Book: Autumn

R >> Robert Nathan >> Autumn




"My goodness," she exclaimed, "I'm surprised at you. Look at your
clothes, every which way. Margaret, do sit up. And Sara--you'll be
the death of me, with all my work to do yet, and everything."

"How do you do, Mrs. Henry Stove," she added, addressing a three-legged
stool, "come right in and sit down.

"Terrible hot weather we're having. Worst I ever see."

She moved busily about, humming a song to herself. "I declare, it's
time you went to school, children," she said finally, stopping to look
at her family.

Without trouble, she became the school teacher. Propping her three
dolls more firmly against the wall, she took her stand directly in
front of them. "Do you know your lessons, children?" she asked. Then
she squeaked back to herself, "Yes, ma'am."

"Well, then, Margaret, what's the best cow for butter?"

Mr. Jeminy began to laugh. But almost at once he became serious and
confused. For it occurred to him that he did not know what cow was
best for butter. "This child," he thought, "who cannot tell me why it
is necessary to take two apples from four apples, is nevertheless able
to distinguish between one cow and another. She is wiser than I am."

He stood gazing thoughtfully at Juliet, and smiling. The sun of late
afternoon, already about to sink in the west, was shining through the
window, covered with dust and cobwebs. And Mr. Jeminy, watching the
dust dancing in the sun, thought to himself: "I should like to stay
here; it is peaceful and friendly. I should like to help Mrs. Wicket
plant her little garden in the spring, and plow it under in the autumn.
Now it is growing late and I must go home again."

Juliet had tired of her play. "Tell me a story," she said. "Tell me
about the war, Mr. Jeminy. Tell me about Noel Ploughman."

But Mr. Jeminy shook his head. "No," he said, "it is time to drive
your mother's cow home from the fields. Some other day I will tell you
about the great wars of old, fought for no other reason than glory and
empire, which disappointed no one, except the vanquished. But there is
no time now. Come; we will go for the cow together."

Hand in hand they went down the road toward Mr. Crabbe's field, where
Mrs. Wicket rented pasturage for her cow. The sun was sinking above
the trees; and they heard, about them, in the fields, the silence of
evening, the song of the crickets and cicadas.

They found the cows gathered at the pasture bars, with sweet, misty
breath, their bells clashing faintly as they moved. "Go 'long," cried
Juliet, switching her little rod, to single out her own. And to the
patter of hoofs and the tonkle of bells, they started home again.

Mrs. Wicket, in the kitchen, watched them from her window, in the
clear, fading light. "How good he is," she thought. And she turned,
with a smile and a sigh, to set the table for Juliet's supper.

Juliet was singing along the roadside. "A tisket," she sang, "a
tasket, a green and yellow basket . . ." And she chanted, to a tune of
her own, an old verse she had once heard Mr. Jeminy singing:

When I was a 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.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Ploughman, "she's sorry she wasn't born a boy."

"Well," cried Mrs. Tomkins, "I never heard of such a thing."

"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins," said Mrs. Ploughman.

"And plenty I never hope to hear," said Mrs. Tomkins promptly. "My
life!"

After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework. She took a
hand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumbling
everything into the closet and shutting the door. Then she went into
the kitchen to help with the lunch. When Mrs. Barly saw her dreaming
over the carrots, she asked:

"What are you gaping at now?"

"Nothing."

Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed. "You're not feeble-minded, I hope," she
said.

"No, I'm not," said Anna.

"I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Barly.

When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that
she was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinking
of Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although she
said to herself: "I am not in love with any one." Sometimes she
thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman.
However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over his
death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour
feelings.

In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again after
breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp
and searching. From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops rained
down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the
rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing
above the woods, now light, now dark.

She was disappointed because life was no different than it was. She
had hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before the
war, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths in
her hair. But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she was
sad because she was no longer able to be gay. As she passed the little
cottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself: "Yes, you've
seen something of life. But not what I want to see, exactly. Look at
you." Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothing
more to live for. "There you are," she said, "and there you'll be.
Life doesn't mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you're concerned.

