Chapter XII: Goose Creek Plots Against the Schoolmaster

“HIT air gittin’ powerful late,” admonished Enoch Shackley, rounding up the last of his brood. “I can take you-uns along ter your place,” he said to the schoolmaster. “I reckon you’re honin’ ter git home.”

The old man’s face suddenly fell. Never within his memory had he spent so festive an evening, and now to go from it to his cold, comfortless cabin. The blacksmith observed the look with an unfeeling smile, and attempted to hasten his offspring’s preparations for departure.

“Hurry up thar, chil’ren. Law me, your teacher’s gone ’fore this. She’s glad ’nough ter git shet o’ you fer one spell, I reckon.”

It certainly was a mystery where Talitha and Martin had so suddenly disappeared. Even Abner and Gincy looked puzzled, finally accepting Mr. Shackley’s offer—made with a knowing twinkle of the eye—of a “couple of cheers” in his wagon.

The company flocked out of the schoolhouse with their perforated tin lanterns like a swarm of fireflies dodging hither and thither among the trees. Saddle horses were mounted, and the patient oxen again yoked to the wagons filled with chairs.

Strange to say, many of the folks were taking the same road—following a short distance behind the Shackleys. The sound of their voices and the twinkling lights in the rear at any other time would have aroused Si Quinn’s curiosity, at least. Now he was too much occupied with the thought of his own failures and the future which loomed before him more dismal than ever. Lost in revery he failed to notice when the oxen stopped at the footpath leading up to his cabin, until the blacksmith’s voice roused him.

“Here you air, Si! Jest let me ketch a holt of you. Middlin’ dampish, ain’t hit? I ’low Abner better go ’long with the lantern. I’ll wait fer him.”

Had the two looked around as they slowly climbed the slope, they would have seen the shadowy company following at a little distance.

“I’ll stop and start a fire for you,” offered Abner, with a great feeling of pity for the old man who leaned heavily on his strong, young arm. “If you haven’t been home for a week it ain’t a fit place for you to go into.”

“Thar won’t be a live coal,” panted the schoolmaster.

“I’ve matches in my pocket, but it’ll take a considerable spell to drive out the cold and damp.” The boy eyed the dim outlines of the cabin with misgiving. It looked gloomy and unhomelike as possible.

Once at the door—guiltless of fastenings—Si Quinn drew a long, reluctant sigh.

His hand on the latch, Abner heard sounds of feet close by. He looked around; there were strange, moving shadows on the path. He was not slow-witted; it was Christmas Eve and a suspicion of something flashed across his mind. One glimpse of the already lighted room and he turned, helped the old man in, and hastily closed the door just as there came a tugging at his coat. A score of Goose Creek folks were behind him.

“Oh, what did he say?” whispered Talitha excitedly.

“He hadn’t got that far,” grinned Abner in sudden comprehension.

“Let’s give three cheers for the schoolmaster,” suggested Martin.

Such a demonstration was new to the mountain people who had not been to Bentville, but they listened with appreciation and joined in most lustily when it ended with: “A Merry Christmas! Wish You a Merry Christmas!” And then the company quietly dispersed.

“We made a power o’ racket,” said Dan Gooch as later he entered his own cabin. “But I’d like ter hev seen how the old man looked when he war fairly inside. We did a toler’ble job, chinkin’ up them crannies. You’d never hev suspected what the place war like,” he chuckled.

As more than one of the company around the little old cabin that night had surmised, the schoolmaster’s face, as he gazed about the room—only a few days ago as cheerless as it could well be—was worth seeing. The pine boughs in the fireplace crackled and snapped merrily as the flames leaped upward and sent a delightful glow through the place. A half-dozen candles twinkled out from bunches of holly and pine. The bed with its warm, new covering was like a gay flower plot; shelves and table bore unmistakable evidences of Christmas cheer.

The faded eyes grew misty as they caught sight of a card on the shelf above the fireplace. It bore, in large letters: “A Merry Christmas from the Goose Creek Folks.”

The old man’s knees suddenly weakened and he dropped into a chair. He heard the cheering and tried to rise and open the door, but he could not summon strength. As the last echo of “Merry Christmas” died away across the mountains with the sound of retreating footsteps, the tears trickled down his cheeks. It was the happiest hour of his whole life. His poor efforts had been appreciated after all; he was not to be forgotten in his old age.

Until a much later hour than usual lights shone from the little homes about Goose Creek. The young people had loitered along the way from the schoolhouse, there was so much to talk over. Miss Howard was to stay all night with Gincy. The Coyle and Gooch families were to spend Christmas at the home of the former. It was to be a great day for the two households, and Talitha’s head was awhirl with excitement. She had unselfishly worked hard to bring happiness to others, and the greatest surprise had come to her. She was going back to Bentville the day after Christmas, with Miss Howard, and Martin, and the rest. Gincy, hawk-eyed where her friend was concerned, had rushed to the dean when she discovered that two of the students were to leave, and engaged a place for Talitha. Piney Twilliger had been fortunate enough to secure the other.

