This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: Mountain schoolhouse]
GOOSE CREEK FOLKS
_A Story of the Kentucky Mountains_
* * * * *
By
ISABEL GRAHAM BUSH
AND
FLORENCE LILIAN BUSH
* * * * *
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
* * * * *
NEW YORK CHICAGO TORONTO
Fleming H. Revell Company
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
* * * * *
Copyright, 1912, by
FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY
* * * * *
New York: 158 Fifth Avenue
Chicago: 125 N. Wabash Ave.
Toronto: 25 Richmond St., W.
London: 21 Paternoster Square
Edinburgh: 100 Princes Street
* * * * *
To
_ALICE K. DOUGLAS_
_OF BEREA COLLEGE_
_whose helpfulness of spirit and enthusiasm for learning have inspired
many a mountain boy and girl to a life of broad usefulness, this book is
lovingly dedicated by_
_THE AUTHORS_
CONTENTS
I. DAN GOOCH MAKES A DISCOVERY 9
II. MARTIN SURPRISES GOOSE CREEK 21
III. TALITHA SOLVES A PUZZLING PROBLEM 31
IV. THE STORM 42
V. AN UNEXPECTED RIVAL 52
VI. HUNTING A VARMINT 62
VII. THE JAM SOCIAL 74
VIII. THE MASTER KEY 83
IX. THE BAPTIZING 98
X. SI QUINN REVEALS A SECRET 119
XI. CHRISTMAS DOINGS 131
XII. GOOSE CREEK PLOTS AGAINST THE SCHOOLMASTER 137
XIII. THE “STILL” CAVE 150
XIV. LOST ON THE MOUNTAINS 160
XV. THE WALKING PARTY 173
XVI. THE MOUNTAIN CONGRESS 186
XVII. KID SHACKLEY GETS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD 200
XVIII. COMMENCEMENT TIME AT BENTVILLE 210
I
DAN GOOCH MAKES A DISCOVERY
“DO you reckon it’ll seem the same?” Talitha, quite breathless with the
long climb, stood looking down at her brother, who was following more
slowly up the scraggy slope of Red Mountain.
“Why not?” he answered. “But say, are you going to keep up this gait for
long? If you do you’ll be plumb tuckered before we get home.”
The girl laughed, and then sighed. “I’m so anxious to get there, Mart;
seems like I can’t wait. To think we’ve been away ’most a year! Do you
s’pose Rufe and little Dock’ll know us?”
“Like as not they won’t. I’m sort o’ in hopes they’ll think we’ve
changed some,” returned Martin. He dropped upon a convenient ledge and
pulled his sister down beside him.
“I’m afraid they won’t see much difference in me, but you’ve changed a
whole lot,” Talitha declared proudly with a sidewise glance of the brown
eyes. “Mother’ll notice it the first thing.”
“I guess you haven’t looked in the glass lately,” scoffed Martin,
reddening at the implied praise. “You aren’t the same girl who left for
school last fall with a pigtail hanging down her back and her dress ’most
to her knees.”
“I s’pose I looked just as Lalla Ponder did when she started in this
spring, and she’s changed a sight.” Talitha put up her hands to smooth
the soft roll of wavy hair which had taken the place of the tight,
girlish braid. A year had never made so much difference before.
“I’m going back in the fall,” suddenly announced Martin. “Aren’t you,
Tally?”
“So far as I know, I am, but it all depends on mammy. It’ll be harder
for me to leave than you, I reckon.” Talitha rose to her feet and
adjusted her bundle knapsack-fashion across her shoulders. “We’ll make
it before dark, I should say,” thinking of the rough mountain way yet to
be traversed. They had left the train early that morning, and walked
steadily since sunrise. Now it lacked a half-hour of noon.
Another steady climb and a descent, and the two found themselves on
familiar ground. At their feet Goose Creek crept sluggishly. A footpath
followed on the low, sloping bank like a persistent shadow until both
were lost to sight in the curves of the foothills. Here in the cool
shade of a tangled growth, close to the stream, brother and sister paused
to eat their lunch, which Martin produced from his bundle. They would be
at home in time for supper.
“I wonder if Si Quinn is going to teach the Goose Creek school this
term?” Martin helped himself to a sandwich.
“I reckon so, but I wish he could go to Bentville long enough to get it
out of his head that the earth is square. To think of his teaching us
such foolishness!”
Martin shook his head. “It wouldn’t be of any use; he’s the greatest
person to argufy. He’s got it all figured out that if the earth is round
we’d all be rolled off into nothing. It would be ‘onpossible’ to stay on
it.”
Talitha dipped her hands in the creek and wiped them on her handkerchief.
“I wish—” she began, then stopped suddenly. Martin looked up and his
eyes followed hers.
Around the farther curve of the creek path appeared a horse’s head; then
the animal and its rider came slowly into view. “It’s somebody from
Stone Jug, I reckon,” said Martin, “only it rides like Dan Gooch.”
“It is Dan Gooch,” decided Talitha under her breath. “Wait and see if he
knows us, Mart.”
The old sorrel plodded dejectedly along the path. The man on his back
was as loose-jointed and angular as his steed. An ancient broad-brimmed
hat slouched over his face to keep out the bright sunlight. If the two
seated at the creek’s edge imagined he was about to pass them unnoticed,
they were immediately undeceived, for the man raised his head and eyed
them as though he had come for that express purpose.
“Howdy!” said Martin with the tone of one stranger saluting another.
“Howdy!” responded the man, still staring. His horse had already stopped
and was nosing the herbage. “Hit ain’t Mart Coyle and Tally?” exclaimed
Dan Gooch after a speculative silence.