"You, God," she cried, "put something in my way, just once."

At that moment Juliet, who had been peeking out from behind the house,
came skipping down the path to the road. As she drew near, her
progress became slower; finally she stood still, and balanced herself
on one leg, like a stork.

"Hello," she said. Then she looked up and down the road, to see what
there was to talk about.

"I have a little house Mr. Jeminy made me out of boxes," she said at
last.

"No," said Anna.

"Well, that's a fact," said Juliet, who had once heard Mr. Frye say,
"Well, that's a fact," to Mr. Crabbe.

"My goodness," said Anna, "isn't that elegant?" And she looked down at
Juliet, who was staring solemnly up at her.

"Yes, it is," said Juliet.

"What were you doing," asked Anna, "when I came along?"

"I was playing going to Milford," said Juliet. "Do you want to play
with me?"

It seemed to Juliet that playing was something for any one to do.

Anna began to laugh. She had a mind to say, "Do you think I'm as
little as you are?" But instead, she found herself thinking, "Oh, my,
wouldn't it be fun."

"Why," she cried, "I declare, I do want to play with you."

"All right," said Juliet. And she turned soberly back to the barn,
behind the house. But Anna sat down in the grass. "Just you wait,"
she said, "till I get my shoes and stockings off. I'm going to play
proper."

Presently their happy voices, linked in laughter, rose from behind the
house, where Juliet was showing Anna how to play store. She tied her
apron around her little belly, and came forward rubbing her hands.
"Would you like some nice licorice?" she asked. "Everything's very
dear."

When she was tired of playing store, she began to imitate old Mrs.
Tomkins, the carpenter's wife. "This is the way to have the
rheumatism," she said. And she hopped around on one foot.

After they were through playing, they sat quietly together in the hay,
in the barn, without anything more to say. Anna was warm and happy;
she wanted to hug Juliet, to hold her tight, to rock up and down with
her. "There," she thought, "if I only had one like her."

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, to tease her.

"I was just thinking," said Juliet, "it's fun to play with people."

Anna felt her heart give a sudden twist. "Why, you dear, odd little
thing," she cried. And taking the child in her arms, she covered the
tiny head with kisses. But Juliet drew away.

"I'm not little," she said. "I'm old."

"So am I old," said Anna. She felt the joy run out of her; it left her
empty. "I expect everybody in the world is old," she said. She
watched her hands move about in the hay like great spiders.

"Is it fun to be old, do you think?" asked Juliet.

"I don't know," said Anna. "I don't expect it is, much."

"Mother is old," said Juliet. "What do old people do?"

Anna looked out through the barn door across the wet fields, the
drenched hillsides, shrouded in mist. "I don't know," she said. And
she got up to go home.

"Well, good-by," said Juliet.

Just then Mrs. Wicket came in from the road, with a basket on her arm.
When she saw Anna standing in front of the barn she grew pink and
confused. For she thought that Anna had come to call on her. "Good
afternoon," she said. "I was out. I'm real sorry. Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no," said Anna. "I was going on . . . I only stopped for a
minute. . . ."

And without another word she ran down the path, and out of the gate.
Mrs. Wicket stood looking after her in silence. Then, with a sigh, she
turned, and went indoors. But Anna ran and ran until she was tired.
As she ran she kept saying to herself, over and over, "I won't be like
that, I won't, I won't."

It seemed to her as though she were running away from Hillsboro itself,
running away from Mrs. Wicket, from her mother, from Thomas Frye, from
Anna Barly, from everything she wouldn't be. . . .

"I won't," she cried, "I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't."

"Never."

Mr. Jeminy, who was seated on his coat by the side of the road, got up
with a smile. "Well, Anna Barly," he said.

"Ak," she whispered, clapping both hands to her mouth, "how you scared
me." She could feel her heart beating with fright; her lips trembled,
her eyes filled with tears. She stood staring at Mr. Jeminy, who
stared gravely back at her. "Are you going to run away from me, too?"
he asked, at last.

