“’Course I learned to write an’ cipher in the log school. An’ I used to work out the accounts for folks--neighbors--an’ write letters for ’em if they had to send news off. I fixed me up a quill pen out of a turkey-buzzard’s feather, an’ the ink I made out o’ blackberry-briar roots an’ copperas. “I’d rather have book-learnin’ than all the muscle in the world. They say there’s a new University goin’ to open in Indiana next Fall. If I was rich, maybe I wouldn’t go up thar in a hurry! But I guess I’ll likely stay workin’ ’round on farms an’ boats.” “I should think you’d want to,” Tad put in. “If I was as big and husky as you, and could do the things you can, I’d never go back to school.” “Thar,” chuckled Abe, “you’ve put your finger on it. I seem to be a born corn-husker. An’ that’s all right, too. I like an ax. I like to work with an ax, splittin’ rails, buildin’ things. An’ I like to plow, an’ hoe, an’ take care o’ cattle. Only,” he paused, frowning, “some way, that ain’t enough.” And for many minutes thereafter he sat buried in thought, his chin in his hand. Tad, respecting the stern, almost sad expression on the older boy’s face, rose quietly and joined Allen up forward. Allen finished his song and greeted him. “What’s the matter--Abe got one of his silent spells?” he asked. “Don’t mind him. He’s all right--jes’ shiftless an’ dreamy sometimes.” And striking a chord or two, he launched into the stanzas of “Old Aunt Phoebe.” CHAPTER VI They were peeling potatoes for the noon meal on the fourth day of the flatboat’s voyage when Tad chanced to look off to the southward and stood up suddenly, with an exclamation of wonder. Above the Kentucky bluffs a cloud was rising swiftly--a living cloud of beating wings. “Pigeons!” said Abe. And Allen, springing to his feet, ran back under the shelter to get his fowling-piece. The great flight of birds came swiftly. Before Allen could finish loading the long-barreled shotgun, the first of them were winging over--twos and threes and fifties, and then thousands--so many that they seemed to cover the sky. A vast, vibrating hum of wings filled the air. Allen rammed home his charge and lifted the gun. Taking aim was hardly necessary. He pointed where the flock seemed thickest and fired. At the loud report a sort of eddying movement went through the nearer part of the cloud of birds, but there was no change in the speed or direction of the flight. Then bodies of dead and wounded pigeons began dropping like feathered hailstones into the river. They sent up little splashes of water. There must have been a dozen at least. Only one pigeon fell aboard the _Katy Roby_. Tad picked up the warm, plump body and held it, watching the eyes glaze. The sleek brownish-gray feathers were ruffled, and a shot had carried away part of the long tail.