“It is.” Talitha sprang up with a laugh. “But you didn’t know us right
off, though.”
“I ’lowed ’twas you and agin I ’lowed ’twas furriners. I never seen
young-uns change so in sech a few months. You’d better let me go ahead
and tell your mammy thar’s comp’ny comin’ fer supper.” The man slipped
from his horse with a chuckle. “If you’ve walked from the Gap, hit’s
been a purty stiff climb. Crawl up on the beastie, Tally, I’ll keep Mart
comp’ny.”
After much demurring the girl mounted the sorrel and soon both were lost
to sight around the bend.
The sun, a huge, fiery ball, was poised on the bare summit of a peak in
the west, when Talitha reached the edge of a cove on the mountain-side.
Curling indolently upward, the smoke from a cabin chimney was lost among
the trees crowding the slope beyond. In spite of her haste, she halted
the not unwilling sorrel and sat for a few moments gazing at the place
she called home. The picture in her memory supplied all invisible
details.
The cabin was small, one-roomed, with a loft above, the rough, unbarked
logs brown as a beech nut. The mud and stick chimney at one end looked
ready to collapse at the first brisk wind. There was no glass in the two
shuttered openings which served as windows. The interior of the cabin
was scarcely more attractive. Wide cracks showed in the puncheon floor,
the walls were smoke-stained. In a corner near the fireplace,—there was
no stove,—were several rude shelves filled with coarse, nicked dishes.
The loom, warping bars, spinning wheel, a deal table, with three or four
chairs and a couple of benches, nearly filled the room. A row of last
year’s pepper pods and a bunch of herbs still hung from the dingy
ceiling.
Outside, two children romped among the geese and chickens. Presently a
woman, spare and stooping, appeared, and toiled springward for a bucket
of water. Tears filled Talitha’s eyes as she went on. Her mother was
not old, yet she was as careworn and bent as women twice her age in the
village. To the girl, Bentville stood for the world which lay beyond her
mountains, and the longing to transform her home life into something like
the comfort and harmony of those she had just left was almost
overwhelming.
Talitha rode up to the door amid the joyful shrieks of the children and
the squawks of the fowls as they flew precipitately in every direction.
Dismounting, she released herself as soon as possible from small
embracing arms and hurried to her mother who had set down the bucket and
was eyeing her daughter perplexedly.
“Hit ’pears ter me you’ve growed a heap sence you war gone,” was all the
comment Mrs. Coyle made upon Talitha’s changed appearance. “Whar’s
Mart?” with sudden misgiving as the girl picked up the bucket of water
and stepped briskly along at her side.
“He’s coming. Dan Gooch gave me a lift on his sorrel and he footed it
with Mart.”
Talitha went on into the cabin, but her mother lingered outside. She had
caught sight of a young, stalwart figure beside their neighbour. She
smoothed her old homespun gown with worn, calloused hands, and wished she
had the “tuckin’ comb” Talitha had sent her for Christmas in her hair.
“Hello, mammy!” Martin put his arms around his mother and kissed her
awkwardly.
After Dan Gooch had accepted the hospitable invitation to stay for
supper, the three repaired indoors. Talitha had rallied the younger
members of the family to her assistance, and was already dishing up the
evening meal. A fresh cloth had been laid, and a handful of mountain
laurel, in a tin can on the window-sill, transferred to the centre of the
table. At this juncture Sam Coyle appeared from the “fodder patch.”
After a hasty greeting he retreated to the basin of water outside with a
bewildered, company feeling he had not experienced since a college
settlement worker had visited them the year before.
At the table he listened with silent pride to the answers which Dan
Gooch’s volley of questions elicited. He learned that a mountain farm
could bring its owner a good living if rightly cultivated, that Talitha
had made with her own hands the dress and apron of “store goods” she was
wearing. Perhaps his wife had been in the right after all when she
insisted on the two older children going to school, although it was
against his judgment.
“And you-uns hev been a-larnin’ carpenterin’?” continued their neighbour,
addressing Martin.
“Yes, I’ve been working at it all the year, out of school hours,” was the
reply.
“Then thar’s a job waitin’ fer you at Squar’ Dodd’s. His house ain’t big
’nough ter suit him, and he’s bound ter hev a po’ch and a lean-to on thet
place of his’n.”
“Thank you ever so much. I’ll see Mr. Dodd about it to-night.” Martin’s
eyes kindled at the thought of putting his knowledge to such immediate
use.
“I reckon thet school’d be a fine place fer my Abner and Gincy,” mused
Dan.
“Oh, it would,” urged Talitha delightedly. “And Gincy could room with me
if I go back next year,” with an appealing glance at her father.
Sam Coyle frowned. “I reckon a year’s schoolin’s ’nough fer any gal.
Hit’s a sight more’n I ever had,” he said surlily.
His neighbour gave a derisive laugh. “Can’t neither of us read or write
no more’n if we war blind as bats. I hain’t any mind ter stand in the
way of my chil’ren gettin’ larnin’, ’specially if hit ain’t costin’ me
nothin’.”
The thrust went home, as the speaker intended, for it was well known that
Martin and Talitha had paid for their year at school by their own
exertions. Also that Sam Coyle had taken little of the added
burdens—during their absence—upon his own shoulders.
“Gincy would like it ever so much,” pursued Talitha, anxious to preserve
peace. “She’d especially like the singing.”
“She would, I reckon,” agreed her father proudly. “Gincy has a purty ear
for a tune, and I’m aimin’ ter give her a chanct if I didn’t hev one
myself,” he said, rising to take his departure.
Martin watched him disappear down the slope in silent astonishment. He
had supposed Dan Gooch would be the last one to see the “needcessity of
larnin’,” and here he was the champion of their cause against their own
father.