"No," said Anna. Then, all at once, she burst out crying. "I can't
help it," she cried, between her sobs. "I can't help it. Don't look
at me."

"No," said Mr. Jeminy, "I won't." And he gazed up at the tree tops,
dark and sharp against the cold, gray sky.

Anna cried herself out. Then pale and ashamed, she started home again
with Mr. Jeminy. "I don't know what got into me," she said. "I don't
know what you'll think."

"I think," declared Mr. Jeminy, looking up at the sky, "I think--why, I
think this wet weather will pass, Anna Barly. Yes, to-morrow will be
cold and clear."

Anna did not answer him. She was tired; she had played, she had cried,
now she wanted to rest.

In Frye's General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a game
of checkers. They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard,
and stroked their chins. Farmer Barly stood watching them. He puffed
on his pipe, and nodded his head at every move. But all the while he
was thinking about Anna. "Pretty near time she was settling down," he
thought.

Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied
smile. The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor. It was
not that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping. "Let
me do the taking," he would have said, "and you can do the winning."
When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy. He
felt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure. "You're too spry
for me," he said. "You're like a flea. Well. . . ."

"It's your turn, Mr. F.," said Mr. Crabbe.

Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste. There were no more jumps
for him to make. He pushed a round black checker forward.

"There you are," he said.

"Here I go," declared Mr. Crabbe. And he began hopping again.

Mr. Frye shook his head. "I don't know as I'm feeling very good
to-day," he told Farmer Barly.

As he was speaking, Anna Barly entered the store, on her way home.
Thomas Frye, who was behind the counter, came forward to meet her.
When she saw him, her cheeks, which were pale, grew red. "He can see I
was crying," she thought. "Well, I don't care. I hate him. What did
I stop for?"

She remembered that her mother had wanted a spool of white cotton.
"Number eleven," she said.

When she saw her father and Mr. Frye in the corner, she grew sulkier
than ever. "They're just laying to settle me down," she thought. And
turning to hide her face, still stained with tears, she made believe to
wave to some one, out the window.

Mr. Crabbe took another man. "Tsck," said Mr. Frye; "maybe I'd better
go and see what Anna wants. Thomas don't appear to know what he's
about."

"Leave them be," said Mr. Crabbe, "leave them be." And he winked first
at Mr. Barly, and then at Mr. Frye. "Don't go spoiling things," he
said.

Mr. Frye allowed his mouth to droop in a thin smile. "Young people are
slow to-day," he remarked. "They act like they had something on their
minds. Green fruit . . . slow to ripe. In my time we went at it
smarter." And he looked thoughtfully at Anna Barly. He saw her in the
form of acres of land, live stock, farm buildings, and money in the
bank. "Molasses," he thought; "yes, sir, molasses. Maple sugar." But
when he looked at his son Thomas, he frowned. "Go on," he wanted to
say, "go on, you slowpoke."

Farmer Barly also frowned at Thomas Frye. He felt that he was being
hurried. "She's well enough where she is," he thought. "She's young
yet. A year or two more . . ."

"Well," said Mr. Crabbe, "I look forward to the day." And he waved his
hand kindly in the air. "It's your move, Mr. F."

Mr. Frye arose, and walked toward the door, where Thomas was bidding
Anna good-by. "See you to-night," Thomas whispered; "heh, Anna?"

"Please yourself," said Anna. And off she went, without looking at Mr.
Frye, who had come to speak to her. When she was gone, Mr. Frye gave
his son a keen glance. In it was both curiosity and malice. But
Thomas turned away. It seemed to him that women must have been easier
to understand when his father was young. For no one could understand
them now.

While the storekeeper's back was turned, Mr. Crabbe rearranged the
checkerboard. He took up two of Mr. Frye's men and put them in his
pocket. Then he winked at Mr. Barly, as though to say: "I'm just a
leetle too smart for him."

