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.”