The Project Gutenberg eBook, Autumn, by Robert Nathan

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Title: Autumn

Author: Robert Nathan

Release Date: March 30, 2006 [eBook #18079]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)

***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUTUMN***

E-text prepared by Al Haines

AUTUMN

by

ROBERT NATHAN

New York
Robert M. McBride & Company
Copyright, 1921
by Robert M. McBride & Company

TO D. M. N., AND TO OUR

FRIEND HERBERT FEIS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

    I Mrs. Grumble
   II School Lets Out
  III The Barlys
   IV Mr. Jeminy Builds A house Out of Boxes
    V Rain
   VI Harvest
  VII Mrs. Grumble Goes to the Fair
 VIII The Turn of the Year
   IX The Schoolmaster Leaves Hillsboro,
      His Work There Seemingly at an End
    X But He is Sought After All
   XI And is Found in Good Hands
  XII Mrs. Wicket

I

MRS. GRUMBLE

On Sunday the church bells of Hillsboro rang out across the ripening fields with a grave and holy sound, and again at evening knocked faintly, with quiet sorrow, at doors where children watched for the first star, to make their wishes. Night came, and to the croaking of frogs, the moon rose over Barly Hill. In the early morning the grass, still wet with dew, chilled the bare toes of urchins on their way to school where, until four o'clock, the tranquil voice of Mr. Jeminy disputed with the hum of bees, and the far off clink of the blacksmith's forge in the village.

At four o'clock Mr. Jeminy, with a sigh, gathered his books together. He sighed because he was old, and because the day's work was done. He arose from his seat, and taking up his stick, passed out between the benches and went slowly down the road.

It was a warm spring day; the air was drowsy and filled with the scent of flowers. A thrush sang in the woods, where Mr. Jeminy heard before him the light voices of children. He thought: "How happy they are." And he smiled at his own fancies which, like himself, were timid and kind.

But gradually, as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, he grew sad. It seemed to him as if the world, strange and contrary during the day, were again as it used to be when he was young.

When he crossed the wooden bridge over Barly Water, the minnows, frightened, fled away in shoals. Mr. Jeminy turned down toward the village, where he had an errand to attend to. As his footsteps died away, the minnows swam back again, as though nothing had happened. One, larger than the rest, found a piece of bread which had fallen into the water. "This is my bread," he said, and gazed angrily at his friends, who were trying to bite him. "I deserve this bread," he added.

Old Mr. Frye kept the general store in Hillsboro, and ran the post office. It was easy to see that he was an honest man; he kept his shop tidy, and was sour to everybody. Through his square spectacles he saw his neighbors in the form of fruits, vegetables, stick pins, and pieces of calico. Of Mr. Jeminy he used to say: "Sweet apples, but small, very small; small and sweet."

"Yes," said Farmer Barly, "but just tell me, who wants small apples?"

Mr. Frye nodded his head. "Ah, that's it," he agreed.

At that moment Mr. Jeminy himself entered the store. "I'd like to buy a pencil," he said. "The pencil I have in mind," he explained, "is soft, and writes easily, but has no eraser."

"There you are," said the storekeeper; "that's five cents."

"I used to pay four," said Mr. Jeminy, looking for the extra penny.

"Well, perhaps you did," said Mr. Frye, "but prices are very high now."
And he moved away to register the sale.

Farmer Barly, who was a member of the school board, cleared his throat, and blew on his nose. "Hem," he remarked. "Good-day."

"Good-day," said Mr. Jeminy politely, and went out of the store with his pencil. Left to themselves, Mr. Frye and Mr. Barly began to discuss him. "Jeminy is growing old," said Mr. Frye, with a shake of his head.

Mr. Barly, although stupid, liked to be direct. "I was brought up on plus and minus," he said, "and I've yet to meet the man who can get the better of me. Now what do you think of that, Mr. Frye?"

Mr. Frye looked up, down, and around; then he began to polish his spectacles. 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