Talitha was briskly clearing away the supper dishes when a couple mounted
on one horse rode up to the door. “Howdy!” greeted Sam Coyle, lounging
forward with a show of cordiality.
“Shad ’lowed he seen a gal and boy tromp-in’ ’cross the mounting this
mornin’, and I sez hit wan’t nobody but Mart and Tally,” said the old
woman, slipping cautiously to the ground.
“You war a true prophet fer once, Ann, but I’d be bound nobody’d known
’em anywhere else,” declared her brother.
“Plumb spiled, most likely,” grumbled Ann. From the depths of her black,
slatted sunbonnet the gimlet eyes keenly scrutinized her nephew and
niece. “Well, you air growed up fer sure, and I reckon you know more’n
the old schoolmaster hisself. Thar ain’t nothin’ like the insurance o’
young-uns thet’s got a leetle larnin’,” pursued the old woman with
acerbity. “Now what I want ter know is, what kin you do thet the gals
and boys what never seen Bentville, can’t?” Ann Bills had seated herself
before the fireplace, removed her sunbonnet, and was lighting the pipe
she had taken from her pocket.
“Lawsy,’ Ann,” protested Mrs. Coyle indignantly, “their pappy and me air
terrible pleased with what they’ve larned, and I don’t see no call fer
you ter be so powerful ornery. If all your six boys hed been gals I’ll
be bound thar couldn’t one of ’em make a gown like thet Tally’s wearin’,
and she tuk every stitch herself. As fer Mart, you’ll know what he kin
do ’fore long, I reckon.”
Mrs. Coyle and her sister-in-law did not agree on the subject of
education. The latter’s family of boys had grown to man’s estate and
married without having mastered the second reader. For once Sam Coyle
did not come to his sister’s aid. Although he had no intention of
allowing his children to return to school, he was swelling with pride at
their changed appearance and his tongue was ready to wage a sharp battle
in the cause of “larnin’.”
Failing to secure an ally, the old dame prudently changed her tactics.
“Hit air purty fair work,” she admitted in a conciliatory tone,
scrutinizing the hem of Talitha’s gown. “But I don’t set much store by
thet kind o’ goods; hit can’t hold a candle ter homespun when hit comes
ter wear. If I war you, I’d put Tally ter the loom; she air old ’nough
ter be larnin’ somethin’ of more ’count.”
Talitha turned back to her dishes with a sigh. Martin had escaped Uncle
Shad’s equally acrimonious tongue and gone to interview Squire Dodd. He
did not return until the old couple had taken their departure.
Gincy Gooch came over the very next afternoon. The dinner work was out
of the way and Mrs. Coyle was spinning while Talitha sat on the doorstep
at work on the “store goods” Martin had brought his mother for a new
gown. Gincy watched the deft fingers wistfully.
“Pappy says you-uns hev larned a heap of things,” she remarked. “And
you’ve changed a sight; ’most ’pears ter me you ain’t Tally Coyle any
more.”
Talitha laughed. “Well, I am, and when you’ve been to Bentville a while
you’ll change, too.”
“Kin you reely read books right off ’thout spellin’ out the big words?”
“Yes,” Talitha nodded, remembering her shortcomings of only a year ago.
If she never went back to school how many things she had to be thankful
for. “You’d like the singing, Gincy,” she said abruptly, “it’s so
different from any music you ever heard.”
“Diff’runt, how?”
“Well, I’ll show you. Just begin some song and don’t get off the tune no
matter what I sing.”
“I ain’t never got off the tune yit,” reproved Gincy. She began in a
clear, sweet voice “The Turkish Lady,” an old English ballad (one of many
preserved for generations among the mountaineers). It ran thus:
“Lord Bateman was in England born,
He thought himself of a high degree;
He could not rest or be contented
Until he had voyaged across the sea.”
Talitha joined Gincy in a mellow alto, and together the two sang verse
after verse. The spinning wheel ceased to turn while the spinner
listened to this new blending of voices, for the mountain people only
sang the air. At the edge of the slope Sam Coyle heard it in amazement.
The old ballad was familiar enough, but it had never sounded so
beautiful.
Gincy showed no surprise at the innovation. Her hands clasped in her lap
she looked with large, dreamy eyes off to the green-topped hills lying
peacefully against the shining sky. The echoes crept out of the silences
and chanted the words softly over and over again.
When the song was finished, Gincy hardly paused to take breath before she
swung into another familiar melody and Talitha followed, her work
forgotten. They had hardly reached the third line when a bass voice
joined them, and Martin dropped down on the doorstep beside the two
girls.
Below, on the creek path, a sorrel horse and its rider had halted. “Thet
air Gincy’s voice fer sartin. I reckon the Coyles air a-singin’, too,
but hit sounds diff’runt’n I ever hearn ’em afore; somethin’ like them
a-choirin’ up yander, I reckon,” glancing upward. With a regretful sigh
he heard the last echo die away.
“Gincy’s goin’ ter hev a chanct ter git larnin’, thet’s all,” declared
Dan Gooch as he jogged slowly homeward.
II
MARTIN SURPRISES GOOSE CREEK
THE next day, Martin began work on the addition to Squire Dodd’s cabin.
Sam Coyle, much elated at his son’s success in securing the job, hastened
thither and planted himself in the shade to watch its progress. He was
not without company. There were a number who considered the squire had
shown undue haste in giving so important a piece of work to a
“striplin’,” and had gathered to note proceedings and proffer advice.
