Gincyworked hard every day. Each night she went to bed weary in mind and body, but the morning found her anxious to begin again. Saturday afternoon was free for long walking trips to Cowbell Hollow, Blue Lick, or the nearby peaks. Already an early frost had touched the tulip trees with spots of gold, the sumac showed a fiery rim, and Nature was doing her best to woo attention. Gincy and Urilla did not need the lure, their hearts were longing for the hills.
Miss Howard must have read their thoughts. Early Saturday morning she tapped at their door. “Girls, wouldn’t you like to go out to the bungalow on Indian Mountain this afternoon? The college team will take us and we can come back by moonlight to-morrow evening.”
“Of course we would!” both girls exclaimed. Then Gincy hugged the little teacher until she laughingly slipped away, admonishing them to be ready soon after lunch.
“We’ll get the room straightened out in a jiffy,” said Urilla before the door had fairlyclosed. “I’m so glad we’re going, honey, it’ll make you over.”
Gincy had never seen her calm room-mate quite so enthusiastic—her cheeks were flushed with excitement and she rushed around dusting the furniture with a vigorous hand. “I’d better clear out right away,” she laughed, “and see if there’s any mail. There won’t be enough left of me to go if you keep on the way you’ve started; you suck up the dust like a cyclone.”
“Bring me a letter from Talitha,” Urilla called after her.
It was four miles to Indian Mountain, the last two a steady climb—steep in places and sidling—but the five did not mind it. Zack and Zeke, the two fat mules belonging to the college farm, took a steady jog-trot until they reached the foot, and then slowed down for the long, hard pull. Lalla Ponder was poised recklessly near a mound of provisions guarded by some extra quilts. Her light curls and nimble tongue were in constant motion.
“I like tippy places and caves,” she said. “There’s one back in Clay that’s haunted, they say, but I’ve been in it and never cared a rap.”
“You’re never afraid of anything,” remarked Kizzie, looking up at her room-mate admiringly. “I don’t know where you haven’t been that’s crawl-y and creep-y.”
“Well, there’s one place on this mountain. I’ve never been all the way through Fat Man’s Misery.”
“Let’s all try hit,” Gincy proposed recklessly. “If hit can be done.”
“The boys often do it, but it’s a pretty hard climb for you girls,” said Miss Howard who sat with the driver.
“I’m going to build a fire in the fireplace and pop some corn,” Urilla suddenly remarked.
“Perhaps Gincy will help me sweep the bungalow before she goes exploring,” ventured Miss Howard with a twinkle.
“I reckon I will,” assented Gincy, catching the look of mischief. “You-all no ’count folks kin go on and have your fun; you’ll be back comin’ meal time.”
The wagon suddenly lurched, checking the chorus of protests. Lalla lost her balance, falling on Urilla. The basket of fruit and vegetables overturned and the driver halted for repairs. “Hit’s only a rock that big storm onsettled t’other night. Them ornery mules jest nachelly struck hit,” he said.
Back and forth the road wound, continually disclosing new vistas. In the coves farmers were gathering the “crap.” There were pine-capped crests, bare, tumbled rocks, stream beds showing traces of tempestuous high water, threaded now by tiny, twinkling rills. Beyond, and still beyond, reared peak after peak of the Cumberlands. Gincy looked eagerly toward the southeast. For a moment she almost imagined she could see the tiny cabin perched above Goose Creek.
After a hard climb of almost two hours, the level space on the mountain-top was reached. From a thicket of young trees they emerged into a cleared space where stood a long, red bungalow apparently without doors or windows. Built at the edge of a cliff, it commanded a wonderful view of the surrounding mountains and the Blue Grass country.
“Oh! We’re here at last!” Gincy tumbled out hastily. “Whar do you git in?”
“Down the chimney, of course,” laughed Urilla. “Look for the ladder under the bungalow.”
“You might watch and see how I do it,” said Miss Howard, producing a key and going around to the rear of the building. Presently she pushed up sections of the side—one by one—and lastly threw back the wide front doors.
Gincy stood for a moment enraptured. Below for miles was a fair, level country dotted with towns—another world of which she knew nothing. The sun was dipping westward toward a bluish-purple horizon.
By five o’clock everything was in order. “Not a lazy bone among you,” Miss Howard assured them. “Now scatter and have a good time.”
They needed no second bidding. Lalla led off at a break-neck speed. “We’ll start in at the cave and come back by Fat Man’s Misery; it’ll land us right in front of the bungalow.”
Urilla groaned. “Sh-h-h,” warned Kizzie,“we’re going to initiate Gincy; none of us are fat enough to get stuck, so you needn’t worry.”
“I’m not worrying,” answered Urilla reproachfully. “I’m tired after all my work this morning, but I’m not going to back out.”
The path to the cave led through a grove of young oaks. There were tall ferns and rhododendrons, and mountain laurel. Lalla paused at an immense fallen tree which seemed to block the way; its great roots hung over the yawning space below. Nimbly she sprang upon the giant trunk and disappeared on the other side, calling for the rest to follow.
When the three had done so, they caught a vanishing glimpse of Lalla descending hand over hand on the strong branch of a mammoth grapevine. Thirty feet below she landed upon the level surface of a mossy boulder. Gincy followed Kizzie, and Urilla came last. Before them was the large opening of the cave—a favourite haunt of the students, who from time to time occupied the college bungalow. At its rear, a long, wide crack in the solid rock led in a zigzag direction for twenty rods or more. The path was extremely narrow, and sloping at a sharp incline. Kizzie dodged ahead and Gincy was close behind. Each moment the former grew more reckless; she gathered her skirts around her and slid down a swift descent, the others following.
“Whew! but it’s dampish!” said Gincy. “Hear that water?”
A steady drip, drip, drip came from the walls. In the cracks were long fronded ferns, moss, and here and there wild geraniums. A cool draught struck them. At the farther end the rocks seemed almost to touch, and only a tiny thread of light showed from above. Gincy was close to Kizzie when they reached the narrowest part and began the long, tortuous climb.
“We’ll be ready for hot coffee by the time we get to the top,” called Urilla from the rear.
“I hope Miss Howard won’t fuss; I kin eat anythin’ I’m so hungry,” said Gincy.
“Of course she won’t fuss,” panted Kizzie. “She’s a born manager; she’ll have everything on the table in great shape and a picture painted to boot.”
Up, up, with a scanty, stony foothold, Gincy followed close behind Kizzie, her face growing redder, her breath shorter. The crack of blue was broadening, roots and stocky ferns afforded a surer grasp.
“We’re almost there!” Kizzie exulted. “What on earth are you doing with that stick, Gincy?”
“Watch me and see!” Dexterously Gincy inserted the short, stout stick crosswise above her head and swung up a long step to safe footing beside her leader. “Why, we’re up, aren’t we?” she said, astonished as her eyes caught a glimpse of the foundation of the bungalow a few yards away. The four pulledthemselves up the few remaining feet and dropped down in a weary, silent row on a big, flat stone which commanded a glorious view. Even Lalla’s twinkling eyes had lost their usual expression of mischief, and she sat soberly viewing the scene before her.
