The One-Room Schoolhouse: A Legacy of Learning on America’s Frontier
The One-Room Schoolhouse: A Legacy of Learning on America’s Frontier
Nestled among windswept prairies and wooded hills, the one-room schoolhouse stands as a symbol of determination, community, and the enduring value of education. In an era when survival itself was a full-time job, early Americans still carved out space—sometimes literally with axe and saw—to educate their children. The story of the one-room schoolhouse is also the story of a nation being built, one lesson at a time.
From Hearth to Hornbook
Long before the familiar image of students lined up at desks beneath a chalkboard, education in early America took many forms. Among Native American communities, learning was passed down orally through storytelling, songs, and daily participation in tribal life. Skills were acquired by doing, and lessons were embedded in culture, community, and the natural world.
In colonial times, most European settlers educated their children at home. The family Bible was often the first—and sometimes only—textbook. Learning to read was considered both a practical skill and a religious duty. Mothers usually served as the first teachers, using homemade tools like hornbooks—flat paddles bearing the alphabet and simple prayers, protected with thin, transparent layers of horn.
As settlements grew, “dame schools”—informal classes taught by women in their homes—paved the way for grammar schools and religious academies supported by churches and community donations.
A One-Room House Rises on the Frontier
On the frontier, education came slowly, often in tandem with hardship. Many children were taught the basics at home by candlelight between daily chores. Where communities had enough families to support it, they pooled resources—timber, labor, and donations—to raise a humble schoolhouse. These buildings often served double or triple duty, hosting Sunday services, town meetings, and community events.
Teachers were rarely professionally trained, especially in rural areas. A teenage girl, a widow, a retired farmer, or a traveling bachelor might be hired more for moral character than formal education. Wages were meager and sometimes paid in eggs, quilts, firewood, or the promise of room and board. It was not uncommon for teachers to rotate among the homes of their students, staying with a different family each week.
Inside the One-Room Classroom
Life inside the schoolhouse was simple but ordered. Students from ages six to sixteen shared the same space, learning side by side and grouped loosely by ability. Older children often assisted the younger, creating a natural mentoring system that reinforced learning for all.
Lessons began with the Pledge of Allegiance or a Scripture reading, followed by grammar, arithmetic, penmanship, history, and geography. Spelling bees and ciphering matches were Friday favorites, offering both fun and friendly competition.
The school year followed the rhythm of the land: winter session from late fall to early spring, summer session during the hot months, and extended breaks for planting and harvest. In February of 1920, a twelve-year-old Arkansas farm kid might rise at 5:30 a.m., shivering under a quilt in an uninsulated loft where frost formed on the roof nails. Bathing was reserved for Saturdays, and winter baths meant heating water on the stove and squeezing into a metal washtub.
By breakfast, the chores were already underway—hauling wood, milking cows, feeding chickens, and fetching water from a hand-dug well. After bacon and eggs, the child would bundle up, grab a tin lunch pail, and begin the two-mile walk to school—sometimes barefoot in warmer months, but always careful to avoid wild dogs, snakes, and the neighbor’s temperamental bull.
The school building itself was modest: painted white, with rows of windows on either side for natural light. There was no electricity, no running water, and no indoor plumbing. In summer, the windows served as air conditioning; in winter, warmth came from a pot-bellied stove tended by the older boys who hauled the logs. Teachers were expected to arrive early and light the fire themselves. Drinking water was drawn from the nearby creek or hand-dug well, drawn by buckets and shared from a communal pail. Students brought their own cups—some collapsible tin ones, which were a source of pride.
Benches replaced desks in many rural schools, and students wrote on their laps or used slates if they couldn’t afford paper. The teacher, like young Mr. Simpson—just nineteen—sat at a raised desk at the front of the room, managing recitations, discipline, and firewood all in the same breath. Mr. Simpson boarded with a different student’s family every month and might soon come live with yours.
Discipline was firm but often creative. A disruptive student might don the dunce cap or be made to write lines on the blackboard. Sometimes, memorizing a poem was the punishment—a task that turned into pride when performed for parents at the end-of-term recital.
Recess was a treasured break. Boys played tag, leap frog, and marbles, while girls skipped rope or hunted for crawdads in the creek. Lunches—eaten at benches—were packed from home: sausage biscuits, molasses bread, fried rabbit or squirrel, and sometimes a slice of homemade cake.
Afternoons brought more studies: hygiene lessons to ward off lice and malaria, agriculture to support the family farm, and history—local, national, and biblical. When the teacher had time, he might lead a walk into the woods to identify plants or gather herbs.
