young man,
I said, bright and bold,
I would be a great one,
When I was old.

When I was a young man,
But that was long ago,
I sang the merry old songs
All men know.

When I was a young man,
When I was young and smart,
I think I broke a mirror,
Or a girl's heart.

Mr. Jeminy walked in the middle of the road, under the dying sky,
already lighted by the young moon, in the west. As he walked, the
fresh air of evening, blowing on his face, with its sweet odors, the
twilight notes of birds among the leaves, the faint acclaim of bells,
and Juliet's childish singing, filled his heart with unaccustomed
peace, moved him with gentle and deliberate joy. He remembered the
voices he had heard in the little schoolhouse in the spring.

"Jeminy, what are you doing?"

Then Mr. Jeminy raised his head to the sky, in which the first stars of
night were to be seen.

"I am very busy now," he said, proudly.

V

RAIN

From her dormer window, Anna Barly peered out at the wet, gray morning.
The ground was sopping, the trees black with the night's drenching. In
the orchard a sparrow sang an uncertain song; and she heard the
comfortable drip, drip, drip from the eaves. It was damp and fresh at
the window; the breeze, cold and fragrant after rain, made her shiver.
She drew her wrapper closer about her throat, and sat staring out
across the sodden lawn, with idle thoughts for company.

She thought that she was young, and that the world was old: that rain
belonged to youth. Old age should sit in the sun, but youth was best
of all in bad weather. "There's no telling where you are in the rain.
And there's no one spying, for every one's indoors, keeping dry." Yes,
youth is quite a person in the rain.

With slim, lazy fingers, she began to braid her long, fair hair. It
seemed to her that folks were always peering and prying, to make sure
that every one else was like themselves. "You're doing different than
what I did," they said.

Anna wanted to "do different." Yet she was without courage or wisdom.
And because she was sulky and heedless, Mrs. Ploughman called her Sara
Barly's rebellious daughter. As Mrs. Ploughman belonged to the
Methodist side of the town, Mrs. Tomkins was usually ready to disagree
with her. But on this occasion, all Mrs. Tomkins could think to say,
was: "Well, that's queer."

"But what's she got to be rebellious over?" she asked, peering brightly
at Mrs. Ploughman.

"Pe