more modern spirit; for you believe that whatever you see belongs to
you, providing you are able to get hold of it."

He was happy; in the warm, noon-day drowse, he felt, like Abraham, the
grace of God within him, and found even in the humblest sparrow enough
to afford him an opportunity to discuss morals with himself.

"There'll be potatoes," said Mr. Tomkins, "enough to last all winter
for the two of us. That's riches, Jeminy; where's your talk now of the
world being poor?"

"Some of these potatoes," said Mr. Jeminy, bending over, "are rotted
from the wet weather."

"To-morrow," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll borrow a harrow from Farmer Barly.
And next spring I'll plant corn here on the hill. Table corn, that is.
Then we'll have a corn-husking, Jeminy; you and I, and the rest of the
young ones." And he burst out laughing, in his high, cracked voice.

"Do you remember the last corn-husking?" asked Mr. Jeminy. "It was in
the autumn before the war. Anna Barly and Alec Stove lost themselves
in the woods. And Elsie Cobbler burned her fingers. How she cried and
carried on; Anna came running back, to see what it was all about. But
before the evening was over, she was off again, with Noel Ploughman."

Mr. Tomkins nodded his head. Timid in the presence of Mr. Jeminy's
books, he was happy and hearty in his own potato patch. "I remember,"
he said. "I remember more than you do, Jeminy. I can look back to the
first husking bee I ever was at. That was in '62. A year later I
shouldered a gun, and went off with the drafts of '63. Your speaking