Sample Chapter

"Blue Creek Farm"

Chapter 1

 Prelude: November, 1863

            Pa! I had to get home to Pa!

            Over and over I cursed myself for staying too long in town. I never should have left him alone, should have insisted that he go with me. I knew that if I could only get home, back to the farm, I could save him. I fixed my gaze on the smoky glare on the horizon and urged my horse onward over the uneven terrain.

            My stomach was knotted in fear, and my muscles ached as we flew along the creek road, my head throbbing, tears running down my cheeks. The cold November air was numbing my fingers and toes, yet I was sweating. Leaning over, I clenched my legs tightly against my horse, and I could feel her respond, her smooth muscles rippling as we streaked along at full gallop through the pitch-black Kansas night.

            I began to feel dizzy and fought the urge to close my eyes. I had to keep going. I had to save Pa.

            Suddenly, I was alone, random impressions swirling before me—the sound of gunshots punctuating a shower of flying sparks tossed upward into the night sky, the intense heat of the blaze singeing my eyelashes, and then the cracking of timbers as the barn collapsed, walls giving way in the early morning light, leaving just a blackened smoldering shell. 

            I stirred as the train lurched around a curve, my head bouncing softly against the back of the seat.

            “It’s just a dream,” I mumbled to myself. “Pa’s all right. But the farm…and Jimmy. Poor Jimmy.”

            I had been on the train since the day before yesterday, and was getting stiff from too much sitting. I rubbed my legs, partly because they ached, and partly because they were cold, and I stamped my feet silently to get my circulation going.

            I wondered what time it was. Fumbling, I dug out my pocket watch, but in the darkness I couldn’t see hands, even when I held the watch close to my face. Looking out the window I could just barely make out faint traces of gray on the horizon—probably about an hour before dawn. My stomach grumbled, and I thought about eating another sandwich, but decided against it. I had to make my food last all the way to Connecticut.

            I gazed out the window, hoping for sleep but afraid to dream again. As the first streaks of light began to appear overhead, I tried to figure out where we were, but the scenery was unchanging—farmland dotted with barns, fences, and the endless brown, rolling fields of last summer’s wheat crop.

            All around me, people were sleeping, rocked by the gentle rumblings of the train. Yet I was wide awake, hungry, and tired. As I closed my eyes, I thought about all that had transpired the last few days:

            Saying goodbye to my friends, and my horse, Morning Glory. Hugging my brother Henry as he left for St. Louis to enlist in the army. Crying one last time at Ma’s grave, and fighting back tears as Pa put me on the train in Lawrence. Would I ever see Kansas again? Or all the people I had met in the last six years? Harriett and her silliness. Bill with his penetrating blue eyes and funny way of talking. The Fishers. Mr. Sanderson. And Jimmy. Poor Jimmy.

            My mind drifted as I searched for sleep, and I thought again of Lawrence, a once proud and beautiful city—blackened and bloodstained after the attack. So much destruction, and so many dead. Sitting in church at the memorial service, I felt like the sole survivor—the last person on earth—wretchedly alone in a room full of friends.

            But now that I had left the sadness behind, I swore that my crying was over.

            I tried to find happier thoughts—Simsbury and my dear cousin Neely waiting for me. My heart ached to see her, and I longed for the simple happiness of my childhood, when my family was complete, and life uncomplicated. But I knew those days would never come again. Too much had happened, too much had changed since we left Connecticut. Was I still the same person?

            Six years! It seemed a lifetime. I thought back, trying to recall the girl I had been, little Matty Trescott. Where was she in all the violence and death and confusion? Was she real? Was the war real? Was it really 1863, or did I dream that too?

            I closed my eyes and drifted again.

Original Artwork

    Blue Creek Farm is illustrated by Larry Howard. Each chapter comes with its own drawing, and the story has its own distinctive logo and two maps.

Teacher's Guide

Prelude: November, 1863

Vocabulary: 

            Terrain – surface features; geography or character of the land 

            Clenched – squeezed very tightly 

            Random – not in a pattern or planned 

            Punctuating – expressing or emphasizing 

Singeing – burning 

            Lurched – rolled or pitched suddenly or erratically  

            Penetrating – seeping into, piercing or permeating 

Memorial service – a church service remembering or honoring someone who has died 

            Wretchedly – dismally, horribly, or sadly             

Questions: 

            What is the setting for the story? How do you know? 

            Who is the main character? What do you know about her? 

Connect to the Story:  

            Have you ever taken a long trip somewhere? Where did you go? How did you get there? What did you eat? Was your experience anything like Matty’s? Why or why not? 

Historical Notes: 

            “…I had been on the train since the day before yesterday…” Train travel in the 1860s was very slow—Matty is traveling from Kansas to Connecticut, about 1,300 miles, yet it will take her several days. 

            “…I thought again of Lawrence…” Lawrence, Kansas was attacked by an outlaw band led by Confederate sympathizer William Quantrill in August of 1863. Over 200 people were murdered and much of the city destroyed by fire.

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Last Updated on 09/30/09