“Look, Kizzie,” exclaimed Urilla, pointing back to the open bungalow, “Miss Howard’s been to the spring for water, the table’s all set, and I can smell the chicken.”
Nancy Jane was up at sunrise the next morning. She and Mallie stole out of bed noiselessly and started for the spring—it was their turn to get water. There had been a heavy dew, but neither girl wore rubbers. “Another fine day,” said Mallie, stepping high. “Just look at the hills! We’re the highest.”
The winding footpath near the cliff’s edge gave a magnificent view of the peaks which formed a huge semicircle around Indian Mountain. “I’d almost like to live up here,” said Nancy Jane. “It’s more sightly than back in the hills and so near Bentville.”
The two stood near the sagging gate of a yard which had been swept clean as a floor. A few long-legged chickens stepped about gingerly. On the very edge of the cliff stood a low frame house, and near it a corn crib set high to keep out the rats. The path to the spring led through the yard.
“The Haggis family live here,” announced Mallie as she held the gate open. “MissHoward told me about them last night—they’re awfully poor.”
A small, fat boy wearing a single loose garment was busily playing in the rain barrel. He had a gourd with which he dipped the water out into a pail, sprinkling himself plentifully meanwhile. In the house breakfast was over, and Mrs. Haggis walked around heavily as though her night’s sleep had failed to rest her. She looked old from sickness and overwork; but the girls knew that look—nearly all the mountain women had it—and judged her to be about forty-five.
“Howdy,” she said, beaming at them as they approached the house. “I’m proud ter see ye. I was a-feelin’ jest as down-sperited an’ lonesome when ye druv up yistiddy, an’ all of a suddint the chickens begun ter crow like they knew you’d come. How’s Miss Howard? I think a heap o’ seein’ her every year.”
“She’s well,” smiled Nancy Jane, “and coming over to see you to-day. We were all pretty tired last night and went to bed early.”
“I hope our cow didn’t keep ye awake; Job found her thar come light this mornin’. I reckon she’s proud you’ve come—like we-uns.”
The girls laughed merrily. “Urilla drove her off in the night. She was browsing around the bushes ringing her bell like a fire alarm; it was too funny!” Mallie ended the recital with such evident enjoyment of the situation that Mrs. Haggis joined in the laugh.
“Hit’s comin’ two weeks sence a soul war on this mounting,” sighed the woman, “an’ I’m too porely ter travel any. Didn’t you never feel like you’d jest got ter talk to some one ’sides your own folks? When I’m shet of the men folks fer the day an’ can’t even see ’em workin’ in the cove or hear old Barb’s bell, thar ain’t a human ter talk to ’cept Elam, onless my Rodie comes up from the Hollow an’ packs her baby up these yere rocks.”
Mrs. Haggis was walking along with them toward the spring, talking eagerly. Little Elam had grabbed Nancy Jane’s proffered finger and was trotting by her side; with his other hand he held his dress up as he had seen his mother do. Both the girls noticed how clean the faded blue calico was, and that the back yard was swept as carefully as the front.
“Why, Mrs. Haggis,” said Mallie, “you don’t look strong enough to do so much work; you’re wearing yourself out cleaning like this.”
The woman sighed. “’Pears like when I don’t work, I git ter studyin’ ’bout the chil’ren—I’ve buried seven of ’em. That’s when we lived over in the fur aidge o’ Jackson County. Thar’s only three left ’sides Elam; two are up in Indiany—married—an’ Rodie’s man works the college farm below here. I don’t see her none too often; she helps tend the crap.”
The bushes and saplings hedged their path for several rods, then they came to a tumbleof rocks on the very edge of the cliff. A skeleton pine whose roots still clung in the crevices, between the rocks, stood out bare and white. At its base was a windlass, and to the bare trunk were attached wires which slanted down into the treetops below. Mrs. Haggis fastened the pail the girls had brought to the upper wire—a block of wood and a pulley kept it upright—and started it on its way.
“My,” exclaimed Mallie, looking down at the tops of the tulip trees, “it’s a long way to go for water. Is there a spring at the bottom?”
“Yes, nigh fourteen hundred feet down,” said Mrs. Haggis. “You-all hang onto Elam, he’s crazy ter look over the aidge o’ things.”
“Let us do it,” protested Nancy Jane, alternately watching the slender, bent figure and the pail bobbing down the wire.
“’Tain’t nothin’, doin’ this; hit’s the washin’ wears me out.”
“You don’t mean you, have to pull it all up from down there and then carry it to the house?” Mallie inquired in astonishment.
“What I can’t ketch when hit rains. Where’d ye think I got hit?”
“I didn’t think,” said Mallie soberly, tugging at Elam. “You say your daughter comes up this way. I wonder if we couldn’t find the path and go to her house some time?”
“In course ye could. She’d appreciate a visit from you-all the best kind.Hit’s middlin’ steep, though, an’ a power o’ work climbin’ back, but I reckon ye wouldn’t mind.”
Nancy Jane insisted on bringing up the water; it was quite an effort for even her strong, young arms. Then they hurried back to the bungalow to find Gincy frying bacon and the rest making beds. “I knew you’d be coming along pretty soon,” she said, dropping the eggs into the skillet. “Miss Howard wants to ask you something.”
“How would you like to visit Miss Clark’s school to-day, it’s only a little piece from the foot of the mountain near the pinnacle? We can walk it in an hour and a half.”
“But it’s Sunday!” exclaimed Mallie. “How could we?”
Urilla laughed. “Isn’t Sunday a good day to go to Sunday-school, honey? You must be dreaming. Wake up!”
“Oh, that’s it. I never thought of a Sunday-school out here; of course I’ll go. When do we start?”
“Just as soon as the dishes are done. We’ll put up our dinners and walk back just before sunset. We must allow two hours for the climb, anyhow.” Miss Howard began planning for the luncheon.
By eight o’clock the little party were on their way. Mrs. Haggis came out to the gate as they went by. “I wish I war goin’, too,” she said wistfully, “but pore folks has ter work. I couldn’t tromp ’round the mountingsan’ git my meals. You-all go on an’ I’ll wash some dishes; I couldn’t run ’round nohow an’ let Job do hit.”
The visitors waved a good-bye and started on. A mountain bluebird darted hither and yon, a cardinal shot like a bright gleam through the gay foliage. The dew was still heavy in the shady places, but they followed the deep wagon track caused by heavy loads of picnickers from the college, and parties at the bungalow. The season was almost over for these, and then the long winter’s isolation began for the Haggis family—an isolation shared by thousands over this great mountain region.
Every downward turn revealed a glimpse of beauty which the girls had not noticed going up. From the coves where the men had been ploughing for fall crops came a fragrant, earthy odour. Off to the southeast range after range rose blue against the sky. At last they reached the pike which led past the little settlement at the foot of the pinnacle. A number of people passed them on horseback with the usual greeting; otherwise the stillness was Sabbath-like.
