nigh onto twenty little uns fer us last night. G’lang, Bright!” and the
cracking whip and groaning wagon drowned the greetings of the others.
Kid fell in behind. There was no possible chance for conversation, so
they sang old English ballads, and “The Old Time Religion,” which Talitha
had taught them. As they rode along in the damp coolness, Kid watched
the lumbering wagon ahead, full of indistinct figures, with a curious
feeling of something new and strange about to enter his life.
Right and left, the great pine-covered mountains both guarded and
threatened with their looming shapes. The highest part of the creek bed
made the only passable wagon road, and that was poor enough. The air was
full of moist odours, and above, the deep blue dome was pierced with
twinkling points of light.
The night wore on until the twinkling lights were lost, and a greyness
settled over the mountain world. They were travelling northwest, leaving
range after range of the Cumberlands, broken only by the deep gorge of a
river bed, behind them. Ahead, were the foothills, and beyond, Kid had
never seen. He only knew from the glowing accounts of Pete, and Isaac,
and Talitha—who had made him promise to come to Bentville—that the Blue
Grass in all its richness lay very near the college.
Leaving the river bed they struck a mountain road which led, at long
intervals, past lonely, unpainted cabins more humble than those in the
small settlement at Goose Creek. Early as it was, people were astir,
noisily harnessing their mules, or yoking oxen. Here and there a jaded
saddle-horse or spirited colt was being pressed into service. They were
all bound for the same place.
“Hit’s like a circus, er buryin’, er baptizin’—” and here words failed
him. But he remembered Talitha’s description, and tried to imagine how
it would seem to see thousands of people on one level, wooded space.
They had stopped singing now. A faint, rosy glow was spreading above the
mountains back of them, and glimpses of a great rolling valley came from
the front. The road ran steeply down, causing the occupants of the wagon
to sway in their chairs. Dan Gooch plied the brake, vociferating to his
oxen: “Hi thar, Bright! Steady, Star! See, yon’s Redbird!”
Sam Coyle straightened an inert figure. He had been half dozing,
conscious of little except his broken rest. His journey to Bentville was
prompted by a curiosity which had been growing ever since Abner had won
the medal. There was a little pricking below the jealousy in his heart
when he thought what a “sorry” father he had been. Dan Gooch was growing
more enthusiastic every day over “larnin’.” Sam wondered if it were too
late—here he glanced at his wife’s worn but radiant face. She was
looking in the direction of Redbird, but he knew that her heart was going
out to Martin and Talitha in Bentville, and that she had nothing to
regret.
Billy and Sudie grew more excited each moment. “I’m that hongry I could
eat a bear; I hope they’ll have one fer breakfast!” exclaimed the former.
“More like it’ll be a chicken,” laughed Kid as he guided Nick nearer the
wagon. “I saw Zeb Twilliger in the hen yard a minute ago.”
A lank, high cheek-boned mountaineer came slouching toward the gate as
they drove up. “Light and hitch,” he commanded hospitably. “I reckon
yo’re bound fer Bentville. Piny’s been pesterin’ the life out o’ us ter
come; she sent word agin this week, an’ I ’low ef she’s honin’ fer us,
we’d shore ought ter go.”
“That’s what I told pappy,” interrupted Kid eagerly. “He and mammy bide
in the Hollow till they’re fair mossy. Pete and Ike’ll come back plumb
shamed of we-uns.” And then the boy flushed at what the words implied.
Sam Coyle failed to make his usual sarcastic retort to the thrust at
Goose Creek. Indeed he was quite amiable to Kid on their way up to the
door of the rather untidy looking cabin. There was plenty of bacon and
cornbread, with coffee and fresh buttermilk for breakfast. The chickens
were for their dinner and had been cooked the day before. “I never count
on eatin’ chicken till I get a holt of the drumstick,” whispered Billy to
Kid, rolling his eyes.
Mrs. Twilliger was large and loud-voiced. The older children had all
married and left home except Piny. “We’d planned ter keep her fer a
spell yit, but I don’t reckon nothin’ ever’ll suit her ’round here now
she’s taken ter schoolin’; she air a queer gal.”
“I wouldn’t let hit fret me,” said Mrs. Gooch with unexpected spirit,
“the mountings air needin’ a few idees; I’m glad Gincy’s gittin’ ’em.
I’m plumb wore out with the old ones. She and Tally’d much better be
larnin’ out o’ books than marryin’ some no ’count chap thet goes r’arin’
’round, shootin’ up things ginerally.”
