THE LITTLE COUNTRY THEATER
FOUNDED
FEBRUARY TENTH, NINETEEN HUNDRED
AND FOURTEEN, BY ALFRED G. ARVOLD
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS
ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
[Illustration: The Quaint Cottage, the Snow-White Capped Mountain, the
Tumbling Waterfall Were Painted in a Manner Which Brought Many Favorable
Comments]
THE LITTLE COUNTRY THEATER
BY
ALFRED G. ARVOLD
NORTH DAKOTA AGRICULTURAL COLLEGE
Fargo, North Dakota
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1922
_All rights reserved_
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
COPYRIGHT, 1922
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1922
TO MY MOTHER
WHOSE VISION CAUSED ME
TO SEE BIG THINGS
“THE THEATER IS A CRUCIBLE OF CIVILIZATION. IT IS A PLACE OF
HUMAN COMMUNION. IT IS IN THE THEATER THAT THE PUBLIC SOUL IS
FORMED.”
_Victor Hugo._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Raindrops 1
II. Country Folks 17
III. The Land of the Dacotahs 33
IV. The Little Country Theater 41
V. The Heart of a Prairie 59
VI. Characteristic Incidents 67
VII. A Bee in a Drone’s Hive 95
VIII. Larimore 153
IX. Forty Towns 167
X. Cold Spring Hollow 179
Appendices 187
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Scene—“The Raindrops” _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
“Perhaps we will meet again like the raindrops” 4
Social Stagnancy is a Characteristic Trait of the Small Town and
the Country 22
An Old Dingy, Dull-Grey Chapel on the Second Floor of the
Administration Building was remodeled into what is now known
as The Little Country Theater 45
It Has a Seating Capacity of Two Hundred 53
The Package Library System 55
A Farm Home Scene in Iceland Thirty Years Ago 70
Scene—“Leonarda” 72
Scene—“The Servant in the House” 78
Scene—“Back to the Farm” 82
The Pastimes of the Ages 84
Scene—“Sitting Bull-Custer” 88
Scene—“American Beauties,” A One Act Play 92
Scene—“A Bee in a Drone’s Hive” 100
Folk Dances, Parades, and Pageants have become an Integral
Part of the Social Life of the State 172
Of the Fifty-three Counties in the State Thirty-five have
County Play Days 174
The Greek Theater, University of California, Berkeley, California 222
“The Crescent,” One of America’s Largest Open Air Theaters, El
Zagal Park, Fargo, North Dakota 223
The Stadium, Harvard University 224
The Interior of the Stadium 225
Rural Community Center, Rusk Farm 228
Community House, Leeland, Texas 229
Village Hall, Wyoming, New York 230
Community Building and Floor Plan 231
Auditorium, Hendrum, Minnesota 232
Stage Designs 235
THE LITTLE COUNTRY THEATER
THE RAINDROPS
One day, about three weeks before the Christmas holidays, two young
men came to see me. I shall never forget the incident because to me it
marked one of the most fascinating episodes in the social life of country
people. One of the young men was tall with broad shoulders and had light
hair and grey eyes. The other was of medium height and had dark hair.
His home was in Iceland. That they both had something important to say
was evident from the expression on their faces. After a few moment’s
hesitation, they told me they had thought out an idea for a play. Both
of them were brimful of enthusiasm in regard to it. Whether or not they
could produce it was a question. An obstacle stood in the way. Most of
the scenes were laid in Iceland. And what playhouse or village hall,
especially a country theater, ever owned any scenery depicting home life,
snow-capped mountains, and landscapes in that far-away region? Above all,
there was no money to buy any, either.
[Illustration: “Perhaps we will meet again like the raindrops.”]
When told that they would have to paint the scenery themselves, they
looked somewhat surprised. It is doubtful whether either of them had
ever painted anything more than his mother’s kitchen floor or perhaps
whitewashed a fence or the interior of a barn. They finally decided to do
the job. A painter was called over the phone who said he wouldn’t charge
the boys a cent for the colors if they painted the scene. Up in an attic
of a building near by there was an old faded pink curtain that had been
cast aside. It was thought to be no longer useful. Within twenty-four
hours the curtain was brought over and hoisted, and the floor of the
stage adjacent to the office was covered with paint pails, brushes,
and water colors. With dogged determination they decided to finish the
painting during the holiday vacation. A few minutes before midnight on
New Year’s Eve the last stroke of the brush was made. The quaint cottage,
the snow white-capped mountain, the tumbling waterfall and the steep
ascending cliffs were painted in a manner which brought many favorable
comments from competent art critics. The blending of the colors was
magnificent. It was genuine art. The beauty of it all was that these two
young men found that they could express themselves even on canvas.
Just as they had painted their scenery on the stage of the theater, so
did they write their play, acting out each line before they put it in
final form for presentation. Often they worked all night until four
o’clock in the morning. They called their play “The Raindrops.” The theme
is told in the second act of the play. The scene represents the interior
of an Icelandic home. It is evening. The family circle has gathered.
