Book: Autumn

R >> Robert Nathan >> Autumn



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 of frying bacon from the
kitchen, warmed his nose. So he was not surprised to see Mrs. Grumble
appear in the doorway soon afterward. "Your supper is ready," she
said; "if you don't come in at once it will grow cold."

For supper, Mr. Jeminy had a bowl of soup, a glass of milk, bacon,
potatoes, and a loaf of bread. When Mrs. Grumble was seated, he bent
his head, and said: "Let us give thanks to God for this manifestation
of His bounty."

During the meal Mrs. Grumble was silent. But Mr. Jeminy could see that
she had something important to say. At last she remarked, "As I was on
my way to the village, I met Mrs. Barly. She said, 'You'll have to buy
your own milk after this, Mrs. Grumble.' I just stood and looked at
her."

Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And,
indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the
neighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables,
fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while
she washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of
her soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good
man, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents were
wasted. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy," she told Miss Beal,
the dress-maker, "because he talks so much."

It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But his
conversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, or
Plotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about
nothing but the dead," she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen."

"No," said Miss Beal. "How aggravating."

Now, Mr. Jeminy, unheeding the sighs of his housekeeper, continued:
"But after all, I would not change places with Farmer Barly. For
riches are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out of
the heart. A man is only to be envied who desires little."

"It is always the same," said Mrs. Grumble; "the rich have their
pleasures, and the poor people their sorrows."

"That," said Mr. Jeminy, "is the mistake of ignorance. For Epictetus
was a slave, and Saint Peter was a fisherman. They were poor; but they
did not consider themselves unfortunate. More to be pitied than either
Saint Peter or Epictetus, was Croesus, King of Lydia, who was probably
not as rich as Mr. Gary. But he knew how to use his wealth. Therefore
he was all the more disappointed when it was taken away from him by
Cyrus, the Persian. No, Mrs. Grumble, what you can lose is no great
good to any one.

"If you wish," he added, "I will dry the dishes, and you can spend the
evening in the village."

As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, he
thought: "When I die, I should like it said of me: By his own efforts,
he remained a poor man." And he stood still, the dishtowel in his
hand, thinking of that wealthy iron-master, whose epitaph is said to
read: Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better men
than himself.

When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den. This little
room, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above Barly
Hill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, and
several shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, a
King James' Bible, Arrian's Epictetus, Sabatier's life of Saint
Francis, the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervas
translation of Don Quixote. Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in the
evening he smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whose
humor, gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by the
negligence of his pupils.

On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr. Jeminy knocked the ashes out
of his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began to
correct his pupils' exercises. He was still engaged at this task when
Mr. Tomkins came to call.

"A fine evening," said Mr. Tomkins from the doorway.

"Come in, William," cried Mr. Jeminy, "come in. A fine evening,
indeed. Well, this is very nice, I must say."

Mr. Tomkins was older than Mr. Jeminy. His once great frame was dried
and bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lips
were drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met. But
his eyes were bright and active. Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy's study, his
large, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn, grasping
his hat.

"Another year, Jeminy," he said, in a voice shrill with age, "another
year. Time to shingle old man Crabbe's roof again. I'm spry yet."
And resting a lean finger alongside his nose, he gave sound to a laugh
like a peal of broken bells.

In his old age Mr. Tomkins was still agile; he crawled out on a roof,
ripped up rotted shingles, and put down new ones in their place. To
see him climb to the top of a ladder, filled Mr. Jeminy with anxiety.

"You'll die," he said, "with a hammer in your hand."

"Then," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll die as I've lived."

"That's strange enough," said Mr. Jeminy, "when you come to think of
it. For men are born into this world hungry and crying. But they die
in silence and slip away without touching anything."

Mr. Tomkins cleared his throat, and watched his fingers run around his
hat's brim. He wanted to tell Mr. Jeminy some news; but it occurred to
him that it was no more than a rumor. Finally he said: "There's a new
school-ma'am over to North Adams." He cocked his head sidewise to look
at the schoolmaster. "She knows more than you, Jeminy," he said.

Mr. Jeminy sat bowed and still, his hands folded in his lap. He
remembered how he had come to Hillsboro thirty years before, a young
man full of plans and fancies. He was soon to learn that what had been
good enough for Great Grandfather Ploughman, was thought to be good
enough for his grandson, also. Mr. Jeminy remained in Hillsboro, at
first out of hope, later out of habit. At last it seemed to him as if
Hillsboro were his home. "Where else should I go?" he had asked
himself. "Here is all I have in the world. Here are my only friends.
Well, after all," he said to himself more than once, "I am not wasted
here, exactly." And he tried to comfort himself with this reflection.

