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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.
"Yes," she said, "it's a blessing to feel pity. It makes you strong, like. The humble heart is a power of strength." And she went back to Juliet, who had begun to cough again. Left to himself, Mr. Jeminy regarded the gate-post with a thoughtful air. But inwardly he was very much pleased with himself. That year they kept harvest home before September was fairly done.
"Does he live hereabouts?" asked the farmer. "He used to," said Juliet, "but he ran away. Now Mrs. Grumble's sick, he ought to come home again, and ease her last hours." The farmer began to chuckle. "What's the old gaffer's name?" "Mr. Jeminy," said Juliet. "Hop in," said the farmer. "I'll take you along. He's been stopping with Aaron Bade, over to the Forge. I declare, if that don't beat all.
"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.
Ploughman: "The way she takes on in the fever. She does nothing but call him back, Mrs. Tomkins. 'Mr. Jeminy, she hollers, 'where's the old rascal? she says. Then she goes on about his being in some trouble, and she has to get him out of it. 'He's in the toils, she says; 'he's with the scarlet woman." "My life!" exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins. "I declare," said Mrs. Ploughman, "I wouldn't be Mrs.
Grumble." "A fine world," said Mrs. Grumble. "At least, I won't live to see much of it, I've that to be thankful for." "Finer than what it is," retorted Mr. Jeminy, losing his temper, "finer than what it is. Not the same, sad pattern." "The old pattern is good enough for me," replied Mrs. Grumble. "You're a fossil," said Mr. Jeminy. Then Mrs. Grumble raised her voice in prayer.
What are the good things of life, Mr. Jeminy?" "Love," said Mr. Jeminy, "peace, quiet of the heart, the work of one's hands. Perhaps it is human to wish for more. But to be human is not always to be wise. Do you desire to see the world, Aaron Bade? Soon you would ask to be home again." "Well, I don't know about that," said Aaron. "Ah," said Mr. Jeminy, "love is best of all."
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.
Grumble lay with wide open eyes, staring at the door through which Mr. Jeminy was to come. She felt quiet and happy; it seemed to her that her pain was already over and done with. Framed in the doorway, in the yellow lamplight, she beheld the fancies of her youth, the memories of the past.
"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.
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