Martin listened in silent good humour to the wagging tongues. That his
employer had confidence in his ability was enough, and he worked with
unceasing energy. At the end of the second day the critics were
silenced, and before the week was over it had been noised abroad that Sam
Coyle’s son had come back from school with a trade at his “finger eends
’sides a heap o’ book larnin’.” The Settlement store was, for the first
time in many months, nearly destitute of loungers.
Instead of the intended lean-to, a one story frame addition was built
across the front of the Dodd cabin, shutting the original completely from
view of the traveller on the creek path. A wide porch increased the
magnificence of the structure, and when a coat of yellow paint with
trimmings of a brilliant red denoted the completion of Martin’s contract,
the spectators were unanimous in agreeing that the mountains had never
seen anything quite so grand. The peaks looked down at the innovation
with a new dignity—so it seemed to the young carpenter. He had been
learning the value of simplicity, and he realized how little his
handiwork harmonized with the beauty around it. But he had only carried
out the wishes of the squire, and he dismissed the subject from his mind
for something more weighty was upon it.
“I’ve been thinking ever since I came home,” he said that night to
Talitha, “of something Professor Scott said: ‘It isn’t enough to get good
things for ourselves, we must pass them on.’ I wish I could take some of
the boys back to school with me.”
“I think you can reckon on Abner Gooch and the three Shackley boys
already. I call that a pretty fair beginning. And there’ll be more. I
heard that Dan Gooch said yesterday over at the Settlement, ‘If you want
ter know what thet school down below here kin teach your young-uns, jest
look at Squar’ Dodd’s manshun yander.’”
Martin laughed grimly. “If they do go they won’t think it such a work of
art when they come back.”
“When they get back they’ll have learned enough to understand, I reckon,”
responded Talitha. “The thing is to get them there. You ought to see
how Gincy’s working, and the whole family too, for that matter. I
actually believe they’ve picked most of the berries for ten miles around
here. They are at it now. Just think of Dan Gooch going berrying!”
“He has some backbone after all. It’s such a pity he couldn’t have had a
chance when he was young. And that reminds me, I met Gincy ’way over in
Bear Hollow yesterday morning at sun-up with a bucket. After berries, I
suppose; but I don’t see how they’re going to eat ’em all.”
“Eat ’em! They don’t, they’re drying ’em to sell. The Settlement store
has promised to take every pound. Then Mrs. Gooch is reckoning on her
geese feathers, too. If Gincy can only get money enough for a start,
she’ll find work to help her through the year.”
“I reckon so,” assented Martin. “They’re mighty friendly folks at the
school.”
“You’ve saved enough now, haven’t you?” Talitha’s mind suddenly reverted
to her brother’s prospects.
“Yes, I’ll make it do with the odd jobs I can pick up; but I misdoubt
father’s being willing for me to go back. He thinks I know a sight now.
He’s running all over the country trying to get me another job, and
here’s the crop going to waste. I reckon I’m needed at home for a spell,
anyway,” and Martin went gloomily out to work in the much neglected
field.
He had seen thrifty orchards and gardens in the little sheltered coves of
those great hills near Bentville, and he had often pictured his own home
with such a background. Disheartened, the young fellow regarded the task
before him for a moment, then rallied his two younger brothers. With the
promise of a reward they attacked the weeds among the corn while Martin
went on to the little orchard. It was thick with dead wood, and he fell
to pruning the branches energetically. With the knowledge he had gained
what a change he could make in the place even in the two months left of
his vacation.
Over in the garden he could hear Talitha and her mother. Tending garden
and milking the cow was as much woman’s work, according to the Kentucky
mountain code, as washing dishes or making bread. The sound of a
sturdily wielded hoe in the earth spurred him on. “I’ll go back some
time, anyhow, if I live,” he declared, striking deep, vigorous blows into
a lifeless tree trunk.
Had Martin and Talitha only known, their energy spoke volumes for the
Cause lying so near their hearts. A new interest had been suddenly
awakened in the Coyle family. The slightest pretext took their less
ambitious neighbours along the creek path curious to see “what Mart Coyle
was up ter now.” A wide, roomy porch across the front of the cabin—which
Martin had skilfully contrived at little expense—served as sitting-room
during the warm weather. Here Talitha’s wheel whirred diligently in the
shadow of the vines which had taken kindly to her late transplanting.
The Coyle enterprise was contagious. Dan Gooch, with a new-born
enthusiasm, valiantly led his sons forth to produce order from the
confusion around the exterior of the cabin. Inside, Gincy and her mother
worked with tireless energy and bright dreams of the future.
From the first Sunday of Martin’s and Talitha’s return, the Gooch family
had taken to “jest droppin’ in,” during the afternoon, until it had
become a settled custom followed by one neighbour after another. Part
singing was a novelty of which they never tired. When the blacksmith’s
eldest son found that he was the possessor of a richer, deeper bass voice
than Martin’s, his delight was unbounded. There were others besides
Gincy who could successfully hold their own in the air in spite of the
other parts, although Gincy’s clear, bird-like tones rang above theirs on
the high notes.
And so the summer wore away, and the heralds of approaching autumn
sounded a warning note in the breezes and fluttered their signals from
the mountain slopes.
It was only a week before the time for their departure that Sam Coyle
gave a reluctant consent to Martin’s and Talitha’s return to school. Two
others besides Abner and Gincy were to accompany them—Peter and Isaac
Shackley, sons of the blacksmith at the Settlement. Peter was to take
his horse, a handsome bay of which he was very proud, the fifty miles to
Bentville, and then sell it to defray his expenses at the school. It had
taken him a long time to determine on the sacrifice, and his was the only
sober face in the merry little company which set forth that September
morning.