Some are sewing and others knitting. The children want to hear a story.
Sveinn, one of the characters in the play, finally says to them, “All
right then, if you are quiet, I will tell you the story of the raindrops
who met in the sky.” And he narrates the following which the children
listen to with rapt attention.
“Once there were two raindrops away-way high up in the clouds. The sun
had just lately smiled at them as they were playing in the big ocean, and
his smile had drawn them up into the sky. Now as they danced and sported
about in its radiance he decked them in all the bright and beautiful
colors of the rainbow; and they were so happy over being rid of the dirt
and salt that they almost forgot themselves for joy.
But somehow there seemed to be something that reminded them of the past.
They felt as if they had met before. Finally one said, “Say, friend,
haven’t we met before?” “That is just what I’ve been thinking,” said
friend. “Where have you been, comrade?”
“I’ve been on the broad prairies on the west side of the big mountain
that you see down there,” answered comrade.
“Oh,” said friend, “and I’ve been on the green slope on the east side of
the mountain. I had a friend who fell at the same time as I did, and we
were going to keep together, but unfortunately he fell on the other side
of the ridge.”
“That was too bad,” said comrade, “the same thing happened to me but my
friend fell on the east side just close to that stone you see down there.”
“Why, that is just where I fell,” said friend. This was enough—they could
scarcely contain themselves with joy over meeting and recognizing one
another again.
After they had danced one another around for a while, shaken hands a
dozen times or more, and slapped one another on the back till they
were all out of breath, friend said, “Now, comrade, tell me all about
everything that has happened to you.”
“And you’ll have to tell me everything that you have seen,” said comrade.
“Yes, I’ll do that,” said friend, and then comrade began:
“Well, I fell on the west side of that stone, as you know. At first I
felt kind of bad, but I gradually got over it and began to move in the
same direction as the others I saw around me. At first I could not move
fast, for I was so small that every little pebble blocked my road, but
then the raindrops held a meeting and agreed to work together to help
one another along and I joined the company to help form a pretty little
brook. In this way we were able to push big stones out of our road and we
were so happy that we laughed and played and danced in the sunlight which
shone to the bottom of the brook, for we were not too many and we were
all clean.
“Gradually more and more joined us till we became a big river. Nothing
could any longer stand in our road and we became so proud of our strength
that we tore up the earth and dug out a deep, deep path that everyone
might see.
“But then our troubles began. We became so awfully dirty that the sun no
longer reached any but those on top, while others were forced to stay in
the dark. They groaned under the weight of those up higher, while at the
same time they tore up from the bottom more and more filth.
“I wanted to get out of it all, but there didn’t seem to be any way.
I tried to get up on the big, broad banks where all sorts of crops
were growing, but I was met and carried back by others rushing on into
the river, evidently without realizing where they were going. The
current tossed me about, first in the sunshine and then in the depths
of darkness, and I had no rest till at last I got into the great ocean.
There I rested and washed off most of the dirt.”
“I wish I could have seen the river,” said friend, “but why didn’t you
spread out more, so as to help the crops on the plains and so that all
might have sunlight?”
“I don’t know,” said comrade, “First we wanted to leave a deep path for
others to see, and then later it seemed that we were helpless in the
current that we ourselves had started. You must now tell me your story.”
“Yes,” said friend. “I fell on the east side of that stone, and when I
couldn’t find you I started east, because I saw the sun there. After a
while I bumped into a great big stone which was right across my path. It
was such an ugly thing that I got angry and said, ‘Get out of my way, you
ugly thing, or I’ll get all the other raindrops together and roll you out
of the road.’
“Oh, no, do not do that,” said the stone, “for I am sheltering a
beautiful flower from the wind, but I’ll lift myself up a little so you
can crawl under.”
“It was awfully dark and nasty and creepy under the stone, and I didn’t
like it a bit, but when I came out into the sunshine and saw the
beautiful flowers on the other side I was glad that I hadn’t spoiled
their shelter.”
“‘Isn’t this lovely?’ said a raindrop near me, ‘let us go and look at
all the flowers.’ Then a crowd of raindrops that had gathered said, ‘Let
us spread out more and more and give them all a drink,’ and we went
among the flowers on the slope and in the valleys. As we watered them
they smiled back at us till their smiles almost seemed brighter than
the sunlight. When evening came we went down the little brooks over the
waterfalls and hopped and danced in the eddy while we told one another
about the things we had seen. There were raindrops from the glaciers and
from the hot springs, from the lava fields and from the green grassy
slopes, and from the lofty mountain peaks, where all the land could be
seen. Then we went on together singing over the level plains and into the
ocean.”