Sam Coyle made no objection, he was secretly bubbling over with pride at his daughter’s success. There could be no more school that winter; besides, he was beginning to feel that an education was something to be really desired.

By dawn on Christmas day two households at least were astir. The air was unusually mild with the fresh smell of a recent shower. The sun rose and beamed down with the warmth of May. By the time the Coyle family had breakfasted, Gincy and Abner were on hand to assist in the preparations. The loom, warping bars, spinning wheel, and a rude chest were turned out of doors to make place for the expected guests.

“We’re real lucky to have such weather,” said Talitha. “I don’t know how we would ever have managed with the table if we couldn’t have cleared things away. As it is there won’t be room enough for the children—”

“I’ll knock something together that’ll be nearer their size,” comforted Martin.

“Good boy,” smiled his sister, much relieved. “I was thinking of setting them in a row on the floor. That wouldn’t be very Christmas-y, would it? But a table of their own will pleasure them mightily.” Talitha hustled back into the cabin; there was an unusual amount of work for even her capable hands. Besides assisting in the preparation of so elaborate a meal, her belongings were to be made ready for her departure early on the morrow. It was too late in the season to risk further delay. Any day now, winter might rush upon the mountains with icy wind and sleet or a blinding snowstorm, making the rough roads altogether impassable.

“This air a weather breeder,” observed Sam Coyle pessimistically. “I’d feel a sight easier if you-uns hed a-started this mornin’.”

“An’ miss their Chris’mus turkey,” reproved his wife. “Jest be thankful hit air fine ’nough ter turn things out’n doors, ’though Tally ’lows now, hit would hev pleasured the comp’ny more ter hev set the table ’long of them pines.”

“Hit air not so much ’count whar hit’s set as what’s set on hit,” retorted Sam jovially. “Thet air the main thing; the scener-y hain’t needed ter give me an appetite. The smell o’ them turkeys air gone to my stummick a’ready, an’ I reckon I sh’ll hev ter take ter the crick ter git out’n reach of hit if the dinner’s later’n common.”

“Be keerful you don’t fall in,” warned Mrs. Coyle sarcastically. She paused in the midst of her egg beating to look about for Dock, her youngest, who was prone to get into mischief if unwatched.

By ten o’clock the company had arrived. It included the Bills family, as being next of kin, and Miss Howard who had waited to come with Mrs. Gooch and the younger children. Martin and Abner made themselves as useful as possible by taking the smaller members of the assembled families a short distance along the mountain-side in search of the hickory nuts which might have escaped their eyes at nutting time.

The company sat out of doors and visited with the host, while Talitha and her mother, with Gincy’s aid, completed the final preparations for the Christmas feast. The children’s table was laid beside a clump of laurel. When the youngsters appeared, they were immediately set down before well-filled plates while their elders gathered in the cabin. The family table had been lengthened by Martin’s skilful contriving and placed cornerwise across the room. Even then it took some managing to get the guests properly seated.

Mrs. Coyle surveyed the feast with pardonable pride; it would have done credit to more notable housewives. Not since the early days of her marriage had she had the opportunity to show such hospitality. Two of the largest, plumpest turkeys in her flock graced the centre of the board in company with a fat, wild goose, potatoes, turnips, beans, squash, dishes of pickle, a salad—Talitha had learned to make at Bentville—besides the usual Christmas pies, and a large black cake Gincy had trimmed with a wreath of holly. Both front and back doors were wide open, and a gentle breeze cooled the heated room where both the new stove and the fireplace had been doing extra duty.

Around the little cabin rose the great sheltering hills, their peaks a misty purple in the soft haze of a belated Indian summer. Below, Goose Creek, still little more than a rivulet, basked lazily in the sunshine.

At first the appetites were too keen to allow of much conversation, but at last Shad Bills laid down his knife and fork and looked around with a grin. “Has anybody heerd how the schoolmaster’s feelin’?” he suddenly inquired. “I ’lowed a-toppin’ off the Chris’mus doin’s with thet surprise war a leetle too much fer the old man.”

“I seen him this mornin’,” said Dan Gooch. “He war as peart as a Juny bug. The Twilligers give him an invite to eat turkey with them. Yes, sir,” he smiled reminiscently, “I reckon Goose Creek never see no sech doin’s as we had last night. I don’t rightly know as we’d ought ter let Tally slip off this-a-way without writin’ out a promise thet she’ll come back and teach the school next year.”

Sam Coyle grinned appreciatively. Not one of the men in the company could read or write. “I reckon her word of mouth’ll do. Tally’s boun’ ter come back all right,” her father declared.

“She can’t always be comin’ back to teach,” put in Gincy. “If you go to Commencement next spring maybe you’ll want Tally to have a diploma, too.”

