Autumn | Page 5

brush, under her freckled hands, pushed forward a wave of soapy water,
edged with foam, like the sea.
Mr. Jeminy swept up and down with a sort of solemn joy; he even took
pride in the little mountain of brown dirt he had collected with his
broom, and watched it leap across the threshold with regret. He would
have liked to keep it. . . . Then he could have said, "Well, at least, I
took all this dirt from under the desks."
The truth is that Mr. Jeminy was not a very good teacher. Although, as
a young man, he had read, in Latin and Greek, the work of Stoics,
Gnostics, and Fathers of the Church, and although he had opinions
about everything, he was unable to teach his pupils what they wished to
learn, and they, in turn, were unable to understand what he wanted
them to know. But that was not entirely his fault, for they came to
school with such questions as: "How far is a thousand miles?"
"It is the distance between youth and age," said Mr. Jeminy. Then the

children would start to laugh.
"A thousand miles," he would begin. . . .
By the time he had explained it, they were interested in something else.
This summer morning, a dusty fall of sunlight filled the little
schoolroom with dancing golden motes. It seemed to Mr. Jeminy that
he heard the voices of innumerable children whispering together; and it
seemed to him that one voice, sweeter than all the rest, spoke in his
own heart. "Jeminy," it said, "Jeminy, what have you taught my
children?"
Mr. Jeminy answered: "I have taught them to read the works of
celebrated men, and to cheat each other with plus and minus."
"Ah," said another voice, with a dry chuckle like salt shaken in a
saltcellar, "well, that's good."
"Who speaks?" cried Mr. Jeminy.
"What," exclaimed the voice, "don't you know me, old friend? I am
plus and minus; I am weights and measures. . . ."
"Lord ha' mercy," cried Mrs. Grumble from the floor, "have you gone
mad? Whatever are you doing, standing there, with your mouth open?"
"Eh!" said Mr. Jeminy, stupidly. "I was dreaming."
A red squirrel sped across the path, and stopped a moment in the
doorway, his tail arched above his back, his bright, black eyes peering
without envy at Mrs. Grumble, as she bent above the pail of soap-suds.
Then, with a flirt of his tail, he hurried away, to hide from other
squirrels the nuts, seeds, and acorns strewn by the winds of the autumn
impartially over the earth.
In the afternoon, Mr. Jeminy went into his garden, and began to
measure off rows of vegetables. "Two rows of beans," he said, "and
two of radishes; they grow anywhere. I'll get Crabbe to give me onion

sets, cabbages, and tomato plants. Two rows of peas, and one of lettuce;
I must have fine soil for my lettuce, and I must remember to plant my
peas deeply. A row of beets. . . ."
"Where," said Mrs. Grumble, who stood beside him, holding the hoe,
"are you going to plant squash?"
". . . and carrots," continued Mr. Jeminy hurriedly. . . .
"We must certainly have a few hills of squash," said Mrs. Grumble
firmly.
"Oh," said Mr. Jeminy, "squash. . . ."
He had left it out on purpose, because he disliked it. "You see," he said
finally, looking about him artlessly, "there's no more room."
"Go away," said Mrs. Grumble.
From his seat under a tree, to which he had retired, Mr. Jeminy watched
Mrs. Grumble mark the rows, hoe the straight, shallow furrows, drop in
the seeds, and cover them with earth again. As he watched, half in
indignation, he thought: "Thus, in other times, Ceres sowed the earth
with seed, and, like Mrs. Grumble, planted my garden with squash. I
would have asked her rather to sow melons here." Just then Mrs.
Grumble came to the edge of the vegetable garden.
"Seed potatoes are over three dollars a bushel," she said: "it's hardly
worth while putting them in."
"Then let's not put any in," Mr. Jeminy said promptly, "for they are
difficult to weed, and when they are grown you must begin to quarrel
with insects, for whose sake alone, I almost think, they grow at all."
"The bugs fall off," said Mrs. Grumble, "with a good shaking."
"Fie," said Mr. Jeminy, "how slovenly. It is better to kill them with
lime. But it is best of all not to tempt them; then there is no need to kill
them."

And as Mrs. Grumble made no reply, he added:
"That is something God has not learned yet."
"Please," said Mrs. Grumble, "speak of God with more respect."
After supper