“Look!” exclaimed Lucy as they neared the camp. “Mr. Smith is flying this morning. I wonder who is with him. He hasn’t taken me yet but he promised to today. Please don’t tell mother. She would be terribly alarmed at the prospect.”

“Oh, there’s my bird!” and Tom Tit dropped his hoe and the basket of chickens he was carrying and clasped his hands in an ecstasy of delight. “See, see, how it floats! I have found it again! I have found it again!”

“Tom Tit, would you like to fly with that great bird?” asked Lucy gently.

“Fly? Oh, I always dream I can fly! Can I really fly?”

“Yes, Tom Tit, if you want to I will give you my place. The birdman promised to take me today and I will get him to take you instead.”

Tom Tit looked wonderingly and trustingly at Lucy. Mr. McRae smiled his approval.

“It will be an experience my boy will remember all his life.”

“Spending the night at your home will be one we will remember always, too. It beat flying,” and all of the wanderers agreed with her.

Mr. Tom Smith was perfectly willing to take Tom Tit on a flight if he promised to sit still, which of course he did. The aeroplane was a great astonishment to him and the fact that the birdman could leave the bird and talk and walk filled him with awe.

“We uns ain’t never seen buzzards and eagles git out’n their wings, but then we uns ain’t never been so clost to the big ones, the ones that sails way up in the clouds.”

When they landed after a rather longer flight than Tom Smith usually took the would-be flyers, Tom Tit’s expression was that of one who has glimpsed the infinite. He said not a word for a moment after he found himself once more on terra firma, and then he turned to his old friend and whispered:

“Oh, Spring-keeper, I have found so many things that I’ll never be sad again.”

The Carters, of course, gave Mr. McRae a warm welcome. They could not do enough to express their gratitude for his kindness and hospitality to their young people. Mrs. Carter was graciousness itself to the old man, but looked rather askance at the queer figure of his companion. I wonder what she would have thought had she seen his pink calico trousers and his patched shirt that he considered so beautiful. Bobby, however, was drawn to him immediately and treated him just as though he had been another little boy who had come to see him. He took his new friend to see all of his bird houses and water wheels, and Tom Tit followed him about with adoration in his eyes.

“We uns kin talk like you uns when we uns remembers,” said Bobby.

“We uns would like to talk like Spring-keeper but always forgits,” sighed Tom Tit. “Spring-keeper used to talk just like we uns when he was little but he’s got larnin’ now.”

“We uns don’t never want no larnin’,” declared Bobby. “‘Tain’t no use. Josh wants to git larnin’, too, but when he does he ain’t goin’ to be my bes’ frien’ no mo’. I’m a-goin’ to be you bes’ frien’ then; I mean, we uns is.”

“What’s a bes’ frien’? We uns ain’t never found one.”

“Oh, a bes’ frien’ is somebody you likes to be with all the time.”

“Oh, then Spring-keeper is a bes’ frien’.”

“But he is an old man. A bes’ frien’ must be young.”

“Then we uns’ll have to take the baby fox. Will that do?”

“Oh, yes, that’ll do if’n they ain’t no boys around.”

“We uns will keep the baby fox for one of them things until Josh gits larnin’ and then you kin be it,” and Tom Tit laughed for joy.

“Is you uns ever flew?” Tom Tit asked Bobby.

“No—my mother is so skittish like, she ain’t never let me. She’s ’bout one of the scaredest ladies they is.”

“We uns’ maw is done flew away herself and she didn’t mind when we uns went a bit. We uns useter think that when the men found maw they took her and hid her in a hole in the ground. Spring-keeper done tole me lots of times that she wasn’t in the ground but had flew up to heaven, but we uns ain’t never seed no one fly, so we uns just thought he was a foolin’. And you see,” he whispered, “Spring-keeper is kinder daffy sometimes, so the folks say, and we uns has to humor him. But now—but now—we uns done flewed away up in the air. If we uns kin fly, why maw kin do it, too. She ain’t in a hole in the ground no mo’. We uns almost saw her flyin’ way up over the mountain tops.”

“I’m—I mean we uns is a-goin’ to come to see you. My father is goin’ to take me there some day. Kin you play on the Victrola?”

“No—we uns ain’t never seed one. What is it?”

“Why, it makes music.”

“Oh, we uns kin play the jew’s-harp.”

“Gee! I wish I could—I mean we uns wishes we uns could. If you show me how to play the jew’s-harp, I’ll show you how to play the Victrola. Come on, I’ll show you first while th’ain’t nobody in the pavilion. You see, my sisters is some bossy an’ they’s always sayin’ I scratch the records an’ won’t never let me play it by myself, but they is about the bossiest ever. I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt the old records.”

Tom Tit looked at the Victrola with wondering eyes while Bobby wound it up. He had seen a small organ once and the postmistress at Bear Hollow had a piano, but this musical instrument was strange indeed.

“I’m a-gonter leave the record on that Helen’s been a-playin’. I don’t know what it is. I can’t read good yet but I reckon it’s something pretty.”

It was Zimbalist playing the “Humoresque.” Fancy the effect of such a wonderful combination of sounds breaking for the first time on the sensitive ears of this mountain youth. He had heard music in the wind and music in the water; the birds had sung to him and the beasts had talked to him; but what was this? He stood like one enchanted, his hands clasped and his lips parted. At one point in the music when the great artist was evidently putting his whole soul in it, Tom Tit began to sob. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Why, what’s the matter? Don’t you like it? I’ll put a ragtime piece on,” cried Bobby, abruptly stopping the machine with a scraping sound that certainly proved he was a great scratcher of records.

“Oh, now it’s lost! It’s lost! We uns thought we uns had found something beautiful. Where has it gone?”

“Did you like it then? What made you bawl?”

“We uns has to cry when we uns finds something beautiful sometimes. We uns cries a little when the sun sets but it is tears of happiness. Can you uns play that again?”

“Sure!” and Bobby started up the “Humoresque” again and this time Tom Tit dried his eyes and stood with a smile on his face.

“Oh, Spring-keeper!” he cried when Mr. McRae came hunting him, “we uns has found something more beautiful than sunsets and flowers—prettier than birds—prettier than pink—prettier than blue or yellow. It shines like dew and tastes like honey—Oh, Spring-keeper, listen!”

“Yes, my boy, it is beautiful. And now I think you have found enough things for today and we must go home.”

“Go home and leave this!” and Tom Tit embraced the Victrola. “We uns can’t leave it.”

“Listen, my boy! I will get one for you. I don’t know why I never thought of it before. Within a week you shall have one all your own and play it as much as you choose.”

Of course Bobby had to be instructed in the rudiments of jew’s-harp playing first, according to agreement, and then with many expressions of mutual regard our young people parted from the spring-keeper and Tom Tit.