Sam Coyle wisely refrained from a reply. That he had not looked with favour upon his daughter’s ambition to get an education was well known, and now that he had been proved in the wrong he did not propose to lay himself open to further criticism. However, he inwardly determined that Talitha should keep the Goose Creek school. The money was a great help to the family, and Dan Gooch would like nothing better than to have a chance to secure it for Gincy, he reasoned selfishly. Miss Howard shrewdly read the man’s thoughts, but she said nothing, although she inwardly resolved that Talitha should have her chance with the rest.

After the dinner was over and the dishes cleared away, the young people went to the schoolhouse. The maps and pictures were to be brought home for safekeeping, although there was no probable danger of their being molested. Besides, the young teacher wanted to see the place again before leaving for Bentville.

There was a strong odour of pine as Martin flung open the door. The despoiled tree still stood on the platform. Miss Howard had put the tinsel trimmings carefully away for future Christmases.

“It certainly looks as though we had had a good time last night,” said Talitha, glancing around. “Billy, I think I’ll let you and Sudie sweep out when you have a chance. You may keep the greens up as long as you choose; they’ll last some time. Good-bye until next summer,” she said to herself as she reluctantly turned away.

They stopped a moment at the little heap of ashes and charred logs below the new structure. “It’s a fitting monument for the old shack we used to call a schoolhouse,” said Martin reflectively. “When I remember the days we spent in it, I—”

“Don’t,” said Talitha gently. “The schoolmaster did the best he knew. He can see his mistakes as well as anybody now.” Miss Howard was silent, but she thought of the many such places scattered over the mountains, some of them presided over by just such teachers as Si Quinn had been.

Early that evening Martin and Talitha slipped away to the old schoolmaster’s cabin to say good-bye, for they would start by light the next morning.

“I ’lowed you’d be ’long,” he said, beaming down at them. “I came home early so’s not ter miss you.”

“Oh, we wouldn’t have gone away without coming to see you,” Talitha assured him, drawing up a stool before the bright blaze in the fireplace. Martin seated himself upon an old chest in the corner and looked around. He had been curious to see how Talitha had managed to rehabilitate the dingy place of which he had such disagreeable recollections.

“You wouldn’t know my old shack now, would you?” Si Quinn noticed the young fellow’s survey of the room. “You kin lay the hull thing ter Tally, I’ll be boun’—”

“Oh, no, no,” protested the girl, blushing. “I just—”

“Don’t I know your sly tricks? You started hit an’ did a heap besides. Not that Goose Creek folks ain’t the frien’liest, best-hearted critters in the hull mountings.”

“Just think what you’ve done for me!” cried Talitha in a low tone. “Those books and maps—I couldn’t have replaced them this fall—and that box was such a godsend! Billy’s going to see that all the children have a chance to read the books this winter. They’ll be learning a lot and the days won’t seem so long. I’ll send them a package of papers and magazines in the spring.”

“Law me, Tally, hit war little ’nough I did. I’d hev done a heap more, but I couldn’t. Hit’ll seem mighty lonesome with you-uns gone, but I’ll git some comfort thinkin’ of the chanct you’re havin’.”

The call must necessarily be a brief one. Talitha was very tired and there was a long ride before them on the morrow. But as the two rose to go the old man caught at the girl’s sleeve. “Martin, you jest g’long and bide fer Tally by the big tree. I’ve somethin’ special ter say ter her.”

Martin looked surprised, but he obeyed.

“I war told ter keep hit a secret, Tally,” said Si Quinn as the door closed behind her brother. “But I couldn’t let you go ’way a-thinkin’ I sent you thet box, fer I didn’t. I’ll trust you never ter speak of hit long as I live if I tell you. Hit war Jake Simcox—”

“Jake—!” Talitha stopped short in amazement.

“Yes, he’s repented of his folly and is turnin’ over a new leaf. He air a good piece from Goose Creek and he’s got a chanct ter work an’ go ter school. What’s more, he ’lows ter make up—some time—fer all the mischief he done. But he war sech a pore ignorunt feller—I reckon you’ve fergiven him, Tally, hit worked out a sight o’ good fer you and fer Goose Creek.”

“Yes, yes, indeed!” cried the girl, the tears in her eyes, “and I’m so glad he’s having a chance. I wish you’d tell him so.”

“’Tain’t likely I’ll ever see him agin, but he’s goin’ ter make a man of himself yit, I reckon.” The schoolmaster looked down at his favourite pupil and there was a smile on his face that softened the plain, rugged features like sunshine from within shining outwardly. Standing in the glow of the firelight with the Christmas holly and pine on shelf and wall, the twinkling candles—he had lighted in honour of his guests—the white-haired, white-bearded man seemed like the memory of an old-time Christmas that had slipped back to its mountain home for a brief renewal of past pleasures.

Talitha carried the picture away with her as she went thoughtfully down the path toward the big pine where Martin waited.