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Updated: May 24, 2025
He had on his Filson bush jacket, Levis, and his all purpose Clarks shoes. They looked good together, he thought, Mr. and Ms. Competent. "Did you notice the Kentucky Fried Chicken place on the way in to Lihue?" he asked. "Yes." "I helped landscape it. Me and Whistling Ed Swaney. He was a sheriff in L.A.; he quit after the Watts riots.
Mr. Swaney won't start his school till winter. Farm work will be slack then." "I can hire Abe out to split rails, even in cold weather," Tom reminded her. "Maybe I can get some odd jobs as a carpenter, and Abe can help me." "Abe ain't no great hand at carpentry." "He can learn. Why, he's fourteen, Sairy. The idea, a big, strapping boy like that going to school. I tell you, I won't have it."
The Lincoln family rose, sang "Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow," and church was over. The young folks drifted away. Tom stretched out on the grass for his Sunday afternoon nap. "Abe tells me that new Mr. Swaney was at church," Sarah said. Tom opened his eyes. Before he had a chance to go back to sleep, she spoke again. "He's fixing to keep a school next winter."
Frequent gatherings occur here in a simple spontaneous way. This common school has all the social and intellectual power of the old-fashioned country academy which once was so useful in the Eastern States. A principal and four women teachers form the faculty of the John Swaney school. The number of scholars in 1910 was one hundred and five, the number of boys slightly exceeding that of girls.
"So I hear," said Tom cautiously. "He charges seventy-five cents for each scholar. Some schoolmasters charge a dollar." "Sounds like a lot of money." "Several of the neighbors are fixing to send their young ones," Sarah went on. "Mr. Swaney doesn't ask for cash money. He'll take skins or farm truck. We can manage that, I reckon." Tom yawned. "Plumb foolishness, if you ask me.
Remember, this farm ain't paid for yet." He got up and walked over to the chest. He picked up the sharp knife he used for cutting corn. "Get your knife, Abe, and come along." Abe walked behind his father along the path through the woods. "That Mr. Swaney was right nice," he said. Tom grunted. "He is waiting to start his school until after harvest," Abe went on. "Nat Grigsby is going.
His voice grew louder and hoarser as the morning passed. He paused only to catch his breath or when the members of the congregation shouted, "Amen." After the final hymn, he stood at the door shaking hands. "Brother Lincoln," he said, "I want you to meet up with a new neighbor. This here is Mr. Swaney." Tom shook hands. Then the preacher introduced Abe. "Are you the new schoolmaster?" Abe asked.
It seems that the Rutherford temper developed in the Princess as she grew older. Mrs. Swaney was Juanita Sinclair; her father was a mild-mannered little man, who went out of doors to cough, but her mother was a Rutherford a big, stiff-necked, beer-bottle-shaped woman, who bossed the missionary society until she divided the church.
But these seemingly ferocious dogs were in reality the gentlest and meekest of animals. "Down, Topper, down! down, Lively, lass; come into heel, Swaney," cried Donald McAllister, as he approached his tenants. "Good-mornin', miss; mornin', gentlemen. The Ben has on its nightcap, but I'm thinkin' it'll soon take it off."
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