blacksmith's forge in the village.

At four o'clock Mr. Jeminy, with a sigh, gathered his books together.
He sighed because he was old, and because the day's work was done. 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.

But gradually, as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, he grew sad.
It seemed to him as if the world, strange and contrary during the day,
were again as it used to be when he was young.

When he crossed the wooden bridge over Barly Water, the minnows,
frightened, fled away in shoals. Mr. Jeminy turned down toward the
village, where he had an errand to attend to. As his footsteps died
away, the minnows swam back again, as though nothing had happened.
One, larger than the rest, found a piece of bread which had fallen into
the water. "This is my bread," he said, and gazed angrily at his
friends, who were trying to bite him. "I deserve this bread," he added.

Old Mr. Frye kept the general store in Hillsboro, and ran the post
office. It was easy to see that he was an honest man; he kept his shop
tidy, and was sour to everybody. Through his square spectacles he saw
his neighbors in the form of fruits, vegetables, stick pins, and pieces
of calico. Of Mr. Jeminy he used to say: "Sweet apples, but small,