For awhile neither one said anything. Then comrade spoke, “Yes, when I go
back I’ll get the others to go with me and we’ll spread out more—and now
I am going back. See the grain down there, how dry it is. Now I’m going
to get the other raindrops to spread out over the plains and give all the
plants a drink and in that way help everyone else.”
“But see the flowers there on the slope on the east side,” said friend.
“They’ll fade if I don’t go down again to help them.”
“We’ll meet again,” said both, as they dashed off to help the flowers and
the grain.
The story ends. A pause ensues and Herdis, the old, old lady in the play
says, “Yes, we are all raindrops.”
It is a beautiful thought and exceptionally well worked out in the play.
The raindrops are brothers. One’s name is Sveinn. He lives in Iceland.
The other is Snorri. His home is America. Snorri crosses the ocean to
tell Sveinn about America. Upon his arrival he meets a girl named Asta
and falls in love with her, little thinking that she is the betrothed
of his brother Sveinn. Asta is a beautiful girl. She has large blue eyes
and light hair which she wears in a long braid over her left shoulder. In
act three, when speaking to Asta, Snorri says, “Sometimes I think I am
the raindrop that fell on the other side of the ridge, and that my place
may be there; but then I think of the many things I have learned to love
here—the beautiful scenery, the midnight sun, the simple and unaffected
manners of the people, their hospitality, and probably more than anything
else some of the people I have come to know. A few of these especially I
have learned to love.”
It does not dawn upon Snorri that Asta has given her hand to his brother
Sveinn until the fourth and last act of the play. The scene is a most
impressive one. It was something the authors had painted themselves.
At the right stands the quaint little sky-blue cottage, with its long
corrugated tin roof. To the left, the stony cliffs rise. In the distance
the winding road, the tumbling waterfall, and snow-capped mountain can
be seen. Near the doorway of the cottage there is a large rock on which
Asta often sits in the full red glow of the midnight sun.
As the curtain goes up Snorri enters, looks at his watch, and utters
these words, “They are all asleep, but I must see her to-night.” He
gently goes to the door, quietly raps, turns and looks at the scenery,
and says: “How beautiful are these northern lights! I’ve seen them before
stretching like a shimmering curtain across the northern horizon, with
tongues of flame occasionally leaping across the heavens; but here they
are above me, and all around me, till they light up the scene so that
I can see even in the distance the rugged and snow-capped hills miles
away. How truly the Icelandic nation resembles the country—like the old
volcanoes which, while covered with a sheet of ice and snow, still have
burning underneath, the eternal fires.”
Asta then appears in the doorway and exclaims, “Snorri.” After an
exchange of greetings they sit down and talk. Snorri tells Asta of his
love and finally asks her to become his wife. Asta is silent. She turns
and looks at the northern lights, then bows her head and with her hands
carelessly thrown over her knees she tells him that it cannot be—that it
is Sveinn.
Snorri arises, moves away, covers his face with his hands and exclaims,
“Oh, God! I never thought of that. What a blind fool I have been!” As
Asta starts to comfort him Sveinn appears in the doorway, sees them
and starts to turn away, but in so doing makes a little noise. Snorri
startled, quickly looks around and says, “Sveinn, come here. I have been
blind; will you forgive me?” Then he takes Asta’s hand and places it in
Sveinn’s, bids them good-by and starts to leave.
Sveinn says, “Snorri! Where are you going? You are not leaving us at this
time of night, and in sorrow?”
Snorri, returning, looks at the quaint little cottage, the waterfall, and
then at Asta and Sveinn, pauses a moment, and says, “Perhaps we shall
meet again—like the raindrops.” The curtain falls and the play ends.
Neither of these young men who wrote the play ever had any ambition
to become a playwright, a scene painter, or an actor. To-day, one is
a successful country-life worker in the great northwest. The other is
interested in harnessing the water power which is so abundant in his
native land.
When the play was presented, the audience sat spellbound, evidently
realizing that two country lads had found hidden life forces in
themselves which they never knew they possessed. All they needed, like
thousands of others who live in the country and even in the city, was
just a chance to express themselves.
Authors of play—M. Thorfinnson and E. Briem.
COUNTRY FOLKS
There are literally millions of people in country communities to-day
whose abilities along various lines have been hidden, simply because
they have never had an opportunity to give expression to their talents.
In many respects this lack of self-expression has been due to the social
conditions existing in the country, the narrow-minded attitude of society
toward those who till the soil, and the absence of those forces which
seek to arouse the creative instincts and stimulate that imagination and
initiative in country people which mean leadership.
Social stagnancy is a characteristic trait of the small town and the
country. Community spirit is often at a low ebb. Because of the stupid
monotony of the village and country existence, the tendency of the people
young and old is to move to larger centers of population. Young people
leave the small town and the country because of its deadly dullness. They
want Life. The emptiness of rural environment does not appeal to them.
