Wicket
I
MRS. GRUMBLE
On Sunday the church bells of Hillsboro rang out across the ripening
fields with a grave and holy sound, and again at evening knocked
faintly, with quiet sorrow, at doors where children watched for the
first star, to make their wishes. Night came, and to the croaking of
frogs, the moon rose over Barly Hill. In the early morning the grass,
still wet with dew, chilled the bare toes of urchins on their way to
school where, until four o'clock, the tranquil voice of Mr. Jeminy
disputed with the hum of bees, and the far off clink of the
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.
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