The Wild and the Willing
Frontier schoolhouses existed not only in the shadow of hardship, but often in defiance of it. In the Wild West and Indian Territory, education was sometimes the only outpost of order and civility. Teachers faced more than just educational challenges—rattlesnakes, outlaws, snowstorms, and family feuds could easily interrupt the school day.
Schools in coal towns and mining camps struggled with attendance. Children were often pulled out to work, or to care for siblings after accidents or illness. And still, schoolhouses stood—brave symbols of a community’s hope for a better future.
Professor Redwine's Story
Among the many teachers who braved these trials, one man’s journey captures the spirit of the one-room schoolhouse like few others: Professor Lingurn March Redwine. His life, told in the novel “When the Old Bell Rang,” paints a vivid portrait of what it meant to pursue knowledge in a rugged and unpredictable world.
From the backwoods of North Carolina to the rough-edged towns of Arkansas along the Indian Territory border, Redwine’s life was marked by a relentless love for learning. Driven by his dream to become a teacher, he overcame hardship after hardship, eventually earning the respect of communities throughout Choctaw country, coal camps, and farming settlements. He taught in some of the most challenging conditions imaginable—and did so with grace, grit, and conviction.
The novel follows his journey not only as an educator but also as a devoted husband. Together with his wife, he made a name for himself among those who believed in the transformative power of knowledge, even in the most lawless of frontier towns, including Fort Smith with its infamous saloons and gallows.
Author W.D. Redwine, son of the story’s main protagonist, L.M Redwine, beautifully captures the joy, struggle, and determination that marked this unique era in American education. With vivid storytelling and historically rich detail, “When the Old Bell Rang” invites readers to experience the triumphs and trials of one teacher’s life—and, in doing so, honors all those who taught when teaching was anything but easy.
We are continuing to compile historical photos, records, and other “extras” pertaining to the characters, events, and locations mentioned in “When the Old Bell Rang.” Visit again soon for updates and additions.
Characters from the Book
David Redwine
1801-1890
Fannie Daniel Redwine
1808-1894
Lingurn March Redwine
1859-1941
Delma Lynch Redwine
1870-1951
“Uncle Joe” Joyce
Schoolhouses from the Book
Enterprise
1906
Fidelity
1907
Jinny Lind
Pre-1903
Hackett City
Washburn
1900
Pocola, Indian Territory
White Bluff
Recitations from Students
“The Lips That Touch Liquor Shall Never Touch Mine”
by Harriet A. Glazebrook, recited by Doll Wier at Jenny Lind, April 4, 1905
Alice Lee stood awaiting her lover one night,
Her cheeks flushed and glowing, her eyes full of light.
She had placed a sweet rose ‘mid her wild flowing hair;
No flower of the forest e’er looked half so fair
As she did that night, as she stood by the door
Of the cot where she dwelt by the side of the moor.
She heard a quick step coming over the moor,
And a merry voice which she had oft heard before;
And ere she could speak a strong arm held her fast,
And a manly voice whispered, ” I’ve come, love, at last.
I’m sorry that I’ve kept you waiting like this,
But I know you’ll forgive me, then give me a kiss. “
But she shook the bright curls on her beautiful head,
And she drew herself up while quite proudly she said,
” Now, William, I’ll prove if you really are true,
For you say that you love me — I don’t think you do;
If really you love me you must give up the wine,
For the lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine. “
He looked quite amazed. ” Why, Alice, ’tis clear
You really are getting quite jealous, my dear. “
” In that you are right, ” she replied; ” for, you see,
You’ll soon love the liquor far better than me.
I’m jealous, I own, of the poisonous wine,
For the lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine. “
He turned, then, quite angry. ” Confound it! ” he said,
” What nonsense you’ve got in your dear little head;
But I’ll see if I cannot remove it from hence. “
She said, ” ‘Tis not nonsense, ’tis plain common-sense:
And I mean what I say, and this you will find,
I don’t often change when I’ve made up my mind. “
He stood all irresolute, angry, perplexed:
She never before saw him look half so vexed;
But she said, ” If he talks all his life I won’t flinch ” ;
And he talked, but he never could move her an inch.
He then bitterly cried, with a look and a groan,
” O Alice, your heart is as hard as a stone. “
But though her heart beat in his favour quite loud,
She still firmly kept to the vow she had vowed;
And at last, without even a tear or a sigh,
She said, ” I am going, so, William, goodbye. “
” Nay, stay, ” he then said, ” I’ll choose one of the two —
I’ll give up the liquor in favour of you. “
Now, William had often great cause to rejoice
For the hour he had made sweet Alice his choice;
And he blessed through the whole of a long, useful life,
The fate that had given him his dear little wife.