The night before, the other members of the party came to the Coyle cabin
in order to make an early start. That six young people were to leave for
Bentville the next morning made a stir at Goose Creek. They were
favourites in the mountains, and during the evening a dozen families
called with some parting gift or admonition. They were not all wisely
chosen, but the kindest intentions prompted each offering. From the
younger ones there were various gifts of fruit and flowers. Ann Bills
had so far relented as to present her niece with two pairs of wool
stockings which Talitha could not refuse however much she would have
liked to do so. Mrs. Twilliger brought several strings of freshly dried
pumpkin which she much feared Gincy might “git ter hankerin’ arter.” The
Slawson boy, who was “light-minded,” brought his pet coon and wept
bitterly when Abner gently but firmly refused it. Little Tad Suttle was
equally persistent in forcing on them his dog Wulf, who was warranted to
keep the bears and painters at a proper distance when the company crossed
the mountains.
The Bills family were inclined to consider the occasion a mournful one.
If the young people had been going to the ends of the earth instead of
but fifty miles away, they could not have been more pessimistic. That
Martin and Talitha had returned unharmed seemed to have no weight with
them.
“Sho, now,” objected the blacksmith jovially, “I ain’t goin’ ter
cornsider my young-uns as lost ter the mountings. I ’low they’re jest
goin’ ter git some larnin’ and come back ter help me.”
“Book larnin’ ain’t goin’ ter give ’em muscle,” objected the elder Bills.
“Law, no, they’ve got ’nough of thet now. I ain’t raisin’ a passel of
prizefighters. If Kid stays home ter help me one blacksmith’s ’nough in
a family, I reckon. I’ve heerd the Bentville school is great on idees,
and thet’s jest what these mountings air needin’ bad.”
“You talk like we war plumb idjits, Enoch Shackley,” cried Ann Bills, her
black eyes snapping angrily. “I’ve heerd tell o’ folks you’d never ’low
had any head stuff’in’ till their skulls got a crack and you could git a
sight of their brains, but I never heerd as this part of the kentry war
noted fer sech. Me and my fambly hain’t never had ter go borrowin’ fer
idees.”
“Lands, no,” said Mrs. Twilliger. “Hold up your head with the best of
’em, Gincy; Goose Creek folks hain’t never took a back seat fer nobody.”
At last the callers melted away and the weary people they left behind
hurried to bed to get what sleep they might before time for their early
departure.
As the little party started down the slope the next morning, a wonderful
light quavered above the mountain-tops for the most part covered with a
thick, gorgeous leafage of crimson, green, and gold flaming out among the
duller browns. Now and then a rough, scraggy peak like Bear Knob showed
grimly against the sky. Below them the mists lay huddled asleep awaiting
the coming of the sun. The cool smell of the night was still in the air.
Down where the creek path trailed out of sight came a jubilant chorus of
bird voices.
A strange feeling made Gincy’s heart beat faster, and a lump rose in her
throat. But what might have happened did not, for Talitha, with
foresight, reached up and laid a rough, brown hand tenderly over the one
on the pommel of the saddle. Gincy looked down into the blue eyes
smiling encouragement and was herself again.
A straggling little procession, they followed the slim stream which
curved around the base of the hills. At noon the party stopped to eat
their lunch on its banks, and then they left it for a steep climb up the
mountain.
An hour before sunset they had made good progress, coming out suddenly
upon a cleared cove halfway down the mountain. At the farther side,
against a background of pines, stood a large, well-built cabin. Vines
tinted with autumn colouring clambered over the broad porch. The space
in front was cleanly swept. Back of the low palings in the rear was a
large, thrifty garden, and fragrant odours of ripening fruit came from
the small, but heavily-laden, orchard.
“You can tell that a Bentville student lives here, all right,” said
Martin. “This is where Tally and I stayed over night on our way to
school last year.”
Their approach had been discovered, for two hounds ran around the house
barking a joyful greeting. Then a tall, muscular young fellow hurried
out of the door, followed by other members of the family.
There was no look of dismay on Joe Bradshaw’s face at the size of the
party. With true mountain hospitality they were given a hearty welcome.
Inside the house Gincy looked around curiously. The two rooms were
better furnished and neater than even Squire Dodd’s, which represented to
her the height of elegance. In the living-room the supper was cooking
over a stove; the fireplace was not even lighted. A white linen cloth of
Mrs. Bradshaw’s own weaving covered the table, and there seemed to be
plenty of dishes without the makeshifts common in her home and those of
other mountain families she knew. True, it was only coarse, blue
earthenware, but in her unaccustomed eyes nothing could be finer.
In the next room were two beds covered with blue and white “kivers,” also
the product of the loom which stood in the corner of the living-room.
Pinned on the walls were a half-dozen prints and bright-coloured
pictures. Cheesecloth curtains were looped back from the windows, and on
the mission table, of Joe’s making, was a store lamp with a flowered
shade, and more books than Gincy had seen in all her life before.
That night she could hardly sleep for thinking of the wonders awaiting
her on the morrow in the promised land of which she had dreamed through
all the toil of the long summer days.
III
TALITHA SOLVES A PUZZLING PROBLEM
JOE BRADSHAW was a member of the little party which set forth early the
next morning with renewed expectations. Not a cloud hovered in the deep
blue of the sky as they followed the devious trails across the mountains
and along the foothills, valleyward. At the end of ten miles they
reached the railroad. It was the first all but three of the party had
ever seen. The horse the two girls were riding shied in terror at sight
of the monster puffing forth clouds of smoke and steam. The passengers
in the coaches looked curiously out at the bright, young faces shadowed
by white sunbonnets. Gincy clung to Talitha and drew a long breath of
relief as bell and whistle sounded and the train swept on, its rumble and
roar re-echoing among the hills.
