On his way home Mr. Jeminy passed, at the edge of the village, the
little cottage where the widow Wicket lived with her daughter. Seeing
Mrs. Wicket in the garden, he stopped to wave his hand. Under her
bonnet, the young woman looked up at him, her plain, thin face flushed
with her efforts in the garden patch. "I've never seen such weeds,"
she cried. "You'd think . . . I don't know what you'd think. They
grow and grow . . ."

Mr. Jeminy went up the hill toward his house, carrying the box of
matches. As he walked, the little white butterflies, which danced
above the road, kept him company; and all about him, in the meadows,
among the daisies, the beetles, wasps, bees, and crickets, with fifes,
flutes, drums, and triangles, were singing joyously together the
Canticle of the Sun:

"Praised be the Lord God with all his creatures, but especially our
brother, the sun . . . fair he is, and shines, with a very great
splendor . . .

"Praised be the Lord for our sister, the moon, and for the stars, which
he has set clear and lovely in heaven.

". . . (and) for our brother, the wind, and for air and cloud, calm and
all weather . . .

". . . (and) for our mother, the earth, which does sustain us and keep
us . . .

"Praised be the Lord for all those who pardon one another . . . and who