A turn in the road disclosed the church house, a neat log building near a little spring, and overshadowed by a turreted-topped mountain. There were other buildings in the same yard, and probably a dozen scattered around in sight. The girls noticed that they wereof a better type than those back in the hills at Goose Creek, for only one was windowless.
Two vehicles were approaching. The driver of the first was a tall, pleasant-faced, youngish-looking woman who nodded at them with a smile of surprised recognition as she checked the sleek chestnut.
“Why, good-morning, Miss Howard! Had you started for my place? We’re not going to have any Sunday-school to-day—there’s to be a baptizing in the afternoon—and I promised to attend services at Bentville this morning. It’s the only chance I’ve had for a year.”
“I wouldn’t have you miss it for anything, Miss Clark; go right on, all we want is permission to eat our lunch in your yard,” said Miss Howard, smiling. “You’d like to stay to the baptizing, wouldn’t you, girls?”
There was an enthusiastic affirmative from every one. Nobody in the mountains ever missed a baptizing if it were possible to get there.
Miss Clark leaned forward. “Go right into the dog-trot at my house; my raincoat is hanging on the right—near my bedroom door; under it you will find the key. Make yourself perfectly at home until I come back. You’d better make some coffee on the oil stove; there’s cream in the spring house. I’ll come back early.”
“Thank you ever so much, but don’t hurryback!” urged Miss Howard. “You need the change, and we’ll get along splendidly.”
“I’m so glad we came!” exclaimed Urilla. “A baptizin’ is lots more interesting than a Sunday-school. So that’s Miss Clark; I never saw her before.”
“Nor I,” said Kizzie, “but I’m sure I shall like her. They say she’s helped a good many girls to go to Bentville after they’ve finished out here.”
“And boys, too,” added Miss Howard. “She’s changed the whole neighbourhood. If you could only hear her tell of some of her thrilling experiences during the last twelve years—of the shootings, and brawlings, and fightings. To-day the people go to her for everything. She teaches them to sew, and cook, shows them how to care for the sick and the babies. Oh, Miss Clark is a wonderful woman!”
“She must be,” said Gincy soberly, thinking of Goose Creek and its needs. The second team was passing them and she looked up quickly as a familiar voice called out:
“Hello, what are you-all doing out this way?” It was Joe Bradshaw and his roommate, Raphael Sloan.
“What are you?” she retorted.
“Raf lives out here at Pigg Branch and I’ve been visiting him. We thought you were up at the bungalow and we’d drive up for two or three hours.”
“Awfully sorry,” said Lalla, “we brought our dinners, and—” Then she looked at Miss Howard. That lady smiled.
“You’d better come back with us—we’ll have plenty for two more—then we can all see the baptizing this afternoon.”
The boys needed no second invitation. “We were coming down for that anyhow,” said Raphael, as they turned around.
Miss Clark’s home was close to the church house. It was a log house, built Virginia style, with a wide, covered porch through the centre separating the two sides. This dog-trot was a cool place in warm weather, a place to churn, and wash, a place to visit, and sew, or even take a nap. Mallie sank down upon the old-fashioned couch and looked off toward the cabins across the road. They were scattered up the branch, and on beyond, one perched high in a patch of ploughed ground on the opposite mountain.
“Isn’t this a lovely place!” she exclaimed, glancing back at the trellised nasturtiums and morning-glories against the kitchen windows. “I think Miss Clark is great! Look at those ducks in the branch, and such a lot of chickens. How can she find time for everything?”
“Of course she’s great!” Raphael Sloan sank down on the floor cross-legged. “She can do everything—play the organ, preach a sermon, knock a bench together better than the boys, and ride any horse around here. Sherode the most ornery mule in these parts one night. Ever hear about it?”
There was a chorus of negatives, and Raphael’s dark eyes lighted over the prospect of thrilling the company. “It was about five years ago when the Bennett and MacGowan feud was stirring things up ’round here and everybody seemed bound to take sides. Miss Clark tried to keep out of it, for there were children from both families in school. One morning Hugh MacGowan came over to borrow a big needle to sew up his mule’s shoulder—some one had cut a long gash in it the night before. You just ought to have seen her eyes flash—I went to school to her then—and she everlastingly told us what she thought of a man or boy who would hurt an animal because he hated the owner. Of course the Bennett children went home and told it, and—”
“I thought they all liked her,” interrupted Gincy.
“They did, but the old folks didn’t relish being criticised even though no names were used. Miss Clark found a note pinned to her door the next morning telling her to mind her own business or she’d get into trouble.
“Things were quiet for a while, then one time about midnight, she heard some drunken men going by shouting and singing—then four or five shots. It was bright moonlight and Miss Clark could see that one was wounded and swaying on his mule; the rest gallopedoff. Izzie Gray was staying with her then, and begged her not to stir outside, but do you suppose she’d do anything of the kind? Not much. She sailed out and found Lem Bennett bleeding to death—his arm all shot up.”
Raphael stopped suddenly with dramatic effect. His audience was plainly excited and expectant. “Go on, Raf!” commanded Joe impatiently. “What next?”
“Well, Miss Clark rode that mule clear into Bentville and got a doctor, or the Bennett youngsters wouldn’t have a father to-day, I can tell you.”
“Did it stop the fighting?” asked Gincy, jumping up suddenly. She fished the key from under the long raincoat and fitted it into the lock.
“Yes, I really think it did. She told Lem Bennett—he was the worst of the crowd—that she saved his life so he could have a chance to be a better man, and that she loved his children and wanted them to have a better father. Then she had a long talk with the MacGowans. After that the county went dry—she had a hand in that, too—and there wasn’t any more trouble. Oh, Miss Clark is fine, I tell you!”
“I should think she was,” said Nancy Jane, her eyes open wide with admiration. “Come on, let’s go in and see how she lives.”
Gincy was already inside. The rest followed. There was a large bookcase filled withbooks and magazines, a piano, a big fireplace with a comfortable seat and chair near it.
“Miss Clark made that seat,” said Raphael. “We boys made the chair, and the piano was sent her by some rich people up north. We helped her paint and varnish the floors, too.”
“She has some new rugs,” said Miss Howard. “They’re like those made down at the loom house.”
There were three made of rags with patterns in the borders. They were blue and white. The curtains were white cheesecloth with a blue, stencilled pattern across the bottom. A few water colours and Hoffman’s Christ were the only pictures.
“Come on back and help me find the oil stove; I’m getting hungry,” called Kizzie from the dining-room. “Isn’t this cosy?” she asked, pointing to the long, built-in cupboard and the little square table in the centre of the room.
Beyond, was the kitchen. A large range occupied one corner near the sink. “We’ve made candy and popped corn here many a time,” said Raphael. “Miss Clark has a cooking class every week this year for the older people.”
The oil stove was soon discovered and the coffee over. They ate their dinner in the dogtrot and the crumbs went to the chickens who were sociably inclined. Then they started for the church house, going through the garden and a long arbour.