After that, the rest of the way seemed short indeed, so near were the
travellers to their journey’s end. Every few miles now were homes which
bore evidences of a thrift and energy which had not yet penetrated far
into the mountains. One by one the stars came out, and a full moon
climbed over the ridge and made a silvery, elusive pathway across the
foothills. Another turn in the trail, and presently the foot-sore
pilgrims came to a smooth pike. A half-hour later they looked upon
shadowy roofs among tall trees where lights twinkled faintly in the
radiance of the moon.
Martin and Joe hurried ahead along the street sure of a welcome, and they
were not disappointed.
“Here are our two standbys again, and they didn’t come alone, either,”
greeted the secretary with a hearty shake of the hand as the boys entered
the office.
The girls were taken in charge by the dean, who whisked them off to the
dining-room for a late supper. After that, with much contriving, they
were stowed comfortably away for the night.
“You’d better go straight to sleep,” admonished Talitha. “Half-past five
will come before you know it and then the rising bell rings. I expect
we’ll feel pretty stiff for a day or two.”
Gincy only murmured a drowsy reply. She was already dreaming a beautiful
dream, quite unaware of what Mrs. Donnelly, the dean, was saying to Miss
Howard, her assistant.
“I don’t see how we can keep the girl who came with Talitha Coyle. We
are overflowing already. Two beds in every room upstairs—”
“Can’t we manage some way?” urged Miss Howard for the tenth time that
day. “She’s a bright little thing. If she were only a boy now, and yet
the boys are coming in at a great rate this year; it’s wonderful!”
“Let me think.” The dean’s smooth forehead wrinkled in perplexity.
“Well,” with a sudden inspiration, “if that girl from Kerby Knob doesn’t
put in an appearance—she wrote me that her mother was sick and she was
afraid she couldn’t—I’ll keep Gincy, but if Urilla does come back we
shall be obliged to give her precedence because she will be a junior this
year.”
So the matter rested, and blissfully ignorant of the fact that her good
fortune was another girl’s misfortune, Gincy arose in the morning
supremely happy. She was not to remain long a stranger, for Talitha was
a person who made friends—hosts of them—she had such a way of forgetting
Talitha Coyle, and in a few hours they were Gincy’s also. She laughed
and chatted among the girls as she helped wipe the great stacks of dishes
after the early breakfast. There were no lessons yet, but when the
morning’s work was done and the services at the chapel over, Kizzie
Tipton proposed a walk.
“You know the dean said you needn’t hurry to get registered,” added her
new friend. “I’ll meet you on the front porch in five minutes,” and
Kizzie ran to her room.
Gincy opened the hall door also in haste. She had thought of something
she wished to say to Talitha—who was just going down the steps with her
books—and nearly ran against a tall, pale-faced girl carrying a heavy
handbag. “Oh!” Gincy ejaculated with a swift glance at the wan face.
“Jest let me ketch a holt. I ’most tuk you down, I reckon.”
The weary eyes brightened. “You’re a new girl,” asserted the late
arrival confidently as Gincy deposited the baggage in a corner of the
hall.
“Yes,” she nodded, “I reckon I be, but I don’t seem ter sense hit much.
Hit’s the nicest place I ever see fer findin’ friends,” and Gincy
disappeared with a parting smile.
The newcomer sat down in thoughtful silence, forgetting that she had not
made known her arrival to the dean. But that lady chanced to espy her
from the top of the stairs and slowly descended, inwardly determined that
her face should not reveal her embarrassment.
“Well, Urilla, you succeeded in getting here after all,” she said with a
smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the girl, rising respectfully. “Mother’s able to
sit up most of the time, and she wouldn’t hear to my staying home now
Sally’s big enough to help. If I can only manage to stay another year.”
Urilla gave a long sigh.
The girl was sent to her room to get a little rest before dinner, and
Gincy, returning from her walk in a high state of exuberance, was called
to the office.
Two hours later, Talitha came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Donnelly. “I have
been looking for you,” said that lady soberly.—It was a very difficult
thing she had to do.—“I am very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,
but we shall be obliged to send Gincy home—”
“Send her home!” echoed Talitha in amazement, turning pale and trembling.
“Yes, Urilla Minter has come back, and there isn’t room for both of them;
we’re crowded beyond the limit now. I’ve done my best, but not a place
can be found for her. I’ll keep her name on the books so she will have
an opportunity to come back next year.” Mrs. Donnelly’s heart was sore
at parting with one of her flock who was so eager for an education.
There were tears in her eyes as she turned away.
Talitha wandered out to a seat on the campus to think over the dreadful
tidings. Gincy going home after working so hard all the summer to come!
This would be her last chance, for Dan Gooch would never get over her
being sent back, and he would hate the Coyles because Gincy would not
have thought of attending the school had it not been for Talitha. All
the beautiful, rosy clouds which had glorified the morning sky faded,
leaving it dull and grey.
Gincy must not go home; that Talitha instantly decided, but—The girl sat
for a long time struggling with herself, her hands clasped over the
precious little pile of books in her lap. She was in a far corner,
unnoticed by the merry bands of students passing back and forth. She
could hear their laughter and happy chatter. Oh, it was hard, so hard!
At last, Talitha rose quickly as though she were afraid her courage might
vanish, and hastened to the hall and straight to Mrs. Donnelly’s room.
“I’ve come to tell you,” she began breathlessly, with a little tremor in
her voice, “that I’ve—I’ve decided to go home. Gincy can stay, then.
She mustn’t go, Mrs. Donnelly, she’s been workin’ and lottin’ on it all
summer and her folks wouldn’t ever let her come back again. I’ll go and
you’ll give her my place, won’t you?”