The attitude of mind of the country youth is best expressed by Gray in
his “Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard” which runs as follows:
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
Many young people find the town and country dead simply because they
crave fellowship and social enjoyment. When an afternoon local train
passes through a certain section of any state, people gather at every
station, some to meet their friends, others to bid their friends
farewell, and dozens to see some form of life. With many it is the only
excitement that enters their lives, except on extraordinary occasions.
After the harvest many a country lad goes to the city to enjoy a feast of
entertainment, in order to satisfy his social hunger.
A few years ago the national Department of Agriculture sent out hundreds
of letters to country women, asking them what would make life in the
country districts more attractive. Hundreds of the replies which were
received from practically every section of America told the story of
social starvation and the needs of country communities. One woman from
Kansas in her reply wrote:
“We hope you can help us to consolidate schools and plan
them under a commission of experts in school efficiency and
community education. Through this commission we could arrange
clubs, social unions, and social, instructive, and educational
entertainments. We ought not to be compelled to go to town
for doubtful amusements, but, rousing the civic pride of the
community, have the best at home.”
Another one from Wyoming in her letter stated that she thought the
country child had the same right to culture and refinement as the city
child. A woman whose home was in Massachusetts gave the following
suggestions in her reply:
“On the side of overcoming the emptiness of rural life;
articles suggesting courses of reading both along the line of
better farming and of subjects of public interest. Perhaps the
wider use of the rural school or church for social centers,
or for discussion by farmers, their wives, sons and daughters
might be suggested.”
A letter written from Florida contained the following:
“First, a community center where good lectures, good music,
readings, and demonstrations might be enjoyed by all, a public
library station. We feel if circulating libraries containing
books that can be suggested on purity, hygiene, social service,
and scientific instruction, that our women in the rural
districts need to read for the protection of their children;
also books on farming and poultry raising, botany, culture of
flowers, and many other themes that will help them to discover
the special charm and advantage of living in the pure air and
being familiar with the beauties of nature and thereby make our
people desire to stay on the farms.”
[Illustration: Social Stagnancy is a Characteristic Trait of the Small
Town and the Country]
A letter from Tennessee said: “Education is the first thing needed;
education of every kind. Not simply agricultural education, although that
has its place; not merely the primary training offered by the public
schools in arithmetic, reading, grammar, etc. I mean the education
that unfastens doors and opens up vistas; the education that includes
travel, college, acquaintance with people of culture; the education
that makes one forget the drudgery of to-day in the hope of to-morrow.
Sarah Barnwell Elliott makes a character in one of her stories say that
the difference between himself (a mountaineer) and the people of the
university town is ‘vittles and seein’ fur.’ The language of culture
would probably translate that into ‘environment and vision.’ It is the
‘seein’ fur’ that farm women need most, although lots of good might
be done by working some on the ‘vittles.’ Fried pork and sirup and
hot biscuit and coffee have had a lot to do with the ‘vision’ of many
a farmer and farmer’s wife. A good digestion has much to do with our
outlook on life. Education is such an end in itself, if it were never
of practical use. But one needs it all on the farm and a thousand
times more. ‘Knowledge is power,’ as I learned years ago from my copy
book. But even if it were not, it is a solace for pain and a panacea
for loneliness. You may teach us farm women to kill flies, stop eating
pork, and ventilate our homes; but if you will put in us the thirst
for knowledge you will not need to do these things. We will do them
ourselves.”
A note from North Carolina read something like this:
“The country woman needs education, recreation, and a better
social life. If broad-minded, sensible women could be appointed
to make monthly lectures at every public schoolhouse
throughout the country, telling them how and what to do,
getting them together, and interesting them in good literature
and showing them their advantages, giving good advice,
something like a ‘woman’s department’ in magazines, this would
fill a great need in the life of country women. Increase our
social life and you increase our pleasures, and an increase of
pleasure means an increase of good work.”
All these answers and many more show something of the social conditions
in the country so far as women are concerned. In other words, older
people desert the country because they want better living conditions and
more social and educational advantages for themselves and their children.
Moral degeneracy in the country, like the city, is usually due to lack
of proper social recreation. When people have something healthful with
which to occupy their minds, they scarcely ever think of wrong-doing. A
noted student of social problems recently said that the barrenness of
country life for the girl growing into womanhood, hungry for amusement,
is one reason why so many girls in the country go to the city. Students
of science attribute the cause of many of the cases of insanity among
country people to loneliness and monotony. That something fundamental
must be done along social lines in the country communities in order to
help people find themselves, nobody will dispute. Already mechanical
devices, transportation facilities, and methods of communication have
done much to eliminate the drudgery, to do away with isolation, and to
make country life more attractive.
