Autumn | Page 3

rich have their
pleasures, and the poor people their sorrows."
"That," said Mr. Jeminy, "is the mistake of ignorance. For Epictetus
was a slave, and Saint Peter was a fisherman. They were poor; but they
did not consider themselves unfortunate. More to be pitied than either
Saint Peter or Epictetus, was Croesus, King of Lydia, who was
probably not as rich as Mr. Gary. But he knew how to use his wealth.
Therefore he was all the more disappointed when it was taken away
from him by Cyrus, the Persian. No, Mrs. Grumble, what you can lose
is no great good to any one.

"If you wish," he added, "I will dry the dishes, and you can spend the
evening in the village."
As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, he
thought: "When I die, I should like it said of me: By his own efforts, he
remained a poor man." And he stood still, the dishtowel in his hand,
thinking of that wealthy iron-master, whose epitaph is said to read:
Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better men than
himself.
When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den. This little
room, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above Barly
Hill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, and
several shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, a
King James' Bible, Arrian's Epictetus, Sabatier's life of Saint Francis,
the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervas translation
of Don Quixote. Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in the evening he
smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whose humor,
gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by the
negligence of his pupils.
On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr. Jeminy knocked the ashes
out of his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began to
correct his pupils' exercises. He was still engaged at this task when Mr.
Tomkins came to call.
"A fine evening," said Mr. Tomkins from the doorway.
"Come in, William," cried Mr. Jeminy, "come in. A fine evening,
indeed. Well, this is very nice, I must say."
Mr. Tomkins was older than Mr. Jeminy. His once great frame was
dried and bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lips
were drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met. But
his eyes were bright and active. Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy's study, his
large, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn,
grasping his hat.

"Another year, Jeminy," he said, in a voice shrill with age, "another
year. Time to shingle old man Crabbe's roof again. I'm spry yet." And
resting a lean finger alongside his nose, he gave sound to a laugh like a
peal of broken bells.
In his old age Mr. Tomkins was still agile; he crawled out on a roof,
ripped up rotted shingles, and put down new ones in their place. To see
him climb to the top of a ladder, filled Mr. Jeminy with anxiety.
"You'll die," he said, "with a hammer in your hand."
"Then," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll die as I've lived."
"That's strange enough," said Mr. Jeminy, "when you come to think of
it. For men are born into this world hungry and crying. But they die in
silence and slip away without touching anything."
Mr. Tomkins cleared his throat, and watched his fingers run around his
hat's brim. He wanted to tell Mr. Jeminy some news; but it occurred to
him that it was no more than a rumor. Finally he said: "There's a new
school-ma'am over to North Adams." He cocked his head sidewise to
look at the schoolmaster. "She knows more than you, Jeminy," he said.
Mr. Jeminy sat bowed and still, his hands folded in his lap. He
remembered how he had come to Hillsboro thirty years before, a young
man full of plans and fancies. He was soon to learn that what had been
good enough for Great Grandfather Ploughman, was thought to be
good enough for his grandson, also. Mr. Jeminy remained in Hillsboro,
at first out of hope, later out of habit. At last it seemed to him as if
Hillsboro were his home. "Where else should I go?" he had asked
himself. "Here is all I have in the world. Here are my only friends. Well,
after all," he said to himself more than once, "I am not wasted here,
exactly." And he tried to comfort himself with this reflection.
He had started out to build a new school in the wilderness. "I shall
teach my pupils something more than plus and minus," he declared.