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."
"I'm glad," said Mr. Tomkins, "that the minister isn't here to listen
to you. Come along now; I've plenty still to do before supper. The
widow Wicket's gate is down. But I've promised to set a fence for
Farmer Barly first."
"You need help, William," remarked Mr. Jeminy thoughtfully; "you need
help. I must see what I can do." And he went home, down the hill,
after Mr. Tomkins.
The next day he started out early in the morning. When Mrs. Grumble
asked him where he was going, he replied, "I must step over to Mr.
Tomkins, to help him with something."
From Mr. Tomkins he borrowed a saw, a plane, a hammer, and a box of
nails. Then he hurried off to mend Mrs. Wicket's gate. On the way he
stopped to gather an armful of goldenrod for his friend, and also to
pick a yellow aster for himself, from Mrs. Cobbler's garden.
When he arrived at Mrs. Wicket's cottage, the widow's pale face and
listless manner, filled him with alarm. "I've been up with Juliet,"
she said. "The child has a touch of croup. It's nothing. She's
better this morning." And she gave him her hand, still cold with the
chill of night.
"Good heavens," exclaimed Mr. Jeminy; "I am sure Mrs. Grumble would
have been glad to keep you company."
Mrs. Wicket smiled. But she did not answer this declaration, which Mr.
Jeminy knew in his heart to be untrue.
Putting down his tools, he began to examine the gate. "Hm," he said.
"Hm. Yes, I'll soon have this fixed for you." Mrs. Wicket stood
watching him with a gentle smile. "You're very kind," she said. "It's
very kind of you, Mr. Jeminy. Most folks are too proud to turn a hand
for me, no matter what was to happen."
"Tut," said Mr. Jeminy.
"Well, it's a fact," said Mrs. Wicket gravely. "I've never felt
loneliness like I do here. Not ever. Because I've had trouble, Mr.
Jeminy, and known sorrow, folks leave me alone. I'd go away . . . only
where would I go?"
"Sorrow," said Mr. Jeminy, "is a good friend, Mrs. Wicket. Sorrow and
poverty are close to our hearts. They teach the spirit to be resolute
and indulgent.
"One must also learn," he added, "to bear sorrow without being vexed by
it."
"I've never had sorrow without being vexed by it," said Mrs. Wicket.
"To my way of thinking, sorrow comes so full of troubles, it's hard to
tell what's one, and what's the other."
"Sorrow," said Mr. Jeminy, "comes only to the humble and the wise. It
is the emotion of a gentle and courageous spirit. But wherever trouble
is found, there is also to be found envy, pride, and vanity. It is
good to be humble, Mrs. Wicket; in humility lie the forces of peace.
The humble heart is an impregnable fortress."