Mrs. Twilliger bristled up instantly; the description fitted her eldest
son-in-law too closely for her liking. However, Mrs. Gooch had an
unexpected ally in the master of the house. “Thet’s my idee; Piny’s
harum-scarum ’nough without gittin’ in with these chaps ’round yere. We
hev ’nough o’ them fellers in the fambly a’ready.”
Breakfast over, every one hurried to get a good start for the last part
of the journey to Bentville. The Twilliger outfit was a span of fat
mules and a light wagon. They took the lead, and the oxen were soon far
behind.
“You’d better push on, Kid,” advised Dan Gooch as the oxen toiled up the
last foothill before reaching the valley. “Yon’s Bentville—almost in
sight. Zeb Twilliger will be thar an hour ahead of us. Nick hez sperit
’nough ter ketch up ter ’em stid of pokin’ ’long so powerful slow.”
Kid took the advice. As he reached the top of the hill, he reined Nick
in for a moment to look at the panorama of colour which spread below him.
There were fields of corn and hemp threaded with a narrow, silver path of
water. Beyond the valley, on a little plateau, was the white tower of a
chapel. The trees were thick, but they could not entirely screen the
angular outlines of the college buildings occupying the highest part of
the little town.
The boy’s heart beat fast. He had never been more than ten miles away
from home in all his life before. Somehow the blacksmith’s trade did not
seem so alluring as it had yesterday; perhaps Pete and Isaac were right
after all. He was proud of them anyhow.
Down, down toward the bridge which crossed Brushy Fork and the Big Hill
Pike with the hard part of the journey behind him, Kid overtook the
Twilligers. He exchanged a few remarks, then cantered past, and joined
the long procession of vehicles and horsemen, all headed in the same
direction. This beat a circus, it beat Talitha’s description carefully
recalled from last year.
Kid was beginning to get excited. He passed team after team with a
cheery hail, and forged straight up the hill. Nick did not need to be
urged; he galloped directly into the crowd, and then past, only slowing
down on the main street for Kid to gaze with fascinated eyes at the
booths of popcorn, candy, peanuts, and ice cream. Everywhere were
students spreading their wares in tempting proximity to the passersby.
On all sides signs read: “This Way to the Campus.” “Visit the Chapel
Tower.” “See the Industrial Building.” “Don’t Miss the Homespun Fair!”
Kid looked at everything with eager eyes. How could he ever see it all
in a day! So far there were no familiar faces. Nick plodded along in
the jam of teams quite subdued. There were lean, spiritless nags drawing
“sorry” buggies, jolt wagons and oxen, mules and more mules. Kid watched
them all—the black sunbonnets, the over-trimmed hats, the attractive
young faces and those lacking purpose. Where were Martin, and Abner, and
the rest? He looked up at the big boarding hall set back in a yard full
of trees. A throng was pouring out of the side entrance. They were
singing a rollicking class song which appealed to Kid’s music-loving
heart. As they came toward him he saw Martin and Isaac leading the
crowd.
Almost at the same instant they discovered him and made a rush forward.
“Hello, Kid, you’re just in time; we’re going over to the Tabernacle this
minute!” exclaimed Isaac.
“Didn’t any one else come?” asked Martin.
“You’ll see later,” Kid assured him with a grin, “but what’ll I do with
Nick?”
They led him into a long, roped driveway which crossed a little rustic
bridge. There, in the wooded part of the campus, were hundreds of teams
hitched to the trees or eating from the backs of wagons. In a bag thrown
across the saddle, Kid had brought feed for the mule. “Here’s a good
place, it’s near the road and shady, too,” said Isaac. “We’ll come back
after a while and find the rest of the folks. Now let’s hurry.”
The three boys started toward a huge, unpainted building with a large
sign across the front, “The Tabernacle,” it read. People were standing
near the two large entrances which were closed. “We’ll go around; I know
the way,” said Martin. There were several doors securely locked, but one
was ajar. The three slipped in. The room was full of piney odours from
the banked-up platform. High up behind the seats for the graduates a
dozen or more boys and girls were fastening festoons of flowers above a
solid wall of green. Kid had never seen anything of the kind before. He
stared at the sawdust on the floor which muffled their footsteps, at the
semi-circle of raised seats which were soon to be filled with mountain
people, then back again to the hurrying boys and girls in front.
“If there isn’t Kid Shockley!” It was Abner’s voice.
“Why, hello!” called Pete, turning suddenly. “Where are the rest of the
folks?”
