Autumn | Page 6

Mr. Jeminy sat in his study reading the story of Saint
Francis, the Poor Brother of Assisi. One day, soon after the saint had
left behind him the gay affairs of town, to embrace poverty, for Jesus'
sake, and while he was still living in a hut of green branches near the
little chapel of Saint Damian, he beheld his father coming to upbraid
him for what he considered his son's obstinate folly. At once Saint
Francis, who was possessed of a quick wit, began to gather together a
number of old stones, which he tried to place one on top of the other.
But as fast as he put them up, the stones, broken and uneven, fell down
again. "Aha," cried old Bernadone, when he came up to his son, "I see
how you are wasting your time. What are you doing? I am sick of you."
"I am building the world again," said Francis mildly; "it is all the more
difficult because, for building material, I can find nothing but these old
stones."
Mr. Jeminy gave his pupils their final examination in a meadow below
the schoolhouse. There, seated among the dandelions, with voices as
shrill as the crickets, they answered his questions, and watched the
clouds, like great pillows, sail on the wind from west to east. Under the
shiny sky, among the warm, sweet fields, Mr. Jeminy looked no more
important than a robin, and not much wiser. Had the children been
older, they would have tried all the more to please him, but because
they were young, they laughed, teased each other, blew on blades of
grass, and made dandelion chains. Mr. Jeminy examined the Fifth
Reader. "Bound the United States," he said.
"On the west by the Pacific Ocean," began a red-cheeked plowboy, to
whom the ocean was no more than hearsay.
"Where is San Francisco?"

"San Francisco is in California."
"Where is Seattle?"
But no one knew. Then Mr. Jeminy thought to himself, "I am not much
wiser than that. For I think that Seattle is a little black period on a map.
But to them, it is a name, like China, or Jerusalem; it is here, or there,
in the stories they tell each other. And I believe their Seattle is full of
interesting people."
"Well, then," he said, "let me hear you bound Vermont."
That was something everybody knew.
He took the First and Second Reader through their sums. "Two apples
and two apples make . . ."
"Four apples."
"And three apples from eight apples leave . . ."
"Five apples."
When spelling time came, the children, going down to the foot, rolled
over each other in the grass, with loud shouts. At last only two were left
to dispute the letters in asparagus, elephant, constancy, and
philosophical. Then Mr. Jeminy gathered the children about him.
"The year is over," he said, "and you are free to play again. But do not
forget over the summer what you learned with so much difficulty
during the winter. Let me say to you who will not return to school: I
have taught you to read, to write, to add and subtract; you know a little
history, a little geography. Do not be proud of that. There are many
things to learn; but you would not be any happier for having learned
them.
"You will ask me what this has to do with you. I would like to teach
you to be happy. For happiness is not in owning much, but in owning
little: love, and liberty, the work of one's hands, fellowship, and peace.

These things have no value; they are not to be bought; but they alone
are worth having. Do not envy the rich man, for cares destroy his sleep.
And do not ask the poor man not to sing, for song is all he has.
"Love poverty, and labor, the poverty of love, the wealth of the heart.
"Be wise and honest farmers.
"School is over. You may go."
The children ran away, laughing; the boys hurried off together to the
swimming hole, their casual shouts stealing after them down the road.
Mr. Jeminy, lying on his back in the grass, listened to them sadly. As
the voices grew fainter and fainter, it seemed to him as if they were
saying: "School is over, school is over." And he thought: "They are
counting the seasons. But to the old, the year is never done."
Mr. Frye, who had been sitting quietly by the road during Mr. Jeminy's
little speech to the children, now got up, and went back to the village,
shaking his head solemnly with every step.

III
THE BARLYS
The two hired men on Barly's farm rose in the dark and crept
downstairs. By sun-up, Farmer Barly was