“What lovely flowers!” Mallie stopped to admire the larkspurs and fall roses until the rest had disappeared inside the church, then she followed.
It was a T-shaped building, one upright being used for the day school and the other for the Sunday-school and monthly preaching. In case of a crowd the two rooms could be thrown into one. A tiny, portable organ occupied the space near the pulpit. Various mottoes, picture cards, and Bible charts adorned the walls. There were a large fireplace and a small sheet-iron stove, a dozen long benches which could be stacked at one side when they met for sociability, and a little Sunday-school library sitting in neat uprightness on the open shelves.
Miss Howard played a half-dozen hymns and they all sang, then Gincy, in a clear, sweet voice, read the lesson. Miss Howard was explaining it when the people began to gather for the baptizing. They came on horseback, in jolt wagons, and afoot. Not far from the house the branch widened until in spring it was almost a pond. Here, under the shade of a dozen walnut and tulip trees, a motley crowd was assembling and the folks inside the church house hurried out to join them. Once outside, they saw Miss Clark coming up the pike, her horse trotting briskly.
They waited at the gate. It wanted only a few minutes of the time and the horse mustbe unharnessed. Joe dropped the bars and Rafael helped Miss Clark out of the carriage. “You go on with the rest,” he said in a low tone, “we’ll be along after a bit.”
Together they went down the little slope, its edge crowded with women and children. One lone cottonwood shadowed the pool in its deepest place, stretching mottled arms almost to the opposite bank. Half its roots were bare and white, washed by the spring torrents.
Each moment the gathering was augmented by fresh arrivals. Joe and Raphael came up silently and stood near Miss Clark. A gaunt mountain preacher whispered a few words to her, his face showing some perplexity. She turned to the boys.
“Raphael, won’t you and Joe run up to the house? In the woodshed you will find a shovel and hoe. Bring them here as quickly as you can.”
Five minutes later the boys came panting back, bearing the required utensils. Two brawny mountain men took them, waded out into the shallow water, and began digging.
“They’re making it deeper,” said Nancy Jane. “My, but won’t it be roily!”
While the men worked the strange audience waited. Near the water’s edge stood the candidates for baptism—two girls about seventeen, a woman, and a middle-aged man with wiry black hair and dark, smouldering eyes.He was short and stocky, a man of force, and—if roused—of fury.
A long carryall was toiling up the hill. Joe saw it first. “It’s the college team,” he whispered to Miss Howard. “There must be a dozen people.”
The teacher nodded. “Professor Butler’s going to do the baptizing; the rest came along to sing.”
Already they could hear the strains of “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me,” the rich, full tones swelling through the quiet autumn air as the people in the carryall approached. One by one they joined the waiting crowd. The digging had stopped and there was a hush of expectancy as the minister made his way toward the waiting candidates. He spoke to them quietly, then turned until his glance swept the assemblage.
Gincy never forgot that day. The frightened girls in the foreground, with their coarse, white dresses; the children, their faces curious and alarmed; the sunbonneted women; the row of men on the fence in the rear—sallow, sunburned, and some bearing the marks of dissipation. But what impressed her most was the exalted look on the face of the man when he emerged from the water.
“Who is he?” she whispered to Raphael Sloan.
“Lem Bennett,” he whispered back, “and the woman is his wife.”
Onlythat one forenoon did Talitha hold school in the hollow. The very next day the weather took a turn, a cold wind blew up, and for more than a week a lowering sky gave promise of rain it failed to fulfil-except now and then in spiteful gusts. Her hopes, to which she had clung with a brave persistence, vanished with the sunshine.
She was greatly puzzled at the indifference her family displayed over the loss of the schoolhouse and its contents. Evidently the school must be discontinued until another year at least. It was getting too late in the season to hope for more than a few days—at a time—warm enough to hold the session out of doors. She had thought some place might be opened to her, but the cabins were small and already overcrowded. When she suggested that the children meet at her own home for a few hours each day, her parents decidedly objected. Even Dan Gooch seemed to forget his anxiety to have Billy and Sudie “git larnin’,” and, although she had offered to assistthem with their lessons, along with her own brothers, they had not put in an appearance.
Now that her plans for helping the young people of Goose Creek had failed, Talitha felt more keenly than ever the disappointment of returning home. She took all the heaviest work of the household upon her strong, young shoulders. The spinning wheel whirred through the long afternoons which otherwise would have been dull and dreary enough. She had no heart to call on neighbours or kinfolk; they did not need her. Si Quinn had also lost all interest in school matters, or she had failed to meet his expectations. It was strange she had not known it before, and yet she had done her best.
She had time now to notice the change that had come over her father. Every morning he went off, his axe over his shoulder; such fore-handedness in getting the winter’s wood was unusual in him. When Martin was home it was he who saw that they did not lack for fuel when the cold weather came on.
At the end of the second week she received a letter from her brother. It was the first he had ever written her, for they had never been separated before. Talitha puzzled over its pages, growing more and more bewildered at their contents: “Si Quinn wrote me about the schoolhouse. Isn’t it great! Jake always was heady, he could work up that temper of his until he was worse than a hornet. I hopethis’ll be a lesson he’ll remember. I’m just as proud of you as I can be. Everything has worked out for the best after all, hasn’t it? Gincy is studying like a whale. She was mightily disturbed when she heard you’d gone home on her account and I had all I could do to keep her from tagging along after you. But Gincy has a heap of good sense. She’s Miss Howard’s right hand man; I don’t get a sight of her except at meal times, but I can hear her voice on the high notes ’way above the rest come Harmonia nights.—Oh, Gincy’s making good, all right, and I’m glad as can be, but I do miss you awfully, sis—”
Talitha finished and then her eyes wandered back toward the beginning. “I don’t understand it one bit,” she thought. “Mart doesn’t seem to care at all that the schoolhouse burned. He writes as though it were almost a joke.” The tears rushed to Talitha’s eyes. “I’m going right over to the schoolmaster’s, maybe he can explain it,” she decided at last. “I do wonder what he wrote Martin.”
The girl snatched up her sunbonnet and hurried out of the door, the letter in her hand. Half-way to the old man’s cabin she met him hobbling cheerfully along by the aid of his crutch. The satisfied smile on his face brought Talitha’s grievance freshly to mind; she almost resented his unusually jovial greeting.
“Halloo, thar, Tally; you shore air lookin’ robustious—”
“Good-morning,” responded Talitha coldly. “I’ve just got a letter from Martin, and—and I’ve been wondering what you told him. He writes as though it wasn’t—well, he almost joked about the schoolhouse being burned.” The girl’s lips quivered.
“Law, now, did he?” considered the old man, evading the look of reproach in Talitha’s eyes. “I didn’t go fer to give him any sech idee. Hit war a powerful mean thing fer Jake Simcox ter do, and I aimed ter lay thet out plain ter Mart. S’pose you jest walk along with me ter the ruins. I thought a sight of thet old shack; hit’s whar I spent cornsiderable many years. I like ter think of you-all a set-tin’ on them benches. You war a powerful bouncin’ leetle gal, Tally, and I war an ill enough teacher, but I done the best I knowed then.”
