spectacles. But he only said, "There's some good in that."

"There is indeed," said Mr. Barly, closing one eye, and nodding his
head a number of times. "There is indeed. But those days are over,
Mr. Frye. When I was a child I had the fear of God put into me. It
was put into me with a birch rod. But nowadays, Mr. Frye, the children
neglect their sums, and grow up wild as nettles. I don't know what
they're learning nowadays."

And he blew his nose again, as though to say, "What a pity."

"Ah," said Mr. Frye, wisely, "there's no good in _that_."

Mr. Jeminy knew his own faults, and what was expected of him: he was
not severe enough. As he walked home that evening, he said to himself:
"I must be more severe; my pupils tease each other almost under my
nose. To-day as I wrote sums on the black-board, I watched out of the
corner of my eye. . . . Still, a tweaked ear is soon mended. And it's
true that when they learn to add and subtract, they will do each other
more harm."

The schoolmaster lived in a cottage on the hill overlooking the
village. He lived alone, except for Mrs. Grumble, who kept house for
him, and managed his affairs. Although they were simple, and easy to
manage, they afforded her endless opportunities for complaint. She was
never so happy as when nothing suited her. Then she carried her broom
into Mr. Jeminy's study, and looked around her with a gloomy air. "No,
really, it's impossible to go on this way," she would say, and sweep
Mr. Jeminy, his books and his papers, out of doors.