And she, by her firmness, won to us that night
One who in our cause is an ornament bright.
Oh! that each fair girl in our abstinence band
Would say: ” I’ll ne’er give my heart or my hand
Unto one who I ever had reason to think
Would taste one small drop of the vile, cursed drink ” ;
But say, when you are wooed, ” I’m a foe to the wine,
And the lips that touch liquor shall never touch mine. “
“The Old Forsaken Schoolhouse”
by John H. Yates, recited by Celia Thomas at Fidelity, May 10, 1912
They’ve left the schoolhouse, Charley,
where years ago we sat,
And shot our paper bullets
at the master’s time- worn hat;
The hook is gone on which it hung,
and the master sleepeth now
Where school-boy tricks can never cast
a shadow o’er his brow.
They’ve built a new, imposing one —
the pride of all the town,
And laughing lads and lasses
go its broad steps up and down;
A tower crowns its summit
with a new, a monster bell,
That youthful ears, in distant homes,
may hear its music swell.
I’m sitting in the old one,
with its battered, hingeless door;
The windows are all broken,
and the stones lie on the floor;
I, alone, of all the boys,
Who romped and studied here,
Remain to see it battered up
and left so lone and drear.
I’m sitting on the same old bench
where we sat side by side
And carved our names upon the desk,
when not by master eyed;
Since then a dozen boys
have sought their great skill to display,
And, like the foot-prints on the sand,
our names have passed away.
‘Twas here we learned to conjugate
“amo, amas, amat,”
While glances from the lasses
made our hearts go pit-a-pat;
‘Twas here we fell in love, you know,
with girls who looked us through—
Yours with her piercing eyes of black,
and mine with eyes of blue.
Our sweethearts—pretty girls were they—
to us how very dear.
Bow down your head with me, my boy,
and shed for them a tear;
With them the earthly school is out;
each lovely maid now stands
Before the one Great Master,
in the “house not made with hands.”
You tell me you are far out West;
a lawyer deep in laws,
With Joe, who sat behind us here,
and tickled us with straws;
Look out for number one, my boys;
may wealth come at your touch;
But with your long, strong legal straws
don’t tickle men too much.
Here, to the right, sat Jimmy Jones—
you must remember Jim—
He’s teaching now, and punishing,
as master punished him;
What an unlucky lad he was!
his sky was dark with woes;
Whoever did the sinning
it was Jim who got the blows.
Those days are all gone by, my boys;
life’s hill we’re going down,
With here and there a silver hair
amid the school-boy brown;
But memory can never die,
so we’ll talk o’er the joys
We shared together, in this house,
when you and I were boys.
Though ruthless hands may tear it down—
this old house lone and drear,
They’ll not destroy the characters
that started out from here;
Time’s angry waves may sweep the shore
and wash out all beside:
Bright as the stars that shine above,
they shall for aye abide.
I’ve seen the new house, Charley:
’tis the pride of all the town,
And laughing lads and lasses
go its broad steps up and down;
But you or I, my dear old friend,
can’t love it half as well
As this condemned, forsaken one,
with cracked and tongueless bell.
“Rock Me to Sleep”
by Elizabeth Akers Allen, often recited at Redwine school-closing entertainments
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap;—
Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I tonight for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead tonight,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!
Other Locations from the Book
Childhood cabin in Healing Springs, NC where Lingie Redwine was born and raised.
The blacksmith shop in Jackson Hill, NC where Ling and his grandpa got their wagon wheels shrunk and horses shod.
The general store in Jackson Hill, NC where Ling worked his first job.
The Store where the turkey was pitched into the air for a free-for-all scramble. Also the same street Johnny and Duke fought.
The Hickman Store in Pocola, Indian Territory.
Records and Documentation
Court Opinion Delivered in Case "New v. State," May 8, 1911
Legal proceedings involving L.M. Redwine in Sebastian Circuit Court, Greenwood District
At Cavanaugh, Arkansas May 6, 1896, after an illness of ten days, little Lingurn, only child of Professor and Mrs. L.M. Redwine, died. He was an unusually bright and intelligent little fellow, and none, save the heart-broken parents, can ever know all the fond hopes and aspirations that perished with him. As we stood by the flower-strewn form which rested the little white casket, we thought we had never seen death in a lovelier guise. He lay among the roses as if, tired from an hour’s play, he had thrown himself down to rest and with a lily clasped in his sweet, baby hands, was just dropping off to slumberland. Although in this hour of your great affliction, when the very sunlight seems dim and strange, and words of consolation are well-nigh meaningless, still, dear friends, we would humbly whisper of one who said, “I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you.”