Autumn | Page 2

But he only said, "There's some good in that."
"There is indeed," said Mr. Barly, closing one eye, and nodding his
head a number of times. "There is indeed. But those days are over, Mr.
Frye. When I was a child I had the fear of God put into me. It was put
into me with a birch rod. But nowadays, Mr. Frye, the children neglect
their sums, and grow up wild as nettles. I don't know what they're
learning nowadays."
And he blew his nose again, as though to say, "What a pity."
"Ah," said Mr. Frye, wisely, "there's no good in that."
Mr. Jeminy knew his own faults, and what was expected of him: he
was not severe enough. As he walked home that evening, he said to
himself: "I must be more severe; my pupils tease each other almost
under my nose. To-day as I wrote sums on the black-board, I watched
out of the corner of my eye. . . . Still, a tweaked ear is soon mended.
And it's true that when they learn to add and subtract, they will do each

other more harm."
The schoolmaster lived in a cottage on the hill overlooking the village.
He lived alone, except for Mrs. Grumble, who kept house for him, and
managed his affairs. Although they were simple, and easy to manage,
they afforded her endless opportunities for complaint. She was never so
happy as when nothing suited her. Then she carried her broom into Mr.
Jeminy's study, and looked around her with a gloomy air. "No, really,
it's impossible to go on this way," she would say, and sweep Mr.
Jeminy, his books and his papers, out of doors.
There, in the company of Boethius, he often considered the world, and
watched, from above, the gradual life of the village. He heard the
occasional tonk of cows on the hillside, the creak of a cart on the road,
the faint sound of voices, blown by the wind. From his threshold he
saw the afternoon fade into evening, and night look down across the
hills, among the stars. He saw the lights come out in the valley, one by
one through the mist, smelled the fresh, sweet air of evening; and
promptly each night at seven, far off and sad, rolling among the hills,
he heard the ghostly hooting of the night freight, leaving Milford
Junction.
"Here," he said to himself, "within this circle of hills, is to be found
faith, virtue, passion, and good sense. In this valley youth is not without
courage, or age without wisdom. Yet age, although wise, is full of
sorrow."
While he was musing in this vein, the odor of frying bacon from the
kitchen, warmed his nose. So he was not surprised to see Mrs. Grumble
appear in the doorway soon afterward. "Your supper is ready," she said;
"if you don't come in at once it will grow cold."
For supper, Mr. Jeminy had a bowl of soup, a glass of milk, bacon,
potatoes, and a loaf of bread. When Mrs. Grumble was seated, he bent
his head, and said: "Let us give thanks to God for this manifestation of
His bounty."
During the meal Mrs. Grumble was silent. But Mr. Jeminy could see

that she had something important to say. At last she remarked, "As I
was on my way to the village, I met Mrs. Barly. She said, 'You'll have
to buy your own milk after this, Mrs. Grumble.' I just stood and looked
at her."
Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And, indeed,
it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the neighbors no
longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables, fruit, and milk. Mrs.
Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while she washed the plates at
the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of her soul. Although she
liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good man, she felt,
nevertheless, that in his company her talents were wasted. "It is
impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy," she told Miss Beal, the dress-maker,
"because he talks so much."
It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But his conversation,
which was often about such people as St. Francis, or Plotinus, did not
seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about nothing but the
dead," she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen."
"No," said Miss Beal. "How aggravating."
Now, Mr. Jeminy, unheeding the sighs of his housekeeper, continued:
"But after all, I would not change places with Farmer Barly. For riches
are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out of the heart.
A man is only to be envied who desires little."
"It is always the same," said Mrs. Grumble; "the