Herbert Arthur Krause (May 25, 1905 - September 22, 1976)[1] was an American historian, author and college professor. He was born and educated in Minnesota and South Dakota, where he taught and wrote. He was the author of novels, plays, poems, essays, and reviews.[2] He also worked towards preservation of cultural heritage.

Background[edit]

Herbert Arthur Krause, a third-generation German American,[3] was born on May 25, 1905, on a small farm in Friberg Township, Otter Tail County, north of Fergus Falls, Minnesota, to Arthur Adolph Krause (a farmer and blacksmith) and Bertha Peters. He was educated at St. Olaf College (B.A., 1933) and the University of Iowa (M.A., 1935).[4]

He taught at the University of Iowa starting in 1938. After the success of Wind Without Rain, he moved to Augustana College (now known as Augustana University) in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, where he taught in the English department and was director of the Center for Western Studies until his 1976 death.[5]

Career as writer[edit]

Krause was influenced by the writing of Ole Rolvaag, with whom he had hoped to study at St. Olaf but was unable to do so.[5] He wrote three novels, Wind Without Rain, The Thresher, and The Oxcart Trail, detailing the prairies of the American West. Herbert Krause won the Friends of American Writers Award in 1939 for Wind Without Rain.[6]

Death and legacy[edit]

Herbert Krause died of congestive heart failure in 1976, at the age of 71, in Sioux Falls.[1]

In 1978 he was inducted into the South Dakota Hall of Fame, in the category of Education & Cultural Affairs.[7] The Herbert A. Krause Collection at the Center for Western Studies contains collections of his papers and correspondence.[8]

Selected bibliography[edit]

For Johnny Black, the young man we meet in Herbert Krause's classic Minnesota farm novel The Thresher, his dream of becoming a member of a steam-powered threshing crew has come true. As fireman, he builds the fire that generates the steam and blows the whistle to wake up the rest of the crew.

Here was the new threshing rig and he a fireman. For this he had counted tomorrows and tomorrows. From all the weary days of sweat on the flats (and days before that), he had looked to this shouting hour when with pride in his arches he'd swing to the platform and handle the throttle. Now that hour had arrived, was present.