An influence which has done a good deal to stifle expression in country
people has been the narrow-minded attitude certain elements in society
have taken toward those who till the soil. When these elements have
wanted to belittle their city friends’ intelligence or social standing,
they have usually dubbed them “old farmers.” Briefly stated, the quickest
way to insult a man’s thinking power or social position has been to
give him the title “farmer.” The world has not entirely gotten over the
“Hey-Rube” idea about those who produce civilization’s food supply. A
certain stigma is still attached to the vocation. As a group, country
people have in many places been socially ostracized for centuries.
A social barrier still exists between the city-bred girl and the
country-bred boy. As a result, all these things have had a tendency to
destroy the country man’s pride in his profession. This has weakened his
morale and his one ambition has been to get out of something in which he
cannot be on an equal with other people, and consequently he has retired.
Goldsmith in “The Deserted Village” hit the nail on the head when he said:
“Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,
When once destroyed, can never be supplied.”
To be an honest tiller of the soil, to be actively engaged in feeding
humanity, should be one of the noblest callings known to mankind and
carry with it a social prestige. The Chinese Emperor used to plow a
furrow of land once a year to stamp his approval upon agriculture. The
reason Washington, Lincoln, Justin Morrill, and Roosevelt became so
keenly interested in country life was that they saw the significance of
it and its importance to the world. George Washington was a farmer, a
country gentleman. Mount Vernon is a country estate, a large farm. The
father of our country believed that a great country people was the basic
foundation of a great America. Thomas Jefferson once said, “The chosen
people are those who till the soil.” When you ridicule any people, they
are not likely to express their talents and the finer instincts which
lie hidden in them. A weak rural morale eventually means rural decay.
The heart of rural America will never beat true until society looks upon
agriculture as a life, as something to get into and not steer away from
or get out of its environment.
Another factor which has retarded the expression of the hidden abilities
of those who live in the small towns and country communities has been the
absence of any force which seeks to arouse the creative instincts and to
stimulate the imagination and initiative. Even to-day, those agencies in
charge of country-life problems, as well as city life, direct very little
of their energies into channels which give color and romance and a social
spirit to these folks. The most interesting part of any country community
or neighborhood is the people who live in it. Unless they are satisfied
with their condition, it is little use to talk better farming. A retired
farmer is usually one who is dissatisfied with country life. A social
vision must be discovered in the country, that will not only keep great
men who are country born in the country, but also attract others who live
in the cities.
The impulse to build up a community spirit in a rural neighborhood may
come from without, but the true genuine work of making country life more
attractive must come from within. The country people themselves must
work out their own civilization. A country town or district must have an
individuality or mind of its own. The mind of a community is the mind of
the people who live in it. If they are big and broad and generous, so is
the community. Folks are folks, whether they live in the city or country.
In most respects their problems are identical.
It is a natural condition for people to crave self-expression. In years
gone by men who have been born and reared on the farm have left it and
gone to the city, in order to find a place for the expression of their
talents. This migration has done more to hinder than to set forward the
cause of civilization. People who live in the country must find their
true expression in their respective neighborhoods, just as much as do
people who live in the city. You cannot continually take everything out
of the country and cease to put anything back into it. The city has
always meant expression—the country, repression. Talent usually goes to
the congested centers of population to express itself. For generations
when a young man or woman has had superior ability along some particular
line and lived in the country, their friends have always advised them to
move to a large center of population where their talents would find a
ready expression. You and I, for instance, who have encouraged them to go
hither, have never thought that we were sacrificing the country to build
the city. This has been a mistake. We all know it.
Over fifty years ago a country doctor became the father of two boys. In
age they were five years apart. The doctor brought them up well and sent
them away to a medical school. Unlike most country-bred boys who go to
large cities, when they finished their courses they went back to the old
home town and began their practice. By using their creative instincts,
organizing power, imagination, and initiative, it was not long before
they became nationally known. People call their establishment “the
clinic in the cornfields.” To-day these “country doctors” treat over
fifty thousand patients. Their names are known wherever medical science
is known. Railroads run special sleepers hundreds of miles to their old
home town in Olmstead County, Minnesota, which, by the way, is one of the
richest agricultural counties in America. The great big thing about these
two men is that they found an opportunity for the expression of their
talents in a typical country community. They didn’t go to a large city,
they made thousands of city people come to them.
Conservatively speaking, there are over ten thousand small towns in
America to-day. More than ten million people live in them. These
communities are often meeting places for the millions whose homes are
in the open country. Rural folks still think of a community as that
territory with its people which lies within the team haul of a given
center. It is out in these places where the silent common people dwell.
It is in these neighborhood laboratories that a new vision of country
life is being developed. They are the cradles of democracy. It is here
that a force is necessary to democratize art so the common people can
appreciate it, science so they can use it, government so they can take a
part in it, and recreation so they can enjoy it.
The former Secretary of Agriculture aptly expressed the importance of the
problem when he said:
“The real concern in America over the movement of rural
population to urban centers is whether those who remain in
agriculture after the normal contribution to the city are the
strong, intelligent, well seasoned families, in which the best
traditions of agriculture and citizenship have been lodged
from generation to generation. The present universal cry of
‘keep the boy on the farm’ should be expanded into a public
sentiment for making country life more attractive in every way.
