Article excerpt

The nineteen-twenties were a busy time for Dad with as many as eleven concerts in a week.

He went "out in the sticks", visited a "corn, hog and cattle" farm and gave an afternoon recital in the high school of a small town. He saw a one-teacher school house, built of wood and painted white. The children were doing their handwriting The Songbird is Singing by Alun Trevor from the blackboard. Dad copied the verse to send to us: _____ ____ is my name; America's my nation. _____ my dwelling place And Heaven's my destination.

You wrote in your name and where you lived. Dad's idea was to get Arthur writing. But still to no avail. In this one-room schoolhouse were eight rows of kids; first grade (seven year olds) sat in front. And the eighth grade (fourteen year olds) sat in the back row. "Like our Standard Seven," said Arthur. Behind them was a heating stove. Each row took turns to recite the verse while the rest wrote. Their playtime was called "recess time". The school had a water pump in the yard. There had been a time when the older boys came to school on horseback, hitching their horses to a hitching post. …