"On the west by the Pacific Ocean," began a red-cheeked plowboy, to whom the ocean was no more than hearsay. "Where is San Francisco?" "San Francisco is in California." "Where is Seattle?" But no one knew. Then Mr. Jeminy thought to himself, "I am not much wiser than that. For I think that Seattle is a little black period on a map. But to them, it is a name, like China, or Jerusalem; it is here, or there, in the stories they tell each other. And I believe their Seattle is full of interesting people." "Well, then," he said, "let me hear you bound Vermont." That was something everybody knew. He took the First and Second Reader through their sums. "Two apples and two apples make . . ." "Four apples." "And three apples from eight apples leave . . ." "Five apples." When spelling time came, the children, going down to the foot, rolled over each other in the grass, with loud shouts. At last only two were left to dispute the letters in asparagus, elephant, constancy, and philosophical. Then Mr. Jeminy gathered the children about him. "The year is over," he said, "and you are free to play again. But do not forget over the summer what you learned with so much difficulty during the winter. Let me say to you who will not return to school: I have taught you to read, to write, to add and subtract; you know a little history, a little geography. Do not be proud of that. There are many things to learn; but you would not be any happier for having learned them. "You will ask me what this has to do with you. I would like to teach you to be happy. For happiness is not in owning much, but in owning little: love, and liberty, the work of one's hands, fellowship, and peace. These things have no value; they are not to be bought; but they alone are worth having. Do not envy the rich man, for cares destroy his sleep. And do not ask the poor man not to sing, for song is all he has. "Love poverty, and labor, the poverty of love, the wealth of the heart. "Be wise and honest farmers. "School is over. You may go." The children ran away, laughing; the boys hurried off together to the swimming hole, their casual shouts stealing after them down the road. Mr. Jeminy, lying on his back in the grass, listened to them sadly. As the voices grew fainter and fainter, it seemed to him as if they were saying: "School is over, school is over." And he thought: "They are counting the seasons. But to the old, the year is never done." Mr. Frye, who had been sitting quietly by the road during Mr. Jeminy's little speech to the children, now got up, and went back to the village, shaking his head solemnly with every step. III THE BARLYS