Talitha’s anger had suddenly vanished. There was something pitiful in the schoolmaster’s fondness for recalling the past. After all, he felt the loss of the old place more deeply than he would have people think. “You mustn’t say that,” she insisted. “Of course you did the best you could, but I know just how you feel; I wish I’d done more when I had the chance.”
“Law, now, Tally, you’re jest a colt, as hit war, and thar’s plenty of chances comin’ fer you. Hit ain’t as if you war sech a broken-down hoss critter as I be.”
“But I can’t bear to give up the school!” cried the girl. “I’ve been trying so hard to think of some way, and nobody seems to have the least interest in it any more.”
“Don’t they now?” said Si Quinn with recovered cheerfulness. Then stopping suddenly, “’Pears ter me suthin’s been goin’ on up this a way.” They had come to where, through a cleared space among the trees, a blackened heap was visible—all that was left of the poor little schoolhouse.
But Talitha hardly noticed it. Something beyond had caught her eye—a substantial yet picturesque structure of logs, the rough bark still covering them and adding a beauty in harmony with the surroundings. The carefully laid chimney at one end was receiving the last finishing touches at the hands of a capable mason from the Settlement. A dozen men stood about watching him admiringly.
The old man saw Talitha’s eyes widen in amazement.
“Why, what is it?” she cried suddenly. “I don’t understand!”
“Well, well, honey,” chuckled Si Quinn, “I reckon thet’s the joke Mart writ you ’bout, and I declar’ if hit ain’t the biggest one I ever heerd tell on. Hit’s goin’ ter be all ready fer you ter begin school Monday, and nobody war goin’ ter say anythin’ ter you ’bout hit till thet time; but I see I jest had ter, you war frettin’ so.”
The new schoolhouse was a most pretentious affair in the eyes of its builders. The logs were carefully chinked to keep out the cold, and the three good-sized windows contained shining panes of glass. Inside, there were backs to the rough benches. Desks, the amateur carpenters had felt unable to cope with, but there was a little platform with a rude table for the teacher. A large sheet-iron stove gave promise of warming the farthest corners of the room.
It was all so far beyond Talitha’s most ambitious dreams that she sank upon a seat and burst into tears. The men looked at her abashed.
“Law me, Tally,” expostulated Sam Coyle, “hit looks fairly ongrateful fer you ter take on that-a-way.”
“Now shet up, Sam,” commanded the schoolmaster with his old authority. “Tally’s jest as tickled as anybody, but hit’s all come so mighty sudden she’s kerried plumb off her feet.”
“I should say I was!” laughed the girl, wiping her eyes. “I never dreamed of such a thing.”
The next Monday morning Talitha sang all the way to school. The air was frosty and a nipping wind reddened her cheeks and made her fingers tingle, but she laughed a merry defiance at the cold. How warm and cosy the new schoolhouse should be when the childrencame trooping in. A turn in the worn footpath and there it stood before her, new and inviting, beckoning her on. Some one had been there before her, for smoke came from the chimney. The young teacher hastened her steps. The door was unlocked and she entered. The place was empty but warm to the farthest nook, and Talitha rubbed her eyes. There were familiar looking books on the table and maps on the walls beside the wide stretches of blackboard. There were pictures also, not just such as she would have chosen, but how they brightened the place! “If hit’s picters Tally wants, why hit’s picters she shall hev,” declared the storekeeper at the Settlement. And forthwith he had gathered his accumulation of calendars, chromo advertisements, and picture cards to beautify the schoolroom.
For a time Talitha’s heart was as light as a feather, then something began to trouble her. Quite by accident she discovered that Si Quinn’s funds were getting low. How little he could afford to replace the books and maps which had been destroyed she did not imagine. She only knew that he seemed to have grown paler and thinner each time she saw him. He had a habit of dropping in at the school almost daily, and when a week passed and he did not appear, Talitha called at the cabin.
She knocked, but there was no response and she opened the door with misgiving. The old man was not there. She looked curiouslyaround; the remnants of a scanty meal were on the table, and with a sudden inspiration she began to investigate the condition of his larder. The girl stood amazed at the result. She knew he had not been able to cultivate his little garden patch the past summer, but because of the small sum he had earned for years in the Goose Creek school, Si Quinn had been looked upon as a well-to-do man in the community.
Much troubled at her discovery, Talitha set her wits to work. The old man was too proud, she knew, to accept any offers of assistance. Suddenly a plan entered her head. Christmas was only three weeks distant—that was her opportunity, only something must be done meanwhile. Where could he have gone? The girl ran to the door and looked out. There he was now coming along the creek path. She hurried out to meet him.
“Howdy, Tally!” he called, a smile brightening the wan, haggard face.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” cried the girl. “I’m going to take you home with me for supper and I know father and mother won’t hear to your coming back to-night.”
The old schoolmaster needed little urging to accompany her, and he did ample justice to the supper Talitha cooked with her own hands. The next morning a drizzling sleet prevented him from leaving. It was almosta week before he finally took his departure, and then it was to respond to an urgent invitation from the Gooch family to visit them. The Shackleys would also be offended if they were neglected, so before the rounds were made, Si Quinn’s face lost its pallor and he was quite like himself again.
One morning Pom Ethers, the wagoner, stopped at the schoolhouse with a goodly sized wooden box. “Talitha Coyle” was painted on it in large black letters. The children gathered around while the man, with much curiosity, opened it.
“Laws-a-massy!” exclaimed Porn Ethers as the cover came off. “If they ain’t all books! What’ll ye ever do with sech a heap of ’em, Tally?” There were two dozen volumes in neat but cheap bindings; some new to the young teacher, and others she had read over and over in the school library at Bentville.
“Read and study them of course,” she answered. “They’re just what we’ve needed all the time. Who could have sent them?”
“Hit beats me,” said the wagoner. “Thar ain’t nothin’ ter show whar they come from; mebbe the schoolmaster can tell ye.”
Si Quinn did not seem to know who the unknown donor might be, although he might have surmised, for the very next day he received a letter containing five dollars wrapped in an unsigned epistle, stating that the senderhad found a place at good wages. After Christmas he was going to school—working evenings for his keep.
The schoolmaster smiled and nodded knowingly as he read it over and over to himself, then laid the sheets on the flame in the wide fireplace and watched them turn to ashes.
It took a great deal of scheming on Talitha’s part to bring her plans to maturity. Billy Gooch was her right hand man, who could keep a secret better than some of his elders. Her younger brothers, Rufe and Dock, were too small to be of much service, while most of her other pupils lived too far away to help her after school hours.
Christmas Eve there were to be exercises at the schoolhouse, which was to be trimmed with evergreen and holly for the occasion. Talitha had heard of Christmas trees, although she had never seen one, but they meant candles, glittering trimmings, and little gifts far beyond the reach of her small purse.