Farmer Barly winked back. It amused him to have Mr. Frye beaten
unfairly. Mr. Frye wanted to get his daughter away from him. "Well,"
he said in his mind, to Mr. Frye, "just go easy. Just go easy, Mr.
Frye." And he winked again at Mr. Crabbe. "That's right," he said,
"give it to him."

When Mr. Jeminy left Anna, at the edge of the village, he went to call
on Grandmother Ploughman. He found her in the company of old Mrs.
Crabbe, who had brought her knitting over, for society's sake. Mrs.
Ploughman received him with quiet dignity, due to a sense of the wrong
she had suffered, for which she blamed Mrs. Wicket, and the Democratic
Party. Mr. Ploughman, she often said, had been a good Republican all
his life. Unfortunately, he was dead; otherwise, things would have
been different.

It seemed to her that the country was being run by a set of villains.
"The world is in a bad way," she declared. "I don't know what we're
coming to." And an expression of bleak satisfaction illuminated her
face, wrinkled with age.

"Yes," said Mr. Jeminy, "these are unhappy times. I am afraid we are
leaving behind us a difficult task for those who follow. They had a
right to expect better things of us, Mrs. Ploughman."

"I've not left anything behind," said Mrs. Ploughman decidedly; "not
yet."

"I should hope not," ejaculated Mrs. Crabbe. "No."

"It's the young," said Mrs. Ploughman, "who get the old into trouble.
Nothing ever suits them until they're in mischief; and then it's up to
their elders to pull them out again. I know, for I've seen it, father
and son."

"It is the old," said Mr. Jeminy, "who get the young into trouble."

"Is it, indeed?" said Mrs. Ploughman.

"Well, I don't believe it." And she gave Mr. Jeminy a bright, peaked
look.

"Then," she continued, "when you've done for them, year in and year
out, off they go, and that's the end of it."

"Ah, yes," croaked Mrs. Crabbe; "off they go."

"If it isn't one thing," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's another. Trouble
and death--that's a woman's lot in this world, like the Good Book says."

"Death is the end of everything," remarked Mrs. Crabbe.

"I'm not afraid to die," Mrs. Ploughman declared. "There's things to
do the other side of the grave, same as here. And it's a joy to do
them, in the light of the Lord. I can tell you, Mrs. Crabbe, I won't
be sorry to go. My folks are waiting there for me." Her voice
trembled, and she rocked up and down to compose herself. "He needn't
try to mix me up," she thought to herself; "not in my own home. No."

"Then," said Mr. Jeminy, "you believe in an after life, Mrs. Ploughman?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Ploughman firmly, directing her remarks to Mrs.
Crabbe, "I do. I believe there's a life hereafter, when our sorrows
will be repaid us. There weren't all those hearts broke for nothing,
Mrs. Crabbe, nor for what's going on here now, with strikes, and
famine, and bloody murders."

"That's real edifying, Mrs. Ploughman," said Mrs. Crabbe, "real
edifying. Yes," she exclaimed with energy, "these are terrible times.
Now they give me tea without sugar in it. For there's no sugar to be
had. Well, I won't drink it. I spit it out, when nobody's looking."

And she plied her needles with vigor, to show what she thought of such
an arrangement.

"As I was saying," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's the young who get the old
into trouble. And artful folk, who'd ought to know better, with the
life they've had. I've had no peace in this life. But I'll have it
hereafter."

At this reflection upon Mrs. Wicket, Mr. Jeminy rose to go. "You are
right," he said; "no one will disturb you." And he went home to Mrs.
Grumble.

"Where have you been all day?" she demanded.

Mr. Jeminy smiled. He knew that Mrs. Grumble thought he had been
spending the afternoon at Mrs. Wicket's. "I have been to call on Mrs.
Ploughman," he said. "There I met old Mrs. Crabbe."

Then Mrs. Grumble hurried out into the garden to pick a mess of young
beans for supper, because Mr. Jeminy liked them better than squash.
The bowl of squash she returned to the ice box. "I'll eat it myself,
to-morrow," she thought.

