“Josiah continyerd, ‘Vocal solo, I see Mother’s Face at the Window, Mr. Andrew Magill.’ “The Chairman looked wery pleased. “‘Go on, Mr. Seckertary,’ sayd Aleck. “‘An ole time jig, jewsharp an’ harmonica mixed, Mr. Andrew Magill; vocal solo, Meet Me Alice at the Golden Gate, Mr. Andrew Magill; anthem, Angel Voices, Mr. Andrew Magill, ’sisted be the society.’ “Josiah Weller didn’t git no furder. They was a low roar went over the room. Some felly in the rear ’lowed we otter put him in the pond. But they wasn’t no one to put. Aleck Bolum hed dissypeared. We got to the door in time to hear his sleigh-bells jinglin’ way off th’oo the woods. Seemed like we could ’most hear him chucklin’, too.” “But what hed become o’ the Happy Grove Social Singin’ Club?” asked the Miller. “Why wasn’t they there?” “I guesst you never heard Andrew Magill sing, did ye?” replied the Tinsmith. CHAPTER XIV. _Buddies._ The Patriarch sat on the store porch. An old cob pipe, the smoke oozing lazily from its mouth, protruded from the recesses of his white beard. His eyes were fixed on the mountains over whose sides the black, sharp shadows of the clouds were wandering. His mood was so pensive as to awaken the curiosity of the Storekeeper, who had been watching the old man sitting upright on the bench, his gaze fastened on the distant hills. “What are ye thinkin’ of, Gran’pap?” the young man asked. “I was thinkin’ o’ Hen Wheedle. I hain’t thot o’ him fer a year, so I sais to meself to-day, I sais, ‘You otter think o’ Hen Wheedle!’ An’ I set right down, an’ a mighty good time I’ve hed a medytatin’ over him.” The Miller laid the county paper over his knees and smoothed it out. Then he looked at the Patriarch. “My souls!” he cried. “Why, Hen’s ben over the mo’ntain nigh onto forty year.” “That’s jest the pint,” was the rejoinder. “‘Hen folks is gone ye otter think on ’em.” To the old man there was nothing beyond the mountains but infinite space. To him the world was bounded by the green range before him and the range back by the river. The two sprang out of the blue at a point some nine miles to the north, went their own ways some fifteen miles to the south, joined, and made the valley and the world. To go over the mountain to him meant voluntary annihilation. He would step off into space beyond and become nothingness. In the seventy-five years of his life he had known men to return, but it was as though they had arisen from the dead. “You uns knowd Hen Wheedle?” he inquired. “He was afore my time but I’ve heard o’ him,” replied the Miller. The Chronic Loafer looked up from the steps, where he had been sitting, whittling a piece of soft white pine. “I s’posn you’ve heard o’ Bill Siler?” he asked, in a pleasant, alluring tone. “Bill Siler,” repeated the Miller. He laid his forefinger against his forehead and thought a minute. “I think I hev. His name’s wery famil’ar. But why did ye ast?”