The schoolhouse looked like Santa Claus’ bower when the last decoration was in place. From every available spot glowed the red berries of the holly, with their shining green leaves against a background of pine and fir. At last she was free to go. With one last look of satisfaction she locked the door, and, accompanied by Billy and Sudie, took her way to the old schoolmaster’s cabin. She did not see the faces peering excitedly out at herfrom behind the pine thicket where, on that memorable night, Jake Simcox had thought himself safe from detection.
Si Quinn had not finished his stay at the Shackleys, so the coast was clear. The Saturday before Talitha, with the aid of Billy and his sister, had given the cabin such a scrubbing as it had never known. The fireplace was newly whitewashed and filled with odorous pine and balsam boughs. There was also a huge pile of wood in one corner of the room. Only the finishing touches were lacking to make the preparations complete for the great surprise to be precipitated upon the schoolmaster, and in these all his former patrons were to have a hand.
The children had brought their arms full of holly and pine, and now they ran out for more while Talitha tried to give a festive air to the poor little place. She smiled to herself as she did so, wondering meanwhile what the old man would say to such “vanities”—as he would have called them a year ago.
Presently there was a heavy step at the door, and Porn Ethers staggered in, his arms weighted with bundles of all shapes and sizes. There was a veritable Santa Claus twinkle in the grey eyes under the shaggy eyebrows.
“Thar’s a heap more things in the wagon, Tally. I couldn’t git hit nearer’n the big rock, but I can pack ’em up easy ’nough, I reckon. Law, but Si’ll think hit air Chris’mus fer sure!Thar’s three flitches of bacon and a ham, and Mis’ Spurlock’s sent one of her puddin’s,” enumerated the wagoner as he deposited the offerings upon the table. “The Shackleys and the Twilligers hev fairly outdone theirselves. What I’m afeard of is thet now the schoolmaster’ll be gittin’ the dyspepsy; too much eatin’ air right down onhealthy—so I’ve heerd. But I’d be willin’ ter take the resk if hit war me.” The grey eyes twinkled again.
Billy and Sudie came in with another armful of greens and hurried to Porn Ethers’ assistance. In a comparatively short time the contents of the wagon were neatly stowed away on the shelves, the bed made up with the new blankets and blue coverlet, and the table set in Talitha’s most approved fashion with some of the choicest goodies surrounding a large bunch of holly.
“When the fire is burning and the candles lighted it’ll look real Christmas-y,” decided the young teacher as the finishing touches were completed. “I shall have to run ahead and see to that. How I wish Martin were here to-night,” she sighed as she started homeward.
Thedusk of Christmas Eve had gathered when Talitha set out for the schoolhouse, leaving the rest of the family to follow later. The place was already warm, but the candles must be lighted; the company would gather at an early hour. Already there was the sound of wheels, the tread of oxen on the wagon track, and the chatter of voices. Every man, woman, and child in Goose Creek, able to hobble forth, would be present.
As she neared the place she saw that light already flamed from the windows. Her steps quickened into a run; she reached the schoolhouse quite breathless. The door was ajar. Talitha pushed it open and entered. At first she was only aware that something very puzzling was going on. She rubbed her eyes—they were dazed with the light—and looked again.
On the platform was a Christmas tree, so tall that the flame of its topmost candle barely escaped the ceiling. The twinkling lights, the glittering tinsel, the toys, made it the most beautiful thing Talitha had ever seen. Several people were moving about it lighting morecandles and hanging small, red stockings, with bulging sides, to the lower branches. Did her eyes deceive her? Was one of them—yes, it was really Martin, and there was Miss Howard, and Abner, and Gincy!
The latter rushed forward and caught Talitha in her arms. “We’ve been planning for it ever so long; I was determined to come home with the boys and surprise you,” laughed Gincy with a hug. “Then we coaxed Miss Howard to come too, and when the Bentville folks heard about the school and what you’d done, they wanted to help, so there’s something on the tree for every pupil.”
“Hello, Tally,” Abner interrupted excitedly. “This is a dandy schoolhouse! I should think you’d be awfully ’bliged to Jake Simcox for burnin’ that old shack—”
“Sh!” Talitha held up a warning finger, for a crowd was flocking in at the door. Foremost were the Shackleys with Si Quinn. At first the company looked about bewildered, then their tongues suddenly loosened and the din was deafening.
“Fer the land’s sake!” exclaimed Ann Bills, with a violent poke of her elbow in her husband’s ribs, “jest look at thet pine, will ye, all rigged out with poppets and sech. Whar d’ye s’pose Tally got all thet plunder?”
“I reckon hit war packed all the way from Bentville,” Shad Bills answered shrewdly. “Thar’s Miss Howard over yon—and—I’mblest if hit ain’t Mart and Abner lightin’ them candles! The young-uns hev come back fer Chris’mus, Ann—” But his wife did not hear, her keen eyes had spied Gincy, and she was already elbowing her way through the crowd in a masterful fashion.
Half-dazed, the aged schoolmaster glanced around; it was all very strange—and beautiful, too. His faded old eyes winked and blinked at the unaccustomed twinkle and glitter. It almost took his breath and he dropped trembling, into a seat. How could Talitha have thought of all this! Did they have such things at Bentville? All the years of his teaching he had never once dreamed of celebrating Christmas in this fashion. He eyed the tree—what he could see of it over the heads of the crowd—with all a child’s delight. How shining and stately it looked! Its tallest candle glittered like a star, while those among the holly and pine, around the room, shone back bravely as though they were not to be outdone. And how the folks chattered!
Talitha slipped away to find Martin. She wanted to meet him alone, although that seemed an impossibility, but she darted around the tree and caught him tucking away a parcel under the branches at the base. How tall and manly he looked.
“Oh, Tally!” he exclaimed, beaming at her. “Did we surprise you?” He stooped and kissed her.
Talitha only nodded; she could not trust her voice.
“I can see now why you came back, Tally,” Martin began, but he did not finish, for the two were suddenly besieged by Abner and Gincy and dragged before the surprised company who had not yet discovered Martin.
It was quite a few minutes before the excited audience settled into quiet, and then it was as decorous and interested as one could wish. Miss Howard could hardly have presided with more dignity than did Talitha, and the exercises went off better than either could have believed possible with those alluring gifts before the children’s eyes.
The dialogue between the Twilliger twins went smoothly without prompting. The youngest Dodd boy—small for his ten years and one of the brightest pupils—recited “The Night Before Christmas” like a general, and received long and vociferous applause, as did also the song by little Polly Suttle. Billy Gooch came in for a large share of approval at his rendering of Lincoln’s speech at Gettysburg; there was a marching drill in which Rufe Coyle beat the time on an old drum of his grandfather—who had been through the war. The vigorous rat-a-tat-tat set the men’s restless feet tapping to the great delight of the children. The exercises were at last concluded with the singing of the “Star Spangled Banner” by the school, the youngerpupils waving small flags through the chorus.
At the close of the song, Miss Howard, with the aid of Martin and Abner, began to distribute the gifts from the tree. Minta Bills was the first name called, but the child failed to understand and hung back timidly.
