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.