He had started out to build a new school in the wilderness. "I shall
teach my pupils something more than plus and minus," he declared. He
remembered a little verse he used to sing in those days:

Laws, manuals,
And texts incline us
To cheat with plus
And rob with minus.

But it had all slipped away, like sand through his fingers. Now he
hoped to find one child to whom he could say what was in his mind.

One by one the brighter boys had drifted off to the county schools,
leaving the little schoolhouse to the dull and to the young. Some were
taken out of classes early, and added, like another pig, to the farms.
Girls, when they were old enough, were kept at home to help their
mothers; after a while they, too, married; then their education was
over. In the winter they nailed the windows shut; in the summer they
worked with the men, hoarded their pennies, and prayed to God at first,
but only wished at last, to do better than their neighbors.

Of all whom Mr. Jeminy had taught reading, writing and arithmetic, not
one was either better or happier than in childhood.

"Not one," said Mr. Jeminy, "is tidy of mind, or humble of heart. Not
one has learned to be happy in poverty, or gentle in good fortune."

"There's no poverty to-day," said Mr. Tomkins simply. It really seemed
to him as though every one were well off, because the war was over.

"There 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
lime. But it is best of all not to tempt them; then there is no need
to kill them."

And as Mrs. Grumble made no reply, he added:

"That is something God has not learned yet."

"Please," said Mrs. Grumble, "speak of God with more respect."

After supper Mr. Jeminy sat in his study reading the story of Saint
Francis, the Poor Brother of Assisi. One day, soon after the saint had
left behind him the gay affairs of town, to embrace poverty, for Jesus'
sake, and while he was still living in a hut of green branches near the
little chapel of Saint Damian, he beheld his father coming to upbraid
him for what he considered his son's obstinate folly. At once Saint
Francis, who was possessed of a quick wit, began to gather together a
number of old stones, which he tried to place one on top of the other.
But as fast as he put them up, the stones, broken and uneven, fell down
again. "Aha," cried old Bernadone, when he came up to his son, "I see
how you are wasting your time. What are you doing? I am sick of you."

"I am building the world again," said Francis mildly; "it is all the
more difficult because, for building material, I can find nothing but
these old stones."

Mr. Jeminy gave his pupils their final examination in a meadow below
the schoolhouse. There, seated among the dandelions, with voices as
shrill as the crickets, they answered his questions, and watched the
clouds, like great pillows, sail on the wind from west to east. Under
the shiny sky, among the warm, sweet fields, Mr. Jeminy looked no more
important than a robin, and not much wiser. Had the children been
older, they would have tried all the more to please him, but because
they were young, they laughed, teased each other, blew on blades of
grass, and made dandelion chains. Mr. Jeminy examined the Fifth
Reader. "Bound the United States," he said.

"On the west by the Pacific Ocean," began a red-cheeked plowboy, to
whom the ocean was no more than hearsay.

"Where is San Francisco?"

"San Francisco is in California."

"Where is Seattle?"

But no one knew. Then Mr. Jeminy thought to himself, "I am not much
wiser than that. For I think that Seattle is a little black period on
a map. But to them, it is a name, like China, or Jerusalem; it is
here, or there, in the stories they tell each other. And I believe
their Seattle is full of interesting people."

"Well, then," he said, "let me hear you bound Vermont."

That was something everybody knew.

He took the First and Second Reader through their sums. "Two apples
and two apples make . . ."

"Four apples."

"And three apples from eight apples leave . . ."

"Five apples."

When spelling time came, the children, going down to the foot, rolled
over each other in the grass, with loud shouts. At last only two were
left to dispute the letters in asparagus, elephant, constancy, and
philosophical. Then Mr. Jeminy gathered the children about him.

"The year is over," he said, "and you are free to play again. But do
not forget over the summer what you learned with so much difficulty
during the winter. Let me say to you who will not return to school: I
have taught you to read, to write, to add and subtract; you know a
little history, a little geography. Do not be proud of that. There
are many things to learn; but you would not be any happier for having
learned them.

"You will ask me what this has to do with you. I would like to teach
you to be happy. For happiness is not in owning much, but in owning
little: love, and liberty, the work of one's hands, fellowship, and
peace. These things have no value; they are not to be bought; but they
alone are worth having. Do not envy the rich man, for cares destroy
his sleep. And do not ask the poor man not to sing, for song is all he
has.

"Love poverty, and labor, the poverty of love, the wealth of the heart.

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.