached over and ran the comb through the boy's tousled black locks. Soon she encountered snarls. "Rats' nests!" she cried, jerking.
"Ow-w-w!" cried Shoestring backing off. "Don't you dare rake me with that ere currycomb no more!"
The comb and mirror were not the only wonders. When Mrs. Boyer showed Mrs. Slater over the house, she exclaimed: "Sich fine fixin's you-all got!"
"They got a bed-kiver on their eatin' table, Ma," said Essie.
"Hit's a table-cloth," explained Birdie.
As Shoestring stared at the red and white checks, his face turned sullen. Then he burst out: "Guess oilcloth's good enough for anybody."
"I mean!" sniffed his mother.
Mrs. Boyer took down a pretty flowered plate from the shelf.
"Don't bother to show me no more of them fancy things," said Mrs. Slater, backing away. "Guess we seen enough of your fine fixin's. Guess we know now how biggety you folks is, without seein' nothin' more."
"But, ma'am," begged Mrs. Boyer, "I didn't mean no offense."
The Slaters marched out through the breezeway without further words.
Mrs. Boyer quickly filled a cup with brown sugar and ran after them. "Here's the sweetenin' you come to borrow, ma'am!"
But Mrs. Slater did not turn back or offer to take it. Down the path she strode, her baby squalling and bouncing on her hip, as she dragged the little girls along. Shoestring stalked behind, his hands deep in his overall pockets.
"We got some right purty-lookin' plants," cried Birdie desperately. She pulled off a geranium slip and ran after Mrs. Slater. "Hit's a right purty pink, this geranium is, and Ma's got a Seven Sisters rose ..." Mrs. Slater shoved the gate open. It had an old flatiron hanging on a chain for a weight. It closed behind them with a loud bang. The Slaters plowed the sand with their bare feet and vanished in the palmetto thicket.
Birdie went back to her mother, who was standing on the porch. She looked at the cup of sugar in her mother's hand and the geranium slip in her own.
"Reckon we can give 'em to her next time she comes," she said.
CHAPTER 2
Fences
"Whoa thar!" called birdie. "Whoa, Semina!" The white mule stopped. The girl thrust the plowshare into the ash-white soil again.
"Giddap, Semina!" The mule started on.
Again and again the mule had to stop. The soil was too light to hold the plow down, so she had to shove it in with vigorous thrusts.
The sun shone with merciless brightness. Birdie mopped her hot face under her sunbonnet. She started once more around the plot of ground with her plow. Her bare feet were black from the mucky sand.
Suddenly she noticed somebody hanging on the rail fence of the cowpen. It was the black-haired Slater boy. He had jumped off his horse and turned it loose to graze near by. She wondered if he would speak to her.
"Hey!" she called.
"Hey!" came the answer. "What you doin?"
"I call myself plowin'," replied Birdie. "Wanna help?"
"Shucks — no!"
"Big ole lazy, you!" retorted the girl.
The white mule pushed on through the sandy soil. Birdie shoved the plow in deeper and watched the sand roll up in a high furrow. When she had made the round to the cowpen, she pulled up.
"What you plowin' for?" asked the boy.
"To grow things. Crops'll make mighty good here. This used to be part of the cowpen."
"Cowpen?" The boy looked blank.
"We been pennin' our cows up nights ever since we moved here," explained Birdie, "to git their manure scattered round."
"That what these rail fences is for?"
"Yes," said Birdie. "Pa fenced in this long lane first. Then he put fences across it to make pens. We got this whole piece manured that-a-way."
"You bring your cows up every night?" asked the boy.
"Shore do," said Birdie. "Ain't you seen me ridin' Pa's horse? But when we keep the calves penned up, the mother cows will come back at night of theirselves, so most of the time I don't need to bring 'em in."
The boy's face showed surprise. "Never heard o' no sich doin's as that. We let our cows run loose all year round. Don't bring 'em up but oncet a year. What you fixin' to plant?"
"Sweet 'taters, peanuts and sich. That's sugar cane over there," explained Birdie, pointing. "Pa and Buzz planted it when we first bought the place. It's doin' real well. We'll be grindin' cane shore 'nough, come fall. Right here we're fixin' to set strawberries."
"I mean! Strawberries!" Shoestring's eyes opened wide.
"Yes, strawberries!" said Birdie. "Heaps o' folks over round Galloway are growin' 'em to ship north. Pa heard a man called Galloway started it. So we're studyin' to raise us some and sell 'em.
"You purely can't!" said the boy. "Can't raise nothin' on this sorry ole piece o' land but a fuss!" He spat and frowned. "Sorriest you can find — either too wet or too dry. Not fitten for nothin' but palmetto roots. Your strawberries won't never make.
Birdie lifted her small chin defiantly.
"Neighbors hung over Galloway's fence and said his'n wouldn't make, neither, but they did."