When farming is made profitable and when the better things of
life are brought in increasing measure to the rural community,
the great motives which lead youth and middle age to leave
the country districts will be removed. In order to assure a
continuance of the best strains of farm people in agriculture,
there can be no relaxation of the present movements for a
better country life, economic, social, and educational.”
THE LAND OF THE DACOTAHS
A skilled physician when he visits a sick room always diagnoses the case
of the patient before he administers a remedy. In order to comprehend
thoroughly the tremendous significance the Land of the Dacotahs bears in
its relation to the solution of the problem of country life in America,
one must know something about the commonwealth and its people.
North Dakota is a prairie state. Its land area comprises seventy-one
thousand square miles of a rich black soil equal in its fertility to
the deposits at the delta of the River Nile in Egypt. There are over
forty million acres of tillable land. The state has one of the largest
undeveloped lignite coal areas in the world.
Its climate is invigorating. The air is dry and wholesome. The summer
months are delightful. The fields of golden grain are inviting. The
winters, on the other hand, are long and dreary, and naturally lonely.
People are prone to judge the climate of the state by its blizzards.
Those who do, forget this fact—a vigorous climate always develops a
healthy and vigorous people. No geographical barriers break the monotony
of the lonesome prairie existence. A deadly dullness hovers over each
community.
The population of the state is distinctly rural. Over seventy per cent of
the people live in un-incorporated territory. Seven out of every eight
persons are classed as rural. The vocation of the masses is agriculture.
Everybody, everywhere, every day in the state talks agriculture. At
the present time there are about two hundred towns with less than five
hundred inhabitants.
One of the most interesting characteristics of this prairie commonwealth
is its population. They are a sturdy people, strong in heart and broad in
mental vision. The romance of the Indian and the cowboy, the fur-trader
and the trapper, has been the theme of many an interesting tale. The
first white settler, who took a knife and on bended knee cut squares
of sod and built a shanty and faced long hard winters on this northern
prairie, is a character the whole world loves and honors. Several years
ago an old schoolmaster, whose home is not so very far from Minnehaha
Falls, delivered a “Message to the Northwest” which typifies the spirit
of these people. He said in part:
“I am an old man now, and have seen many things in the world. I
have seen this great country that we speak of as the Northwest,
come, in my lifetime, to be populous and rich. The forest has
fallen before the pioneer, the field has blossomed, and the
cities have risen to greatness. If there is anything that an
old man eighty years of age could say to a people among whom he
has spent the happiest days of his life, it is this: We live
in the most blessed country in the world. The things we have
accomplished are only the beginning. As the years go on, and
always we increase our strength, our power, and our wealth, we
must not depart from the simple teachings of our youth. For the
moral fundamentals are the same and unchangeable. Here in the
Northwest we shall make a race of men that shall inherit the
earth. Here in the distant years, when I and others who have
labored with me shall long have been forgotten, there will be
a power in material accomplishment, in spiritual attainment,
in wealth, strength, and moral influence, the like of which
the world has not yet seen. This I firmly believe. And the
people of the Northwest, moving ever forward to greater things,
will accomplish all this as they adhere always to the moral
fundamentals, and not otherwise.”
The twenty-odd nationalities who live in the Dacotahs came from lands
where folklore was a part of their everyday life. Many a Norseman—and
there are nearly two hundred thousand people of Scandinavian origin,
Norwegians, Danes, Swedes, and Icelanders, in the state—knows the story
of Ole Bull, the famous violinist, who when a lad used to take his
instrument, go out in the country near the waterfalls, listen attentively
to the water as it rushed over the abyss, then take his violin, place
it under his chin, and draw the bow across the strings, to see whether
he could imitate the mysterious sounds. Most of these Norse people live
in the northern and eastern section of the state. The hundred thousand
citizens whose ancestors came from the British Isles—the English, the
Welsh, the Scotch, the Irish, and the Canadians—know something of
Shakespeare and Synge and Bobbie Burns. Ten years ago there were sixty
thousand people of Russian descent and forty-five thousand of Teutonic
origin in the state. They were acquainted with Tolstoy and Wagner.
Greeks, Italians, and Turks, besides many other nationalities, live in
scattered sections of the state. In fact, seventy-two per cent of the
citizens of the state are either foreign born or of foreign descent. All
these people came originally from countries whose civilizations are much
older than our own. All have inherited a poetry, a drama, an art, a life
in their previous national existence, which, if brought to light through
the medium of some great American ideal and force, would give to the
state and the country a rural civilization such as has never been heard
of in the history of the world. All these people are firm believers in
American ideals.
One excellent feature in connection with the life of the people who live
in Hiawatha’s Land of the Dacotahs is their attitude toward education.