"Supper will be a little late," she said to Mr. Jeminy, "because the
stove won't draw in wet weather."




VI

HARVEST

Mr. Jeminy, clad in a pair of brown, earthy overalls, a blue, cotton
shirt, and a straw hat, full of holes, was helping Mr. Tomkins dig
potatoes, up on Barly Hill. From the field on the slopes above the
village, he could see the hills across the valley, misted in the sun.
Above him stretched the shining sky, thronged with its winds, the low
clouds of early autumn trailing their shadows across the woods. All
was peace; he saw September's yellow fields, and felt, on his face, the
cool fall wind, with its smoke of burning leaves, mingled with the odor
of spaded earth, and fresh manure.

With every toss of his fork he covered with earth the little piles of
straw and ordure which Mr. Tomkins had spread on the ground. As he
advanced in this manner, small flocks of sparrows rose before him, and
flew away with dissatisfied cries. "Come," he said to them, "the world
does not belong to you. I believe you have never read the works of
Epictetus, who says, 'true education lies in learning to distinguish
what is ours, from what does not belong to us.' However, you have a
more modern spirit; for you believe that whatever you see belongs to
you, providing you are able to get hold of it."

He was happy; in the warm, noon-day drowse, he felt, like Abraham, the
grace of God within him, and found even in the humblest sparrow enough
to afford him an opportunity to discuss morals with himself.

"There'll be potatoes," said Mr. Tomkins, "enough to last all winter
for the two of us. That's riches, Jeminy; where's your talk now of the
world being poor?"

"Some of these potatoes," said Mr. Jeminy, bending over, "are rotted
from the wet weather."

"To-morrow," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll borrow a harrow from Farmer Barly.
And next spring I'll plant corn here on the hill. Table corn, that is.
Then we'll have a corn-husking, Jeminy; you and I, and the rest of the
young ones." And he burst out laughing, in his high, cracked voice.

"Do you remember the last corn-husking?" asked Mr. Jeminy. "It was in
the autumn before the war. Anna Barly and Alec Stove lost themselves
in the woods. And Elsie Cobbler burned her fingers. How she cried and
carried on; Anna came running back, to see what it was all about. But
before the evening was over, she was off again, with Noel Ploughman."

Mr. Tomkins nodded his head. Timid in the presence of Mr. Jeminy's
books, he was happy and hearty in his own potato patch. "I remember,"
he said. "I remember more than you do, Jeminy. I can look back to the
first husking bee I ever was at. That was in '62. A year later I
shouldered a gun, and went off with the drafts of '63. Your speaking
of Noel put me in mind of it.

"When I got home again," he continued, "there was nothing for me to do.
In those days folks did their own work. Then there was time for
everything. But the days are not as long as they used to be when I was
young. Now there's no time for anything.

"But Noel was a good man. He was handy, and amiable. He could lay a
roof, or mend a thresher, it was all the same to him. What do you
think, Jeminy? Anna Barly won't forget him in a hurry--heh?"

"No," said Mr. Jeminy; "no, Anna won't forget him in a hurry. That is
as it should be, William. She believes that she has suffered. And if
she fools herself a little, I, for one, would be inclined to forgive
her."

"She won't fool herself any," said Mr. Tomkins; "not Anna. Wait and
see."

The shadows of late afternoon stretched half across the field when Mr.
Jeminy laid down his fork, and started to return home. As he followed
Mr. Tomkins down the hill, he saw the tops of the clouds lighted by the
descending sun, and heard, across the valley, the harsh notes of a
cow's horn, calling the hands on Ploughman's Farm in from the fields.

He stopped a moment at a shadowy spring, hidden away among the ferns,
for a cup of cold, clear water. Holding the cup, made of tin, to his
lips, he observed:

"Thus, of old, the farmer stooped to refresh himself. When he was
done, he gave thanks to the rustic god, who watched his house, and
protected his flocks. They were the best of friends; each was modest
and reasonable. To-day God is like a dead ancestor; there is no way to
argue with him."

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