The dean never forgot the pleading face lifted to hers. It was white and
the lips were trembling, but the light of a heroic, self-sacrificing
spirit shone in the dark eyes. “Oh, my child,” protested the woman, “I
can’t bear to think of your going home. If I could only plan some way,
but I’ve tried and tried.”
“I know it,” nodded Talitha, “but I never once thought there wouldn’t be
room for everybody who wanted to come. Anyway, I’m glad Gincy’s going to
have a chance. You ought to hear her sing, Mrs. Donnelly. And if you’ll
sort o’ mother her a little I’ll be real thankful. Gincy’s never been
away from home before, and her folks were going to feel so easy because I
was with her. Don’t feel bad, it couldn’t be helped, I reckon, and maybe
I’ll come back next year.”
Talitha’s heart was heavy indeed as she climbed the stairs to her room.
She found Gincy in a corner weeping piteously over the few belongings
gathered in a little heap. Talitha knelt beside her and put an arm
tenderly around the thin, bowed shoulders.
“Put your things right back, Gincy,” she said, “you’re going to stay
after all. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly.”
Gincy looked up in astonishment that at first was too great for words.
“You don’t mean hit?” she gasped at last, clutching her friend’s arm.
“Sure I do,” Talitha nodded with a smile. Her own burden lightened
wonderfully at the sight of Gincy’s radiant face and suddenly dried
tears. She left the girl putting her belongings back in drawers and
closet with a joyful haste. Gincy had not even inquired how this
transformation had been wrought; it was enough for her to know that she
was not to be sent home.
Talitha’s next duty was to find Martin and make known her resolution.
After a long search he was discovered in the library with a pile of
reference books before him. He looked up with shining eyes. She knew
how he rejoiced in the opportunity for another year’s work. It would
take away half his pleasure to learn that she would not be there to share
it, still she was confident that he would see the wisdom of her resolve.
At a sign from her he followed wonderingly out back of the building to a
seat under one of the large trees of the campus where they would be
unnoticed.
“How’s Gincy coming on? She isn’t getting homesick a’ready, is she?” he
inquired.
“Gincy! Not much; she’s pleased as can be with everything here. That’s
what I came to see you about.” Talitha paused and looked down at her
folded hands, while Martin sat staring at her in bewilderment. “Mrs.
Donnelly came to see me this morning,” she went on presently. “She told
me that Gincy must go home, that there is no place for her. So many
girls have come this fall the rooms are crowded.”
“Go home!” repeated Martin indignantly. “Oh, we can’t let her; she
mustn’t.”
“Of course not. She’s been crying till she’s ’most beat out, but I’ve
been thinking it over and Gincy’s going to stay. I’ve just seen Mrs.
Donnelly again—”
“Well, I’m mighty glad!” Martin gave a long breath of relief. “How did
you manage it, Tally?”
“I’m going home instead,” she answered calmly.
“You!” Her brother sprang up excitedly. “Tally, I won’t hear to it!”
“Yes, you will. Sit down, Mart, you’d do the same thing if you were in
my place, you know you would. I’m not going to be selfish. Gincy’s
never had any chance and I’ve had a whole year here. Maybe I can come
back again some time, but if I knew I couldn’t I should go just the
same.”
“But you can’t go home alone,” Martin objected.
“Yes, I can. I’ll take the train to the Gap and I’m not afraid to walk
the rest of the way.”
“Well, Tally, I suppose you’re right,” her brother said at last, “but
it’ll take the sunshine out of the whole year for me, to know that you’re
missing all this. And I’d counted so on the good times we’d have
together.”
“Now, Mart, don’t you worry about me one minute. I reckon it’s all for
the best. Maybe there’s something special in the mountains for me to do;
I’m going to try to think so anyway.”
“What reason are you going to give the folks for going home?”
“I’m going to tell them the truth that there wasn’t room for so many
girls. I shan’t say a word about Gincy only that she’s well and having a
fine time.”
That afternoon while Gincy was out of the room, Talitha removed the tiny
wardrobe she had brought, to make room for Urilla’s. Long before light
the next morning, while Gincy slept soundly, all unaware of her friend’s
sacrifice, Talitha boarded the train which could only take her so short a
distance toward home. She sank into a seat timidly. She had never
travelled alone before, and when she reached the Gap the loneliest part
was yet to come.
As the train pulled out she tried to wave a cheerful good-bye to Martin,
who stood disconsolately outside in the darkness. The coach was full of
people who had evidently travelled all night, for they were in all sorts
of positions trying to get a little sleep. Talitha’s eyes were
sleepless, although she had hardly closed them that night. It was
disagreeably warm and stuffy. She longed to open the window, but the
girl beside her was propped comfortably in the corner of the seat,
oblivious to her surroundings.
Talitha looked at her curiously. She was a mountain girl, that was
evident, but not from Goose Creek nor the Settlement—possibly from
Redbird. She might be kin to the Twilligers, there were legions of them
scattered through the mountains, and she favoured them wonderfully, now
Talitha thought of it.
Suddenly the girl opened her eyes and stared at Talitha. “I reckon I
must hev been asleep,” she said with a wide yawn. “Whar did you git on?”
“At Bentville.”
“Bentville! What kind of a place is hit? I come purty nigh goin’ thar
onct and then I changed my mind. I couldn’t pin myself down ter book
larnin’ nohow.”
Talitha viewed the speaker with astonishment. “What’s your name?” she
inquired coldly.
“Piny Twilliger.”
“Did you know that Gincy Gooch is going to school at Bentville?” asked
Talitha.
“Law me, why Gincy’s my cousin. Whatever put hit into her head? I
wouldn’t hev thought hit of her.”