“Come up here, Kid,” called out Talitha. “Here’s Gincy and Mallie and
all of the girls.”
In a moment Kid felt as though he had been in Bentville a week. He was
hailed cordially by all of the Goose Creek people and immediately set to
work breaking branches for trimming, and hanging banners under the
direction of Lalla. “We’ve got to be awfully quiet,” she whispered.
“It’s only a half-hour before the doors are opened and two of the
graduates have to rehearse yet.”
From his vantage ground above, Kid looked down at the critics on the
front seat and the tall, dark young man who had begun to speak. What a
contrast the clear, ringing tones were to those of the mountain orators
he had heard. For a moment he almost forgot to help Lalla and stood, his
arms full of pine branches, listening intently to the oration.
“Hurry, Kid,” reminded Lalla. “We’ve got to drag this litter out and
just rush over to the chapel to see them form in line; there isn’t a
minute to spare.”
The musical peal of a bell and the rat-tat-tat of a drum decided the
matter. In less than five minutes the two were crossing the campus in
the rear of a number of stragglers who were hurrying to see the long
procession begin its march.
XVIII
COMMENCEMENT TIME AT BENTVILLE
TALITHA, from her room in the hall, saw the oxen toiling up the hill just
as the chapel bell was ringing. She had rushed over from the Tabernacle
to dress and get back before the lines were formed. In fifteen minutes
the bell would begin to toll and the procession start. Her father and
mother must not miss it. She opened the door and sped down the corridor
to Gincy’s room.
“Girls,” she called out, pounding on the door insistently, “the folks are
almost here. Can’t one of you go down and bring them up to my room—your
mother and my mother, Gincy? The rest can go on; you can tell them where
to hitch.”
Gincy needed no second bidding; she fairly flew downstairs and out of
doors. At the side gate she stood for a moment and peered into the faces
of the crowd. Presently she spied the objects of her search. The big
red ox and the one with the white star on his forehead were coming her
way. Sudie and Billy waved their hands, her father smiled, and Sam
Coyle’s indolent figure seemed to grow in stature. Only the two
sunbonneted women on the back seat appeared quiet and indifferent, but
Gincy knew that inwardly they were far from it.
“Talitha saw you from her room,” she said after the first greeting.
“Jump right out and we’ll go up there; she’s rushing to get ready for the
exercises and there are only a few minutes left.”
Gincy hurried them through the crowd and into the dormitory hall, which
was alive with girls greeting friends and showing them around through the
various rooms. Her mother and Mrs. Coyle were allowed one peep into the
office of the dean, and the big east parlour with its Colonial furniture
and handsome pictures—gifts from wealthy New England people—then they
were whisked upstairs and into Number 45 to receive a warm greeting from
Talitha.
“How do you like it?” she asked, seating them near the open windows.
“You can look all around while Gincy’s hooking my dress.” Below, were
the long, well-watered rows of the college garden—a wonderful sight to
eyes accustomed to the small, dried-up mountain patch of vegetables.
“’Tis a sightly place,” remarked Mrs. Gooch, her face alive with
interest.
Mrs. Coyle nodded. “And fraish air kin pass through ter let out all the
odours,” her mind evidently intent on the airy location of the room.
Then she glanced at the white tucked dress lying on the lower berth of
the double-decker.
Her daughter followed the gaze. “Look at Gincy’s; hers has more tucks.”
Talitha slipped the princess gown over her head, all the while smiling
delightedly at the amazement in the faces of her guests.
They plied her with questions. How did she get in all those little
pleats? Who helped her cut and fit it? Couldn’t they visit the
sewing-room? To which Talitha responded as eagerly. “There, I’m almost
ready; we’ll go on the first stroke of the last bell. After the
exercises we’ll have dinner, and then I’m bound to show you everything on
the grounds.”
“Look out of this window,” said Gincy, pointing to a stretch of trailing
plants on the south side of the house. “Strawberries! Aren’t they
splendid? Father’s got to have some just like them.”
“Abner and Martin have learned a lot about horticulture; they’ll tend to
things,” said Talitha, noticing the look on her mother’s face which
seemed to say as plainly as words: “Your father wouldn’t find time for
anything of the kind.”
At the first stroke of the last bell, the four descended the stairs and
followed the crowd going in the direction of the Tabernacle. The college
band in bright, new uniforms, was playing a lively air near the chapel
door. From every direction the people streamed toward it. A long line
of the faculty and college graduates was being rapidly formed; each of
the latter wearing a band of purple and gold around the left arm. For
the most part they were simply dressed, but in their bearing one could
detect a vast difference from the raw material that had flocked in to
Commencement.