“Don’t ye hear Miss Howard callin’ ye? Go ’long, honey,” coaxed her father, giving the child a gentle push. He did not comprehend just what was wanted, but the young woman from Bentville must be obeyed.
“Minty! whar’s yer raisin’?” reproved Ann Bills, turning sharply to her granddaughter. Minta edged shyly toward the tree, and Miss Howard put a stocking full of candy and a small but gaily dressed doll into her arms, watching the look of astonishment and delight grow in her face. At the sight of the latter all the mother instinct was aroused, and she stumbled back to her father, hugging her precious burden close. All Goose Creek watched her. The big blue eyes were fastened on the doll, and the long yellow curls fashioned a sort of halo for the sweet, childish face.
Ann Bills’ hard mouth twitched and she gave Minta a kindly pat as she bent over to view the gift at closer range. “Hit do beat all,” she told her son in an audible whisper. “Thet thar poppet fairly looks like a human.”
For a few minutes Minta was the envy of the school, but it was soon discovered that none of the pupils had been overlooked—thateven their teacher had been remembered with enough “store goods” for a new gown, the package Martin was hiding under the branches.
“I declare, if I didn’t forget all about the schoolmaster,” Martin whispered to Talitha. “I’m so sorry—”
“Oh!” his sister gave a start. “And I did too. Martin, I’m going right over to speak to Enoch Shackley, and in ten minutes you must follow me. Just slip away without any one seeing you; I’ll be waiting outside.”
Halfway across the room Talitha was waylaid by a tall, black-eyed girl with a conspicuous pompadour. “I reckon you don’t know me, I ’lowed you wouldn’t—at first sight, anyway, but I war on the train the mornin’ you come from Bentville and you told me ’bout Gincy’s goin’ ter school. I didn’t find out your name, but when I heerd ’bout a gal comin’ back here to Goose Creek to teach school I pieced hit all together and I knew hit war you.”
“This is Piny Twilliger?” inquired Talitha politely.
“You’re jest right. I’ve had a powerful fine time, and I’ve been a-tellin’ Gincy thet I’m goin’ ter Bentville too, next term. I’ve changed my mind ’bout gittin’ larnin’.”
Talitha made her escape as soon as possible, although Piny would have liked to prolong the conversation. With a whispered word in Enoch Shackley’s ear she slipped out of the door unnoticed.
“Hitair gittin’ powerful late,” admonished Enoch Shackley, rounding up the last of his brood. “I can take you-uns along ter your place,” he said to the schoolmaster. “I reckon you’re honin’ ter git home.”
The old man’s face suddenly fell. Never within his memory had he spent so festive an evening, and now to go from it to his cold, comfortless cabin. The blacksmith observed the look with an unfeeling smile, and attempted to hasten his offspring’s preparations for departure.
“Hurry up thar, chil’ren. Law me, your teacher’s gone ’fore this. She’s glad ’nough ter git shet o’ you fer one spell, I reckon.”
It certainly was a mystery where Talitha and Martin had so suddenly disappeared. Even Abner and Gincy looked puzzled, finally accepting Mr. Shackley’s offer—made with a knowing twinkle of the eye—of a “couple of cheers” in his wagon.
The company flocked out of the schoolhousewith their perforated tin lanterns like a swarm of fireflies dodging hither and thither among the trees. Saddle horses were mounted, and the patient oxen again yoked to the wagons filled with chairs.
Strange to say, many of the folks were taking the same road—following a short distance behind the Shackleys. The sound of their voices and the twinkling lights in the rear at any other time would have aroused Si Quinn’s curiosity, at least. Now he was too much occupied with the thought of his own failures and the future which loomed before him more dismal than ever. Lost in revery he failed to notice when the oxen stopped at the footpath leading up to his cabin, until the blacksmith’s voice roused him.
“Here you air, Si! Jest let me ketch a holt of you. Middlin’ dampish, ain’t hit? I ’low Abner better go ’long with the lantern. I’ll wait fer him.”
Had the two looked around as they slowly climbed the slope, they would have seen the shadowy company following at a little distance.
“I’ll stop and start a fire for you,” offered Abner, with a great feeling of pity for the old man who leaned heavily on his strong, young arm. “If you haven’t been home for a week it ain’t a fit place for you to go into.”
“Thar won’t be a live coal,” panted the schoolmaster.
“I’ve matches in my pocket, but it’ll take a considerable spell to drive out the cold and damp.” The boy eyed the dim outlines of the cabin with misgiving. It looked gloomy and unhomelike as possible.
Once at the door—guiltless of fastenings—Si Quinn drew a long, reluctant sigh.
His hand on the latch, Abner heard sounds of feet close by. He looked around; there were strange, moving shadows on the path. He was not slow-witted; it was Christmas Eve and a suspicion of something flashed across his mind. One glimpse of the already lighted room and he turned, helped the old man in, and hastily closed the door just as there came a tugging at his coat. A score of Goose Creek folks were behind him.
“Oh, what did he say?” whispered Talitha excitedly.
“He hadn’t got that far,” grinned Abner in sudden comprehension.
“Let’s give three cheers for the schoolmaster,” suggested Martin.
Such a demonstration was new to the mountain people who had not been to Bentville, but they listened with appreciation and joined in most lustily when it ended with: “A Merry Christmas! Wish You a Merry Christmas!” And then the company quietly dispersed.
“We made a power o’ racket,” said Dan Gooch as later he entered his own cabin. “But I’d like ter hev seen how the old man lookedwhen he war fairly inside. We did a toler’ble job, chinkin’ up them crannies. You’d never hev suspected what the place war like,” he chuckled.
As more than one of the company around the little old cabin that night had surmised, the schoolmaster’s face, as he gazed about the room—only a few days ago as cheerless as it could well be—was worth seeing. The pine boughs in the fireplace crackled and snapped merrily as the flames leaped upward and sent a delightful glow through the place. A half-dozen candles twinkled out from bunches of holly and pine. The bed with its warm, new covering was like a gay flower plot; shelves and table bore unmistakable evidences of Christmas cheer.
The faded eyes grew misty as they caught sight of a card on the shelf above the fireplace. It bore, in large letters: “A Merry Christmas from the Goose Creek Folks.”
The old man’s knees suddenly weakened and he dropped into a chair. He heard the cheering and tried to rise and open the door, but he could not summon strength. As the last echo of “Merry Christmas” died away across the mountains with the sound of retreating footsteps, the tears trickled down his cheeks. It was the happiest hour of his whole life. His poor efforts had been appreciated after all; he was not to be forgotten in his old age.
Until a much later hour than usual lightsshone from the little homes about Goose Creek. The young people had loitered along the way from the schoolhouse, there was so much to talk over. Miss Howard was to stay all night with Gincy. The Coyle and Gooch families were to spend Christmas at the home of the former. It was to be a great day for the two households, and Talitha’s head was awhirl with excitement. She had unselfishly worked hard to bring happiness to others, and the greatest surprise had come to her. She was going back to Bentville the day after Christmas, with Miss Howard, and Martin, and the rest. Gincy, hawk-eyed where her friend was concerned, had rushed to the dean when she discovered that two of the students were to leave, and engaged a place for Talitha. Piney Twilliger had been fortunate enough to secure the other.
