It's a great little schoolhouse, and a great old photo ... but the best part is that the building is still around today. And not only that, it still serves as an operating one-room school! How cool is that?

a post a day from the big sky country: history, photos, sights, trivia, quotes.
At 85 miles an hour an insect splattered
like saffron on the windshield
and a white cloud in blue sky above the
speed-curried bug
This morning a negro, one of the boat hands, fell overboard. No effort was made to save him and he sank to rise no more, the crew standing about watching for him to rise. Having discovered the excellence of the view, from the same I spent most of the day in though wheel house. Passed a herd of buffalo & saw hundreds of wild geese with their young. They did not attempt to fly away as our boat approached, but sinking their bodies into the water floated in foolish security, leaving only their heads visible. Passed Fort Hawley, a post erected last year for the purpose of trading with the Indians. Past the point and saw the remains of a trading post directed by steel and burned by the Indians. Passed the “Yorktown” and “Mountaineer” on the last of which I saw Billy Childs and his newly elected wife. The boats, both upward and downward bound, are this year filled with families, some going home to educate their children or flying to the comforts not to be found in the Rocky Mountains. Others are coming up river to meet their husbands who have gone ahead and prepared homes for them. One Jew and his wife came up on the “Waverley” and, after looking about Fort Benton for a week, concluded that Montana was not the place for him. Accordingly he hired himself to the same boat and is at present engaged in packing wood from the flats or peeling potatoes, as the case may be.
Up at sunrise & started for “the City.” Made about 22 miles & camped. Breakfasted on corned beef which one of our party got from the horsemen. A small piece left for dinner. Arrived in “the City” at about 5 o'clock, having had some difficulty in getting through the Toll Gate, as the toll was $10 and we had “nary a red [cent].” Very faint, weak, weary, and homesick. Had only $2 in my pocket. Reached the top of the divide and instead of seeing a city I saw nothing but a collection of log cabins constituting the city of Nevada. Descending the hill with our horses on the run we crossed the gulch and entered Nevada, driving through the only business street the place affords. Our spirits were not improved by noticing that almost every other store we passed was “To Rent.” After driving about 2 miles along the gulch we suddenly came upon Virginia City situated on both sides of the gulch. The stores are of a much superior order to those in Nevada City and half a doz. of them are very fine looking buildings. “Everybody and his cousin” here seems to live in a log cabin and mud roof. Our boys are all broke and I, having only $2 to stand me a month, we were a hungry looking set. One of them borrowed some money from a friend, however, and we went to an eating saloon and filled ourselves, a process of half to three quarters of an hour duration. I felt decidedly famished, not having had a square meal in four days. Sent my horse out to a ranch owned by Cook & Co. at a cost of $3.00 a month. Slept in the dirt in the Saddle & Harness room of Cook's & Co.'s stable. Went to bed early as I felt sick. This is a very dull, desolate looking place. Did not find Johnny Van Ness here as I expected, which added considerable color to the Blues which I had.
At 2 1/2 o'clock I was awakened by “Knocking at my chamber door.” Proceeding to the stage office of Huntly's Line and waiting “diligently” for half an hour we were duly arranged, myself and five others -- I upon seat with the driver, bidding adieu to Ware. The crack of the drivers whip started four splendid American horses and away we sped. I had the enjoyment of a good cigar on a trip of 20 hours, as the advertisement says. My credentials, consisting of a bottle of whiskey and a bunch of cigars, being duly presented to the driver, he enlivened the very early hours of the morning by describing to me his various exploits in the "Jehu" line of business. A very pleasant man he seemed to us at starting. But, alas for appearances, our smiles were turned to frowns, are good humor to wrath, our good opinion to positive dislike -– long before we reached Fort Benton. With most diabolical persistency he continually sang out upon reaching any mud hole: “Now gentlemen if you will be so kind as to give me a lift for only 20 steps,” this is meaning that we were to walk through the mud and water from one to two miles, and in one case, four. The first station bore the euphonious name Silver Heels, a station consisting of fifteen houses and four tents. Here we change horses, taking, in place of our splendid American stock, a six course team of wild “cayuses.” Our driver, in throwing upon the seat some stones, accidentally struck our whiskey bottle and, “alas poor Yorick,” our troubles had commenced.
About eighty-five years ago a Montanan and a North Dakotan got caught stealing horses. Because there were no trees around to hang the horse thieves from, the Sheriff tried to hang them from a bridge.
The Montanan's rope broke, and he swam to shore and escaped.
As they were placing the rope around the North Dakotan's neck, he said to the Sheriff, "I hope this is a strong rope. I can't swim."
I smile at the stack of Bob Dylan CDs
you are not holding in the passenger seat.
Storm clouds have gathered. My "Wow" rises
over the harmonica for your benefit,
but you cannot see that one sunlit peak
in the midst of threatening sky. The road turns
wet at the "Welcome to Anaconda" sign,
and I pat my raincoat, loosely folded
where your lap should be. "Anaconda was almost
the state capital," I say, but that's all I know,
and you don't ask for more. You wouldn't mind
my singing and swerving onto the shoulder
for more snapshots over the car door.
And it's only when I get just south of Philipsburg
that your not being here feels like absence.
I want you to see these dark rotting barns,
roadkill of Highway One. It seems only you
could know why my eyes fill the road
with tears again when a flock of swallows
swoops through an open barn door
and rushes out the gaping roof.
I’ve just slipped past those guards of sleep
who tonight are more like Swedish policemen—
well-meaning but complacent—just as happy
to let me go on my way as detain me here
in this land of the conscious, when you begin
your rhapsodic mantra of barking at the door.
For this I would like to punish you or at least
give a gentle reminder that unlike you, I
haven’t been napping most of the day.
Instead, we are released into air so cold
it works like quicksand on my lungs,
sucking the oxygen from itself as I watch
you canter to the nearest snow drift in your
coat of shimmering black velvet.
With ice cuffs around your ankles,
you look dressed for a midnight ball.
We’re three days away from the longest
night of the year and if I wish for anything
as I count the trunks of the pines you’ve
disappeared into, it’s that heaven, too—
if there is a place we go after this—
will have such a similarly deep and inescapable
darkness for you to root among and for me
to marvel at while I wait for your return.