She turned the mule around and said giddap. "We're fixin' to plant corn and cowpeas between the rows," she called out. "Three crops offen one piece o' land!"
"Sorry-lookin' mule you got!" scoffed Shoestring. "She's windy — listen to her heave! Sounds like a big ole freight train chuggin'! Why don't you git a good horse like mine? Better'n ary mule."
Birdie glanced at the small, wiry animal which was nibbling grass behind him. Its hair was long and shaggy, as if it had never been touched by a currycomb.
"Pony, I call it," she said, with a sniff. "Little bitty ole sorry pony, no bigger'n a flea! Why, your legs are so long, your feet hit the ground as often as the pony's do!"
"He's a cowhorse," bragged Shoestring, "and I'm a cowman! This is my rope. I can catch ary thing I want to." He took the rope off the saddle and wound the loops carefully in his left hand. "You'd admire to watch me catch a steer. See that stamp yonder? That's a wild steer. Be still, steer!" He swung the rope high over his head, then threw it, looping it round the stump.
"Huh! That's nothin'!" said Birdie. "Stumps don't move."
"Dog take it, I kin lasso your ole mule then!" boasted the boy. "Git her goin'!"
Birdie took up the lines and slapped the mule on the back. Semina began to move slowly along the row, pulling the plow.
"Grab that steer there, boy! Grab that steer!" yelled Shoestring. In a second he was over the rail fence, running through the sand. His rope went flying through the air.
"Don't catch me! Catch Semina!" Birdie dodged, but the rope hit her.
The boy pulled, and the loop tightened round her shoulders, throwing her down.
"I ain't a steer! You missed your aim!" She jumped up quickly.
Shoestring wound his rope and threw again. This time he lassoed the white mule, and stopped her in her tracks.
"See what a good cowman I am!" boasted the boy.
"Think you're smart, don't you?" replied Birdie.
"Maybe you can ride a cowhorse, but I bet you can't ride Semina!"
"Huh! That ole mule? She's half-dead already. Ary baby kin ride her."
"You jest try it," said Birdie.
The plowing done, she removed the harness and brought Semina out into the lane. Shoestring ran, threw himself over the mule's back, landed on Semina's ticklish spot and was promptly thrown headlong in the sand.
"Er-r-r-r, what'd your ole mule do that for?" sputtered the boy as he rose to his feet.
"She don't like cowmen," said Birdie. "They brag too much. And neither do I."
"Birdie!" called Mr. Boyer, entering the field. "What's a-goin' on out here? What you been doin' to that 'ere boy?"
"Semina throwed him, Pa!" said Birdie, laughing. "I was done plowing. That little ole shirttail boy got so biggety, I couldn't stand it no more."
Mr. Boyer was a tall, thin, genial-looking man, with a weathered complexion. He shoved his hat back and patted Birdie on the shoulder.
"Serves him dogged right!" he said, with a laugh. "Got rid o' him, eh?" He pointed his thumb after the retreating figures of boy and horse.
"Seems like them Slaters air hard folks to neighbor with," said Birdie, remembering Mrs. Slater's call. "Likely I had orter been nice to Shoestring; likely they won't come see us no more."
"They'll be back direckly; don't you pay no mind," said Mr. Boyer. "Tired out with all the plowin'? Little gal like you, no bigger'n a weensy wren, plowin' a hull big field like this!"
"I ain't no-ways tired," said Birdie, "but I'm so hot, I wisht I was a fish in the lake, swimmin' round nice and cool. When we gonna set the strawberry plants, Pa?"
"Right soon now," said Mr. Boyer. "I got 'em today. That's what kept me so long. Had a hard time findin' whar the ole man lives who sells 'em. Took the wrong turnin' in the piney-woods and losted myself and like to never got found again. The plants is beauties. Buzz and me'll git the sweet 'taters and peanuts planted tomorrow, and you and your Ma can start settin' strawberry plants."
"How soon do we pick?" asked Birdie excitedly.
"Pick! Don't count your biddies 'fore they're hatched, gal young un!" Her father laughed. "You won't be pickin' no purty red berries till nigh a year from now. Soon as these plants git started growin', they'll send out runners enough to cover up the beds. In September, we take off the runners and set 'em out to make more plants. Then they stop runnin', and long about December, they begin bloomin' and ..."
"Then we pick!" added Birdie, beaming.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "American Journeys Volume Two"
by .
Copyright © 1967 Lois Lenski.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Excerpt from Journey Into Childhood, an Autobiography by Lois Lenski,
STRAWBERRY GIRL,
PRAIRIE SCHOOL,
BAYOU SUZETTE,
BLUE RIDGE BILLY,
CORN-FARM BOY,
SAN FRANCISCO BOY,
TO BE A LOGGER,
A Biography of Lois Lenski,