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13 Warm Morning at Ft. Totten The single pane windows rattle like a Gatling gun, the punishing Dakota plains winter relentless. The little boys march to the bathroom down two flights of wood stairs, through a long narrow hallway, dark. The cement troughs sit low, two boys to a trough, a seashell shaped depression for the rough soap, each boy has his own spigot of cold water. They are marched back to their dorm, marched by the cast iron wood stove, stamped Warm Morning, shivering, hungry, bone tired from work in the barn, in the fields, in the harness shop, marching, always marching. The stove stands sentinel at the head of the room, listening to the snaps of springs, as tiny limbs seek warmth. ...

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