The little group from back in the hills was only one of many who looked
with proud, expectant eyes toward the future. It would be a great day
when one of their number stood in that long line waiting for the honours
which were to crown faithful endeavour. Talitha was glad to discover her
father looking with pleased interest at the young faces so full of
promise. Her one desire had been to make him see the difference between
those who had had advantages, and the boys and girls, who, without
education, were living dull, cramped lives in the mountains.
Suddenly the lively air changed, and a hundred young voices took up the
refrain: “We march, we march, to victory—”
Mrs. Coyle’s eyes filled as the ranks went sweeping by. She could hardly
see to follow them, but Talitha’s strong arm supported her, and, heading
the folks from Goose Creek, they filed into the Tabernacle and sat down
with the great crowd who had already assembled.
A great hush followed the prayer. Gincy watched her father and mother
keenly as the Hallelujah Chorus pealed forth; then she gave Talitha one
quick, triumphant glance. Their faces were full of wonder and pleasure,
and Sam Coyle’s stolid countenance wore a look of startled interest, the
like of which she had never seen before.
One by one the graduates took their places for the brief time allotted
them. They spoke in loud, clear voices, but Sam Coyle seemed hardly to
understand, until a dark-haired girl began about “The Land of
Appalachia.” She gave the history of the mountain people, how, shut back
in the hills, they were behind the rest of the world. What wonderful
resources were right at hand if they would only wake up and use them.
How education meant changing the home life and giving more to the girls
and boys which would end in a better life for the parents.
The hungry look on Mrs. Coyle’s face fairly devoured the speaker.
Already she was reaping her reward, and visions of Goose Creek, alive to
its sore need of an education, blotted out the great audience around her.
She sat almost motionless throughout the exercises. Children cried,
people came and went, the band played “Dixie”; it was greeted noisily.
It played again. This time it was “America,” and a flutter of white
handkerchiefs came from where the teachers sat; then they arose, and
somehow in a minute the crowd from Goose Creek found themselves standing,
too. Mrs. Coyle’s eyes were moist, and Dan Gooch swallowed a troublesome
lump in his throat. Billy and Sudie looked awed and timid, yet they
quivered with delight, and Gincy, her arms resting lightly upon their
shoulders, felt the quiver and held them closer.
The crowd poured out and melted into groups which gathered around
well-filled baskets, or ate sandwiches, and bananas, and drank lemonade
at the big stand near the library. “If we could only invite you over to
the Hall,” said Gincy regretfully. “We tried to get you in, but Miss
Denman says she can hardly find room for the company at the two new
tables. Commencement is a great day.”
“I reckon we can do what most of the strangers air doin’—eat our own
vittles; they’ll be plumb spoiled if we don’t,” said Dan Gooch with mock
severity. “Come on, chil’ren,” to Billy and Sudie.
“Hit beats anythin’ I ever saw!” exclaimed Sam Coyle, ignoring his
neighbour’s last remark. “I didn’t hone ter come—at fust—that crap in
the south cove needs a powerful lot o’ tendin’, but I ’lowed ’twould be a
pritty day, an’ Tally’d feel mightily disapinted if I didn’t.”
“Of course I would, father,” said Talitha, her eyes fixed on her mother’s
face. “You’ll not be sorry you came, either, there’s so much to see
after dinner.” And she started off arm in arm with Gincy, too happy over
her mother’s evident pleasure and her father’s sudden interest to think
of that old excuse—the neglected “crap” in the south cove.
“Hold on,” called Talitha as Kid Shackley came within hailing distance.
“Having a good time?”
“You bet!” was the emphatic response. “I’ve cut loose and am doin’ hit
by myself. Seen the folks? They have the stuff to eat.”
Talitha pointed back to the throng under the oak trees. “They’ve just
gone. You’ll catch them before they get fairly started eating if you
hurry.”
“Oh, Tally,” said Gincy as Kid dodged from view behind the crowd of
vehicles, his boyish head held high, “isn’t Commencement just grand! I’m
so happy over everything—Abner’s new suit, and the folks coming,
and—honey, your daddy thinks Bentville is all right; he’ll never say
another word against it, I know.”
Talitha nodded. Her face was radiant and she squeezed Gincy’s hand.
“And there’s Kid, he acts so different; just wild over everything here.
I’m sure he’ll be in school next year, too. That’s the five-minute bell
now; we’ll have to eat fast and get back. I’m just crazy to see father’s
face when he gets into the Industrial Building.”
