Читать книгу Goose Creek Folks - Isabel Graham Bush - Страница 4

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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.