Sam Coyle made no objection, he was secretly bubbling over with pride at his daughter’s success. There could be no more school that winter; besides, he was beginning to feel that an education was something to be really desired.
By dawn on Christmas day two households at least were astir. The air was unusually mild with the fresh smell of a recent shower. The sun rose and beamed down with the warmth of May. By the time the Coyle family had breakfasted, Gincy and Abner were on hand to assist in the preparations. The loom,warping bars, spinning wheel, and a rude chest were turned out of doors to make place for the expected guests.
“We’re real lucky to have such weather,” said Talitha. “I don’t know how we would ever have managed with the table if we couldn’t have cleared things away. As it is there won’t be room enough for the children—”
“I’ll knock something together that’ll be nearer their size,” comforted Martin.
“Good boy,” smiled his sister, much relieved. “I was thinking of setting them in a row on the floor. That wouldn’t be very Christmas-y, would it? But a table of their own will pleasure them mightily.” Talitha hustled back into the cabin; there was an unusual amount of work for even her capable hands. Besides assisting in the preparation of so elaborate a meal, her belongings were to be made ready for her departure early on the morrow. It was too late in the season to risk further delay. Any day now, winter might rush upon the mountains with icy wind and sleet or a blinding snowstorm, making the rough roads altogether impassable.
“This air a weather breeder,” observed Sam Coyle pessimistically. “I’d feel a sight easier if you-uns hed a-started this mornin’.”
“An’ miss their Chris’mus turkey,” reproved his wife. “Jest be thankful hit air fine ’nough ter turn things out’n doors, ’though Tally ’lows now, hit would hev pleasured the comp’nymore ter hev set the table ’long of them pines.”
“Hit air not so much ’count whar hit’s set as what’s set on hit,” retorted Sam jovially. “Thet air the main thing; the scener-y hain’t needed ter give me an appetite. The smell o’ them turkeys air gone to my stummick a’ready, an’ I reckon I sh’ll hev ter take ter the crick ter git out’n reach of hit if the dinner’s later’n common.”
“Be keerful you don’t fall in,” warned Mrs. Coyle sarcastically. She paused in the midst of her egg beating to look about for Dock, her youngest, who was prone to get into mischief if unwatched.
By ten o’clock the company had arrived. It included the Bills family, as being next of kin, and Miss Howard who had waited to come with Mrs. Gooch and the younger children. Martin and Abner made themselves as useful as possible by taking the smaller members of the assembled families a short distance along the mountain-side in search of the hickory nuts which might have escaped their eyes at nutting time.
The company sat out of doors and visited with the host, while Talitha and her mother, with Gincy’s aid, completed the final preparations for the Christmas feast. The children’s table was laid beside a clump of laurel. When the youngsters appeared, they were immediately set down before well-filled plates whiletheir elders gathered in the cabin. The family table had been lengthened by Martin’s skilful contriving and placed cornerwise across the room. Even then it took some managing to get the guests properly seated.
Mrs. Coyle surveyed the feast with pardonable pride; it would have done credit to more notable housewives. Not since the early days of her marriage had she had the opportunity to show such hospitality. Two of the largest, plumpest turkeys in her flock graced the centre of the board in company with a fat, wild goose, potatoes, turnips, beans, squash, dishes of pickle, a salad—Talitha had learned to make at Bentville—besides the usual Christmas pies, and a large black cake Gincy had trimmed with a wreath of holly. Both front and back doors were wide open, and a gentle breeze cooled the heated room where both the new stove and the fireplace had been doing extra duty.
Around the little cabin rose the great sheltering hills, their peaks a misty purple in the soft haze of a belated Indian summer. Below, Goose Creek, still little more than a rivulet, basked lazily in the sunshine.
At first the appetites were too keen to allow of much conversation, but at last Shad Bills laid down his knife and fork and looked around with a grin. “Has anybody heerd how the schoolmaster’s feelin’?” he suddenly inquired. “I ’lowed a-toppin’ off the Chris’mus doin’swith thet surprise war a leetle too much fer the old man.”
“I seen him this mornin’,” said Dan Gooch. “He war as peart as a Juny bug. The Twilligers give him an invite to eat turkey with them. Yes, sir,” he smiled reminiscently, “I reckon Goose Creek never see no sech doin’s as we had last night. I don’t rightly know as we’d ought ter let Tally slip off this-a-way without writin’ out a promise thet she’ll come back and teach the school next year.”
Sam Coyle grinned appreciatively. Not one of the men in the company could read or write. “I reckon her word of mouth’ll do. Tally’s boun’ ter come back all right,” her father declared.
“She can’t always be comin’ back to teach,” put in Gincy. “If you go to Commencement next spring maybe you’ll want Tally to have a diploma, too.”
Sam Coyle wisely refrained from a reply. That he had not looked with favour upon his daughter’s ambition to get an education was well known, and now that he had been proved in the wrong he did not propose to lay himself open to further criticism. However, he inwardly determined that Talitha should keep the Goose Creek school. The money was a great help to the family, and Dan Gooch would like nothing better than to have a chance to secure it for Gincy, he reasoned selfishly. Miss Howard shrewdly read the man’s thoughts,but she said nothing, although she inwardly resolved that Talitha should have her chance with the rest.
After the dinner was over and the dishes cleared away, the young people went to the schoolhouse. The maps and pictures were to be brought home for safekeeping, although there was no probable danger of their being molested. Besides, the young teacher wanted to see the place again before leaving for Bentville.
There was a strong odour of pine as Martin flung open the door. The despoiled tree still stood on the platform. Miss Howard had put the tinsel trimmings carefully away for future Christmases.
“It certainly looks as though we had had a good time last night,” said Talitha, glancing around. “Billy, I think I’ll let you and Sudie sweep out when you have a chance. You may keep the greens up as long as you choose; they’ll last some time. Good-bye until next summer,” she said to herself as she reluctantly turned away.
They stopped a moment at the little heap of ashes and charred logs below the new structure. “It’s a fitting monument for the old shack we used to call a schoolhouse,” said Martin reflectively. “When I remember the days we spent in it, I—”
“Don’t,” said Talitha gently. “The schoolmaster did the best he knew. He can see hismistakes as well as anybody now.” Miss Howard was silent, but she thought of the many such places scattered over the mountains, some of them presided over by just such teachers as Si Quinn had been.
Early that evening Martin and Talitha slipped away to the old schoolmaster’s cabin to say good-bye, for they would start by light the next morning.
“I ’lowed you’d be ’long,” he said, beaming down at them. “I came home early so’s not ter miss you.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t have gone away without coming to see you,” Talitha assured him, drawing up a stool before the bright blaze in the fireplace. Martin seated himself upon an old chest in the corner and looked around. He had been curious to see how Talitha had managed to rehabilitate the dingy place of which he had such disagreeable recollections.