"This has been rather extraordinary," said Jim, "but I am very glad you were here. It shows the utility of the right sort of work in letter-writing, language, geography and arithmetic—in learning things about farming."

"It certainly does," said Doctor Brathwayt. "I wouldn't have missed it under any consideration; but I'm certainly sorry for that creamery shark and his accomplice—to be routed by the Fifth Reader grade in farming!"

The luncheon was rather a wonderful affair—and its success was unqualified after everybody discovered that the majority of those in attendance felt much more at home when calling it dinner. Colonel Woodruff had fought against the regiment of the father of Professor Gray, of Georgia, in at least one engagement, and tentative plans were laid for the meeting of the two old veterans "some winter in the future."

"What d'ye think of our school?" asked the colonel.

"Well," said Professor Gray, "it's not fair to judge, Colonel, on what must have been rather an extraordinary moment in the school's history. I take it that you don't put on a representation of 'The Knave Unmasked' every morning."

"It was more like a caucus than I've ever seen it, daddy," said Jennie, "and less like a school."

"Don't you think," said Doctor Brathwayt, "that it was less like a school because it was more like life? It was life. If I am not mistaken, history for this community was making in that schoolroom as we entered."

"You're perfectly right, Doctor," said the colonel. "Columbus Brown and about a dozen others living outside the district are calling Wilbur Smythe in counsel to perfect plans for an election to consolidate a few of these little independent districts, for the express purpose of giving Jim Irwin a plant that he can do something with. Jim's got too big for the district, and so we're going to enlarge the district, and the schoolhouse, and the teaching force, and the means of educational grace generally. That's as sure as can be—after what took place this morning."

"He's rather a wonderful person, to be found in such a position," said Professor Gray, "or would be in any region I have visited."

"He's a native product," said the colonel, "but a wonder all the same. He's a Brown Mouse, you know."

"A—a—?" Doctor Brathwayt was plainly astonished. And so the colonel was allowed to tell again the story of the Darbishire brown mice, and why he called Jim Irwin one. Doctor Brathwayt said it was an interesting Mendelian explanation of the appearance of such a character as Jim. "And if you are right, Colonel, you'll lose him one of these days. You can't expect to retain a Caesar, a Napoleon, or a Lincoln in a rural school, can you?"

"I don't know about that," said the colonel. "The great opportunity for such a Brown Mouse may be in this very school, right now. He'd have as big an army right here as Socrates ever had. The Brown Mouse is the only judge of his own proper place."

"I think," said Mrs. Brathwayt, as they motored back to the school, "that your country schoolmaster is rather terrible. The way he crushed that Mr. Carmichael was positively merciless. Did he know how cruel he was?"

"I think not," said Jennie. "It was the truth that crushed Mr. Carmichael."

"But that vote of thanks," said Mrs. Brathwayt. "Surely that was the bitterest irony."

"I wonder if it was," said Jennie. "No, I am sure it wasn't. He wanted to leave the children thinking as well as possible of their victim, and especially of Mr. Bonner; and there was really something in Mr. Carmichael's talk which could be praised. I have known Jim Irwin since we were both children, and I feel sure that if he had had any idea that his treatment of this man had been unnecessarily cruel, it would have given him a lot of pain."

"My dear," said Mrs. Brathwayt, "I think you are to be congratulated for having known for a long time a genius."

"Thank you," said Jennie. And Mrs. Brathwayt gave her a glance which brought to her cheek another blush; but of a different sort from the one provoked by the uproar in the Woodruff school.

There could be no doubt now that Jim was thoroughly wonderful—nor that she, the county superintendent, was quite as thoroughly a little fool. She to be put in authority over him! It was too absurd for laughter. Fortunately, she hadn't hindered him much—but who was to be thanked for that? Was it owing to any wisdom of hers? Well, she had decided in his favor, in those first proceedings to revoke his certificate. Perhaps that was as good a thing to remember as was to be found in the record.