They believe that knowledge is power. Out on these prairies they have
erected schoolhouses for the training of their youth. To-day there are
nearly five hundred consolidated schools in the state. One hundred and
fifty of these are in the open country, dozens of which are many miles
from any railroad. Twenty-three per cent of the state area is served by
this class of schools. Much of the social life of a community is centered
around the school, the church, the village or town hall, and the home.
The greater the number of activities these institutions indulge in for
the social and civic betterment of the whole community, the more quickly
the people find themselves and become contented with their surroundings.
In most respects, however, North Dakota is not unlike other states.
People there are actually hungry for social recreation. The prairies are
lonely in the winter. Thousands of young men and women whose homes are in
rural communities, when asked what they wanted out in the country most,
have responded, “More Life.” The heart hunger of folks for other folks is
just the same there as everywhere.
THE LITTLE COUNTRY THEATER
With a knowledge of these basic facts in mind, as well as a personal
acquaintance with hundreds of young men and women whose homes are in
small communities and country districts, the idea of The Little Country
Theater was conceived by the author. A careful study of hundreds and
literally thousands of requests received from every section of the state,
as well as of America and from many foreign countries, for suitable
material for presentation on public programs and at public functions,
showed the necessity of a country life laboratory to test out various
kinds of programs.
The idea conceived became an actual reality when an old, dingy, dull-grey
chapel on the second floor of the administration building at the North
Dakota Agricultural College, located at Fargo, North Dakota, was
remodeled into what is now known as “The Little Country Theater.” It
was opened the tenth day of February in the year nineteen hundred and
fourteen. In appearance it is most fascinating. It is simply a large
playhouse put under a reducing glass. It is just the size of an average
country town hall. It has a seating capacity of two hundred. The stage is
thirty feet in width, twenty feet in depth, having a proscenium opening
of ten feet in height and fifteen feet in width. There are no boxes and
balconies. The decorations are plain and simple.
The color scheme is green and gold, the gold predominating. Three beams
finished in golden oak cross the mansard ceiling, the beams projecting
down several feet on each side wall, from which frosted light bowls and
globes are suspended by brass log chains, the indirect lighting giving a
soft and subdued tone to the whole theater. The eight large windows are
hung with tasteful green draperies. The curtain is a tree-shade green
velour. The birch-stained seats are broad and not crowded together.
There is a place for a stereopticon and a moving picture machine. The
scenery is simple and plain. Whenever possible, green curtains are used.
Simplicity is the keynote of the theater. It is an example of what can be
done with hundreds of village halls, unused portions of school houses,
vacant country stores and basements of country churches in communities.
[Illustration: An Old Dingy, Dull-Grey Chapel on the Second Floor of
the Administration Building was Remodeled Into What Is Now Known as The
Little Country Theater]
There are three unique features in connection with The Little Country
Theater which deserve special mention—the tower, the attic or “hayloft,”
and the package library system.
The tower is just to the right of the lower end of the stage. It, too, is
plain and simple. It is used as a study and contains materials gathered
from all over the world on the social side of country life.
The attic is to the left of the stage and up a flight of stairs. It
was formerly an old garret. For over twenty years it was unused. It
is the workshop of the theater and contains committee rooms, dressing
rooms, a property room, a costume wardrobe, a small kitchen, and a
dining room which will comfortably seat seventy-five persons. In many
respects it corresponds to the basement of a community building, a
church, or an addition tacked on to a village hall. It is often used
for an exhibit hall or a scenic studio. In short, The Little Country
Theater is a typical rural community center, a country-life laboratory.
One significant feature about this experimental laboratory is that the
birch-stained seats, the green curtains, the scenic effects, the stage
properties, the five hundred costumes, the furniture, the dishes, and
all the other necessities have been bought with funds taken in from
entertainments and plays, thereby demonstrating that any community can do
the same. Endowments in the country are always difficult to raise.
Twelve years ago a country school-teacher sent in a request for some
program material. Three personal copies of plays were sent to her, one
of which she staged. It was not very long before others heard where
she secured her data and many inquiries followed. Out of this request,
together with an acquaintance with an old, white-haired man who had just
started a similar system at a leading western university, the package
library idea came into existence. It is a sort of an intellectual rural
free delivery. One might call it the backbone of The Little Country
Theater. In order to understand thoroughly the importance of the service
which the system renders it will be necessary to say something about the
aim of the work, its scope, how the data is gathered, and the practical
results already obtained.
The aim of the package library system is to vitalize all the sources of
information which can be used for material for presentation on public
programs. Its chief object is to make the schools, the churches, the
homes, and the village or town halls, centers of community activity where
men and women and their children, young and old, can meet just to talk
over things, to find out the normal human life forces and life processes,
and really to discover themselves.
