his house. In one hand, crumpled in his pocket, he held his
dismissal from Hillsboro school: "On account of age," it said. Next
morning, at nine o'clock, the new teacher was coming to take over the
little schoolhouse, with its splintered desks, the dusty blackboard,
and the colored maps.

As he walked, the sun sank in the west, and evening crept up the road
after him. The air was damp; he could see his breath pass out in fog
before his face. The wind, blowing above his head, showered down the
last dried, yellow leaves upon his path; before him he saw the chilly
sky with its faint, lonely star, and over him the half moon, like a
slice; and he heard the autumn wind, steady and cold. "You fields," he
said, "you trees, you meadows and little paths, I do not believe you
wanted to dismiss me. You must have enjoyed the daisy chains my pupils
used to weave for you in the spring. Now they will learn the use of
figures and percents, and the names of cities I have forgot. I will
never hear again the voices of children at the playhour come tumbling
in through the school windows. For at my age one does not begin to
teach again. But it is ridiculous to say that I am an old man."

It grew darker and darker, the trees creaked and popped in the cold, or
groaned like bass viols; and all along the roadside Mr. Jeminy could
see the feeble glimmer of fireflies, fallen among the leaves. He said
to them, "Little creatures, my flame is also spent. But I do not
intend, like you, to lie by the roadside in the wind, and keep myself
warm with memories. Now I am going where I can be of use to others.
For I am brisk and tough, and do not hope to gain by my efforts more
than I deserve."

Thus, following his thoughts, Mr. Jeminy passed, without knowing it,
the house where Mrs. Grumble, sitting by the stove, awaited his return.
The moon, riding out the wind above his head, peered down at him
between the branches, as he stepped from shadow into moonlight, and
again into shadow. Under the trees the dry, fallen leaves stirred
about his feet, and other leaves, which he could not see, fell near him
in the dark. As he passed the little orchard belonging to Mrs. Wicket,
he heard the ripe apples dropping in the night.

In the gray of dawn, he found himself approaching a farmhouse somewhere
south of Milford, whose lighted lamp, pale yellow in the early
twilight, drew him from the road, across the fields. As he turned
through the tumbled gat