ly 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.
Whe