CHAPTER XXIII

AND SO THEY LIVED——

And so it turned out quite as if it were in the old ballad, that "all in the merry month of May," and also "all in the merry green wood," there were great doings about the bold little promontory where once stood the cabin on the old wood-lot where the Simms family had dwelt. The brook ran about the promontory, and laid at its feet on three sides a carpet of blue-grass, amid clumps of trees and wild bushes. Not far afield on either hand came the black corn-land, but up and down the bluffy sides of the brook for some distance on both sides of the King-dragged highway, ran the old wood-lot, now regaining much of the unkempt appearance which characterized it when Jim Irwin had drawn upon himself the gentle rebuke of Old Man Simms for not giving a whoop from the big road before coming into the yard.

But Old Man Simms was gone, with all the Simmses, now thoroughly established on the Blanchard farm, and quite happy in their new success. The cabin was gone, and in its place stood a pretty little bungalow, about which blossomed the lilacs and peonies and roses and other old-fashioned flowers, planted there long ago by some pioneer woman, nourished back to thriftiness by old Mrs. Simms, and carefully preserved during the struggles with the builders of the bungalow by Mrs. Irwin. For this was Mrs. Irwin's new home. It was, in point of fact, the teacher's house or schoolmanse for the new consolidated Woodruff District, and the old Simms wood-lot was the glebe-land of the schoolmanse.

Jim turned over and over in his mind these new applications of old, historic, significant words, dear to every reader of history—"glebe-land," "schoolmanse"—and it seemed to him that they signified the return of many old things lost in Merrie England, lost in New England, lost all over the English-speaking world, when the old publicly-paid clergyman ceased to be so far the servant of all the people that they refused to be taxed for his support. Was not the new kind of rural teacher to be a publicly-paid leader of thought, of culture, of progress, and was he not to have his manse, his glebe-land, and his "living"? And all because, like the old clergymen, he was doing a work in which everybody was interested and for which they were willing to be taxed. Perhaps it was not so high a status as the old; but who was to say that? Certainly not Jim Irwin, the possessor of the new kind of "living," with its "glebe-land" and its "schoolmanse." He would have rated the new quite as high as the old.

From the brow of the promontory, a light concrete bridge took the pretty little gorge in the leap of a single arch, and landed the eye at the bottom of the front yard of the schoolhouse. Thus the new institution of life was in full view of the schoolmanse veranda, and yet shut off from it by the dry moat of the brook and its tiny meadow of blue-grass.

Across the road was the creamery, with its businesslike unloading platform, and its addition in process of construction for the reception of the machinery for the cooperative laundry. Not far from the creamery, and also across the road, stood the blacksmith and wheelwright shop. Still farther down the stream were the barn, poultry house, pens, hutches and yards of the little farm—small, economically made, and unpretentious, as were all the buildings save the schoolhouse itself, which was builded for the future.

And even the schoolhouse, when one thinks of the uses to which it was to be put—kitchen, nursery, kindergarten, banquet-hall, theater, moving-picture hall, classrooms, manual training rooms, laboratory and counting-room and what-not, was wonderfully small—Colonel Woodruff said far too small—though it was necessarily so large as to be rather astonishing to the unexpectant passer-by.

The unexpectant passer-by this May day, however, would have been especially struck by the number of motor-cars, buggies and surreys parked in the yard back of the creamery, along the roadside, and by the driveway running to the schoolhouse. People in numbers had arrived by five o'clock in the afternoon, and were still coming. They strolled about the place, examining the buildings and grounds, and talking with the blacksmith and the butter-maker, gradually drawing into the schoolhouse like a swarm of bees into a hive selected by the queen. None of them, however, went across the concrete bridge to the schoolmanse, save Mrs. Simms, who crossed, consulted with Mrs. Irwin about the shrubbery and flowers, and went back to Buddie and Jinnie, who were good children but natchally couldn't be trusted with so many other young ones withouten some watchin'.

"They're coming! They're coming!"

