When school began in the fall he was again constrained to the halls of learning. He would have preferred not to go to school, finding the free outer life of superior interest; but he couldn't learn the good loose trade without improving his knowledge of the printed word—though he had not been warned that printers must be informed about fractions, or even long division—but Winona being his teacher it was impracticable to be absent on private affairs even for a day without annoying consequences.
During the long summer every day but Sunday had been a Saturday in all essentials; now, though the hillsides blazed with autumn colour, ripe nuts were dropping, the mornings sparkled a frosty invitation, and there was a provocative tang of brush fires in the keen air, he must earn his Saturdays, and might even of these earn but one in a long week. Sunday, to be sure, had the advantage of no school, but it had the disadvantage of church attendance, where one fell sleepy while the minister scolded; and Sunday afternoon, even if one might fare abroad, was clouded by reminders of the imminent Monday morning. It was rather a relief when snow came to shroud the affable woods, bringing such cold that one might as well be in a schoolroom as any place; when, as Winona put down in her journal, the vale of Newbern was "locked in winter's icy embrace," and poor old Judge Penniman was compelled to while away the long forenoons with his feet on a stock of wood in the kitchen oven.
From Dave Cowan came picture postcards addressed to his son, gay-coloured scenes of street life or public buildings, and on these Dave had written, "Having a good time, hope you are the same." One of them portrayed a scene of revelry by night, and was entitled Sans Souci Dance Hall, Denver, Colorado. Winona bribed this away from the recipient with money. She wished Dave would use better judgment—choose the picture of some good church or a public library.
The Whipple family, including its latest recruit, continued remote. Wilbur would happily observe his one-time brother, muffled in robes of fur, glide swiftly past in a sleigh of curved beauty, drawn by horses that showered music along the roadway from a hundred golden bells, but there were no direct encounters save with old Sharon Whipple. Sharon, even before winter came, had formed a habit of stopping to speak to Wilbur, pulling up the long-striding, gaunt roan horse and the buggy which his weight caused to sag on one side to ask the boy idle questions. Throughout the winter he continued these attentions, and once, on a day sparkling with new snow, he took the rejected twin into a cutter, enveloped him in the buffalo robe, and gave him a joyous ride out over West Hill along the icy road that wound through the sleeping, still woods. They were silent for the most of this drive.
"You don't talk much," said Sharon when the roan slowed for the ascent of West Hill and the music of the bells became only a silver murmur of chords. The boy was silent, even at this, for while he was trying to think of a suitable answer, trying to think what Winona would have him reply, Sharon flicked the roan and the music came loud again. There was no more talk until Sharon pulled up in the village, the boy being too shy to volunteer any speech while this splendid hospitality endured.
"Have a good time?" demanded Sharon at parting.
Wilbur tried earnestly to remember that he should reply in Winona's formula, "I have had a delightful time and thank you so much for asking me," but he stared at Sharon, muffled in a great fur coat and cap, holding the taut lines with enormous driving gloves, and could only say "Fine!" after which he stopped, merely looking his thanks.
"Good!" said Sharon, and touching the outer tips of his frosted eyebrows with a huge gloved thumb he clicked to the roan and was off to a sprinkle of bell chimes.
Wilbur resolved not to tell Winona of this ride, because he would have to confess that he had awkwardly forgotten to say the proper words at the end. Merle would not have forgotten. Probably Mr. Sharon Whipple, having found him wanting in polish, would never speak to him again. But Sharon did, for a week later, when Wilbur passed him where he had stopped the cutter in River Street, the old man not only hailed him, but called him Buck. From his hearty manner of calling, "Hello, there, Buck!" it seemed that he had decided to overlook the past.