“And mother’s when she sees the Homespun Fair; she’ll go wild over the
rugs, I’m sure.”
Back under the trees groups of people were refreshing themselves. The
sun flecked the broad backs of the oxen feeding from the rear end of the
jolt wagons. The mules were sleepily warding off the flies. A few
horses stamped restlessly. And on each side of the driveway was a mass
of life and colour enveloped in the fragrant air of June. Under its
dominating spell, the Goose Creek folks sat until the mass of humanity
began to move; only the babies slept, guarded by their mothers.
As though suddenly roused to action, the young people began to walk back
and forth through the wooded space, some aimlessly, others with a
definite objective point in view. From the chapel tower, the group from
Goose Creek could hear a voice inviting everybody to come up and see the
surrounding country.
“That’s Martin,” said Kid. “He’s got what he names a megaphone. I’d
call hit a horn-a whopper. You kin hear hit a mile, I’ll bet; I’m goin’
up after a spell ter he’p him out—thar come the gals.”
“They’re just pouring into the Homespun Fair,” said Gincy, coming up
breathless. “We’ve almost run so you wouldn’t get crowded out entirely.
Sudie and Billy’d better come with me and get some lemonade at the stand;
Talitha’s waiting over there for the rest of you.”
“I’d like ter see some kiverlids thet can beat mammy’s,” said Dan Gooch
as they walked briskly along in the direction indicated by Gincy.
“I don’t reckon as how you will,” responded his wife. “She was hard ter
beat.”
They turned into the arched entrance of a big, brick building and elbowed
through the crowd toward a large room indicated by the guides. Once
inside, Mrs. Coyle drew a quick breath of pleased astonishment. Long
tables down the centre of the room were covered with linen squares of
familiar patterns. There were also rugs and draperies, and innumerable
articles of unique home workmanship. The walls were hung with
“kiverlids” and quilts of brilliant patterns. The Rising Sun, Indian
Feather, Fruit Basket, and many others showed to the best advantage in
the well-lighted place.
Sam Coyle found his way to a table covered with splint baskets. “Look
here,” he said, beckoning to Talitha and pointing to the price-mark on a
medium sized one. “Seventy-five cents is a heap of money fer thet; I
reckon they won’t sell nary a one.”
But Sam Coyle reckoned in vain, for Talitha showed him the little tag
marked “Sold” tied to the opposite side of the handle; her eyes sparkling
at his look of amazement. “I used ter make toler’ble fair ones myself,
years back,” he said, examining it carefully.
Mrs. Gooch dropped into a splint-bottomed rocker in front of a gorgeous
red and green quilt. She was studying the price-mark and the pattern.
Ten dollars seemed an immense amount of money to pay for it. She
beckoned to Mrs. Coyle, who was fingering the linen. “What d’ye think o’
thet?” she asked.
Her neighbour stepped back slowly, viewing the quilt from all points of
vantage. “Yourn is a heap purtier, but this hez more fine stitches,” she
remarked at last judicially.
“Mebbe hit hez, but hit tuk more fine pieces fer ourn, an’ I’d be proud
ter git half as much.” Mrs. Gooch was thinking of Sudie and Billy, who
would soon be ready for Bentville. Here was an unexpected source of
revenue.
One by one Mrs. Coyle examined the squares of linen with a triumphant
feeling. All day her heart had been sinking at the thought of her
ignorance. She had been bewildered and overwhelmed by this new world of
opportunity and knowledge. Now she experienced a quick return of
self-respect as she heard well-dressed visitors exclaim in admiration,
and saw the ready sale of the linen. She not only knew the patterns, but
had worked out some original designs of her own. Here was surely a way
to earn more money.
It was fully twenty minutes later when Gincy came panting in without
Sudie and Billy. “They’ve found Pete and Isaac,” she announced, “and
they’re going to the top of the tower. They’ll meet us somewhere near
the Industrial Building. Come on.”
It was only a short distance, but every step was blocked by groups of
visitors, lemonade stands, amateur photographers, venders of patent
medicines. A wrinkled, toothless old woman sat close to the path smoking
her pipe. She wore a black calico dress and sunbonnet, and black wool
mitts. Gincy drew a long breath and thought, for the first time in her
life, what it meant to grow old like that.
“Here we are! There’s an awful crowd, but we’ll manage to see things
somehow.” People were pushing their way into the long building and
filling the rooms on either side of the hall. “Let’s show them the
cooking first,” said Talitha as Gincy started for the sewing department.