The field of work is the state and its people. The scope of the service
is broad. Any individual or group of people in the state can obtain
program material simply by writing and asking for it.
In order to render the best aid possible, the system gathers data and
information from reliable sources. Briefs upon subjects relating to
country life, copies of festivals, pageants, plays, readings, dialogues,
pictures of floats, parades, processions, exhibit arrangements,
costume designs, character portrayals, plans of stages, auditoriums,
open-air theaters, community buildings, constitutions of all kinds of
organizations, catalogues of book publishers—in short, every kind of
material necessary in building a program which will help people to
express themselves—are loaned for reading purposes to citizens of the
state. A few minutes’ talk with anybody interested in getting up programs
in small communities will soon show the dearth of material along these
lines.
In the years gone by, as well as in the present, the letters which come
to the desk daily have told many an interesting story.
An energetic teacher in a country school in the northern part of the
state sent for several copies of plays and play catalogues. None of
the plays sent suited her. She decided to give an original play, “The
Comedy.” When asked for a description of the staging of the original
production, she sent the following letter, which is indicative of what
people really can do in the country to find themselves.
“When I wrote to you about ‘The Comedy,’ I do not know what
idea I gave you of it; perhaps not a very true one; so I am
sending you a copy. The little song is one I learned from a
victrola record, so the music may not be correct, but with
a little originality, can be used. The little play has the
quality of making the people expect something extraordinary,
but when performed, the parts are funny, but still not funny
enough to produce a ‘roar.’ They are remembered and spoken of
long afterwards. Now around here we often hear parts spoken
of. I enjoyed training the young people, and they were quite
successful. I have found that every place I go people in the
country enjoy the school programs very much and speak of them
often. We wanted to take some pictures, but could not. The
weather was so cloudy before and afterward that we could not
take any, but may this Sunday afternoon. I wish I knew just
what to write about or just what you wish to know. I liked our
arrangements of lights. We only had lanterns. A dressing room
was curtained off and the rest of the space clear. We hung four
lanterns in a row, one below the other, and had one standing
on the floor at the side opposite from the dressing room, and
then one on the floor and one held by the man who pulled the
curtain on the other side. This gave splendid light. There was
no light near the audience except at the organ.
“Hoping you will enjoy reading ‘The Comedy’ as much as we did
playing and writing it, I am
“Yours sincerely,
“A. K.”
There is something very human about a letter when it solicits your
personal help and suggestions. To quote from several of the thousands
received will not only show the need for the package library, because of
the scarcity of material in small towns and the country, but also give an
insight into the mind of the people themselves.
“Barton, N. D., October 23, 1911.
“Gentlemen:—Would you kindly send a copy of the following
plays: Corner Store, The Deestrick Skule, Country Romance, Pa’s
Picnic, A Rival by Request, School for Scandal, Tempest in a
Tea-pot, Which is Which.
“I wish to get up an entertainment in my school and wish you
could help me select a play which would not require too much
room and too many actors. Will return the ones I do not use
immediately. Any favor which you may render will be greatly
appreciated.
“Very respectfully,
“E. S.”
“Gilby, N. D., Jan. 18, 1912.
“Dear Sir:—
“Will you please forward your list of amateur plays. We are
about to stage the annual H. S. play, and find it rather
difficult to select a play not too sentimental in characters.
We would like one for 5-7 boys and 5-8 girls. Our hall is small
with cramped stage room, and the scene must be quite simple.
If you have any suggestions to offer or any sample play to
forward for examination, will you kindly let us know as soon as
possible.
“Yours very truly,
“E. F. L.”
Ross, N. D., Jan. 22, 1913.
“Dear Sir:—
“Enclosed find plays, also stamps to cover mailing expenses.
“Please send me the following amateur plays: Exerbition of
District Skule, Mock Trial, Scrap of Paper, Sugar and Cream.
Please send also the following as listed under package
libraries: Manual Training, School House as an Art Gallery,
School House as a Social Center, Fireless Cooker.
“Yours truly,
“M. C.”
“Backoo, N. D., Jan. 24, 1914.
“Dear Sir:—
“I rec’d the packet of information on Country Life and will
return it after our next meeting the 27th. Can you send me two
or three dialogues suitable for a Literary Society in a rural
district. We have 6 or 8 young ladies that might take part but
very few young men. And will you suggest a few subjects for
debate of interest and benefit to a country community.
“Yours truly,
“J. B. P.”
“Austin, N. D., Feb. 11, 1914.
“Gentlemen:—
“I should be very glad if you could send me a short play of say
30 or 45 minutes length as you mentioned in Nov. We are using
the schoolhouse as a meeting place and so have not much room on
the stage. Could use one requiring from 4 to 8 characters.
“Yours truly,
“H. W. B.”
[Illustration: It Has a Seating Capacity of Two Hundred]
“Verona, N. D., Feb. 14, 1915.
“Dear Mr. ⸺: