is more poverty to-day than ever before," said Mr. Jeminy.

"Hm," said Mr. Tomkins.

"Last fall," said Mr. Jeminy, "Sara Barly and Mrs. Grumble helped each other put up vegetables. And Anna Barly came to my cottage, holding out her apron, full of apples."

"My wife, too," said Mr. Tomkins, "put up a great many vegetables."

"But to-day," said Mr. Jeminy, "Mrs. Barly and Mrs. Grumble pass each other without speaking. And because we are no longer at war, the bit of land belonging to Ezra Adams, where, last spring, Mrs. Wicket planted her rows of corn, is left to grow its mouthful of hay, to sell to Mr. Frye."

"Ah," said Mr. Tomkins wisely, "that's it. Well, Mrs. Wicket, now.
Still," he added, "he'll have a lot of nettles in that hay."

"The rich," Mr. Jeminy continued, "quarrel with the poor, and the poor, by way of answer, with rich and poor alike. And rich or poor, every man reaches for more, like a child at table. That is why, William, there is poverty to-day; poverty of the heart, of the mind, and of the spirit.

"And yet," he added stoutly a moment later, "I'll not deny there is plenty of light; yes, we are wise enough, there is love in our hearts . . . Perhaps, William, heaven will be found when old men like you and me, who have lost our way, are dead."

"Lost our way?" quavered Mr. Tomkins, "lost our way? What are you talking about, Jeminy?"

But the fire, burning so brightly before, was almost out. "Youth," said Mr. Jeminy sadly . . . And he sat quite still, staring straight ahead of him.

"Well," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll be stepping on home." Clapping his hat somewhat uncertainly onto his head, he rose to go. Mr. Jeminy accompanied him to the door.

"Good-night," he said.

"Good-night," said Mr. Tomkins. And off he went along the path, to tell his wife, as he got into bed, that she was a lucky woman. But Mr. Jeminy stood in the doorway, gazing out across the hills, like David over Hebron. Below him the last late lanterns of the village burned in the valley. He heard the shrill kreef kreedn kreedn of the tree frogs, the cheep of crickets, the lonely barking of a dog, ghostly and far away; he breathed the air of night, cold, and sweet with honeysuckle. Age was in bed; only the young moved and whispered in the shadows; youth, obscure and immortal; love and hope, love and sorrow. From the meadows ascended the choir of cicada: katy did, katy didn't, katy did. . . .

Mr. Jeminy turned and went indoors.

II

SCHOOL LETS OUT

The next day being a holiday, Mr. Jeminy lay in bed, watching, through his window, the branches of an oak tree, which is last of all to leaf. When he finally arose, the morning was already bright and hot; the rooms were swept; all was in order.

Later in the day he followed Mrs. Grumble to the schoolhouse, carrying a pail, soap, a scrubbing brush, and a broom. After Mr. Jeminy had filled the pail with water at the school pump, Mrs. Grumble got down on her knees, and began to scrub the floor. The schoolmaster went ahead with the broom. "Sweep in all the corners," she said. "For," she added, "it's in the corners one finds everything." As she spoke, the 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