“Then you don’t know Gincy,” was the retort. “She’s as ambitious as can
be and loves to study. She’s going to be somebody, I tell you. Abner’s
at school too, and their folks are so proud of them.”
“Law me,” said the girl again. “I never heerd of any kin ter the
Twilligers takin’ ter larnin’ afore,” and she relapsed into silent
amazement. She had not recovered speech when the small station at the
Gap was reached.
“Ter think I never asked her name!” murmured Gincy’s cousin in sudden
dismay as Talitha left the car.
IV
THE STORM
WHEN Talitha alighted from the train the sun had not yet risen, but the
rosy banners which heralded its coming floated wide across the eastern
sky. It was on a morning like this that she and Martin had started
homeward with such elation of spirits, such hopes for the coming year.
But then summer was just begun; now it had gone and her hopes with it.
She started across the foothills and up the long mountain trail, the old
elasticity gone from her step, the hardness of her lot weighting her
down. It seemed as though her feet could never carry her the long, weary
way home. Upon a jutting crag she stopped and looked back. Far in the
distance, cradled among the foothills of the Cumberlands, it lay, the
place of her heart’s desire. Would she ever see it again?
Talitha looked at the sky. The breakfast bell would be ringing by this
time, and happy, laughing faces gathered around the long tables. Her
head bowed as though she could hear the fervent grace, and a sob rose in
her throat. Suddenly the petition of a young leader at prayers, the
night before, came to her: “Wilt Thou give us strength and courage to
meet bravely the trials and temptations of each day.” How full of
meaning they were to the one who uttered them Talitha well knew. Owen
Calfee’s face showed with what high courage he was meeting the hardships
which had beset his path from early youth.
Talitha fiercely blinked back the tears. “I’m plumb spoilin’ everythin’
by my foolishness,” she thought aloud, unconsciously relapsing into the
speech of the mountains. “I reckon hit ain’t pleasin’ ter the Lord—my
thinkin’ sech sorry thoughts. I’ve clean forgotten that I’d ought ter be
thankful that Martin could stay and that Gincy’s havin’ a chance. My,
but if she isn’t the happiest child!” Talitha rose reluctantly. “I
shouldn’t like to be caught in the dark, and that’s what I’m bound to be
if I stop here any longer.” She stretched out her hands toward the
valley with a wistful gesture of parting. “I’m so glad you’re there,
Gincy,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t have you home for nothing.”
Through the long forenoon’s weary climb up the mountain’s interminable
slope and over its craggy crest to the other side, she resolutely laid
aside all thoughts of her disappointment and began making plans to be put
into execution as soon as possible after reaching home.
At noon she was almost thankful that she had not reached the creek where
the little party had lunched so happily two days before. Now she spread
her simple fare upon a smooth ledge and watched the varied light and
shadow across the fast changing foliage as she ate. The birds fluttered
and sang in the pines above her head. Now and then one grew bold enough
to fly down for the crumbs she scattered upon the ground. Over the
opposite edge of the flinty table a pair of bright eyes peered longingly.
Talitha laughed as she flung the bushy-tailed visitor her last morsel,
and rose to resume her journey.
She planned to reach home by supper time, but it had not been so easy to
travel without the aid of a strong arm over the roughest places. No
thought of fear had entered her mind until that moment; now the prospect
of being alone at night on those wooded heights where the darkness was
dense under the thick branching trees made her shrink.
The afternoon was half gone when Talitha dropped down at the foot of a
pine, tired and footsore. She was not yet rested from the journey of the
two days previous, and it seemed as though her aching feet could never
carry her home that night. She sat debating with herself as to the
possibility of finding a nearby shelter. Not a cabin was in sight. She
looked around anxiously, shading her eyes with her hand, to peer along
the ridges. A broad shaft of sunlight lay across the leafage of the
opposite mountain. How vividly it brought out the autumn tints which
flecked the green like rich tapestry. Then, with a frightened gasp of
dismay, she noticed for the first time the pile of threatening clouds in
the west, and the long, deep shadows which lay in the hollows of those
great hills.
Over the highest peak of the ridge beyond, they were coming—the slim,
mist-coloured lances of the storm. Down the mountain-side they marched,
legion after legion. A swift line of fire zigzagged above their heads,
and suddenly the sky seemed filled with the rattle of musketry.
Talitha fled, at the first sign of approach, to the shelter of a thick
cluster of oaks. She reached it trembling and breathless only to see a
cabin a few rods beyond. Without waiting to speculate who its occupants
might be, she ran to it, the storm at her back, the wind contesting each
step over the rough slope. Her little bundle was a cumbrous weight upon
her shoulders.
At the door the girl knocked hurriedly. Her heart was beating fast. It
was twilight around her, and the voice of the storm came up with a
terrible roar. There was no answer from within the cabin and the door
did not open, but in her great stress Talitha entered timidly.
The wind closed the door violently behind her before she realized that
the place was not empty. The feeble flame in the fireplace left the one
room mostly in shadow, but it revealed the occupant, a weazened old man,
wrapped in a faded quilt, sitting before the hearth. Talitha felt a
sudden relief that she was not alone while such a storm raged outside. A
man sick and perhaps in need of care was not to her an object of fear
even though a stranger.
“I declar’ if hit ain’t Tally Coyle!” came in wheezy tones from the
depths of the bed-quilt. “I ’lowed you war off ter the valley school
long ’fore this.”
Talitha could hardly find her voice so great was her astonishment. She
had gone farther out of her way than she knew to stumble upon her old
teacher’s cabin. “Why, howdy, Mr. Quinn, you aren’t sick, are you?” she
said, throwing down her bundle and shaking the raindrops from her moist
skirts.