Laura Ingalls pressed her slate pencil so hard the tip snapped. She wanted to be the best teacher at the frontier schoolhouse someday, better than anyone who ever taught there. Her desk was covered with practice letters she'd copied from the primer. Each one had to be perfect, just like Mary's always were. Miss Henderson rang the brass handbell from the doorway. The clear sound meant lessons would start soon. Laura watched how her teacher held it, how she moved her wrist just so. A real teacher needed a bell like that to call students together. Laura tucked the broken pencil piece into her pocket and stood up. The schoolhouse sat beyond the meadow where wildflowers grew thick in spring. Its wooden walls held everything Laura wanted to learn. She could see the pot rack hanging near the window where Miss Henderson kept the lunch pails organized. Someday Laura would have her own schoolhouse to care for. She'd arrange everything perfectly and know each student's name by heart. Miss Henderson smiled at her from across the room. Laura's chest felt tight with wanting. She picked up her primer and walked to the front for recitation. Every lesson brought her closer. Every word she learned was another step toward standing where Miss Henderson stood now, bell in hand, teaching others the way she'd been taught.