This was the cry borne to the people in and about the schoolhouse by that Hans Hansen who would be called Hans Nilsen. Hans had been to the top of the little hill and had a look toward town. Like a crew manning the rigging, or a crowd having its picture taken, the assemblage crystallized into forms determined by the chances of getting a glimpse of the bungalow across the ravine—on posts, fences, trees and hillocks. Still nobody went across the bridge, and when McGeehee Simms and Johnny Bonner strayed to the bridge-head, Mrs. Simms called them back by a minatory, "Buddy, what did I tell you? You come hyah!"

A motor-car came over the hillock, ran down the road to the driveway to the schoolmanse and drew up at the door. Out of it stepped Mrs. Woodruff and the colonel, their daughter, the county superintendent of schools, and Mr. Jim Irwin. Jennie was dressed in a very well-tailored traveling costume, and Jim in a moderately well-tailored business suit. Mrs. Irwin kissed her son and Jennie, and led the way into the house. Jennie and Jim followed—and when they went in, the crowd over across the ravine burst forth into a tremendous cheer, followed by a three-times-three and a tiger. The unexpectant passer-by would have been rather surprised at this, but we who are acquainted with the parties must all begin to have our suspicions. The fact that when they reached the threshold Jim picked Jennie up in his arms and carried her in, will enable any good detective to put one and one together and make a pair—which comes pretty near telling the whole story.

By this time it was nearly seven, and Calista Simms came across the charmed bridge as a despatch-bearer, saying that if Mr. Jim and Miss Jennie didn't mind, dinner would be suhved right soon. It was cooked about right, and the folks was gettin' right hungry—an' such a crowd! There were fifteen in the babies' room, and for a while they thought the youngest Hamm young one had swallowed a marble. She would tell 'em they would be right over; good-by.

There was another cheer as the three elderly and the two young people emerged from the schoolmanse and took their way over the bridge to the school side of the velvet-bottomed moat; but it did not terminate in three-times-three and a tiger. It was, in fact shut off like the vibration of a bell dipped in water by the sudden rush of the shouters into the big assembly-room, now filled with tables for the banquet—and here the domestic economy classes, with their mothers, sisters, female cousins and aunts, met them, as waiters, hat-snatchers, hostesses, floor-managers and cooks, scoring the greatest triumph of history in the Woodruff District. For everything went off like clockwork, especially the victuals—and such victuals!

There was quantity in meats, breads, vegetables—and there was also savor. There was plenty, and there was style. Ask Mrs. Haakon Peterson, who yearned for culture, and had been afraid her children wouldn't get it if Yim Irwin taught them nothing but farming. She will tell you that the dinner—which so many thought of all the time as supper—was yust as well served as it if had been in the Chamberlain Hotel in Des Moines, where she had stayed when she went with Haakon to the state convention.

Why shouldn't it have been even better served? It was planned, cooked, served and eaten by people of intelligence and brains, in their own house, as a community affair, and in a community where, if any one should ask you, you are authorized to state that there's as much wealth to the acre as in any strictly farming spot between the two oceans, and where you are perfectly safe—financially—in dropping from a balloon in the dark of the moon, and paying a hundred and fifty dollars an acre for any farm you happen to land on. Why shouldn't things have been well done, when every one worked, not for money, but for the love of the doing, and the love of learning to do in the best way?

Some of these things came out in the speeches following the repast—and some other things, too. It was probably not quite fair for B. B. Hamm to incorporate in his wishes for the welfare and prosperity and so forth of Jim and Jennie that stale one about the troubles of life, but he wanted to see Jennie blush—which as a matter of fact he did; but she failed to grow quite so fiery red as did Jim. But B. B. was a good fellow, and a Trojan in his work for the cause, and the schoolmaster and superintendent of schools forgave him. A remark may be a little broad, and still clean, and B. B. made a clean speech mainly devoted to the increased value of that farm he at one memorable time was going to sell before Jim's fool notions could be carried out.

Colonel Woodruff made most of the above points which I have niched from him. He had begun as a reformer late in life, he said, but he would leave it to them if he hadn't worked at the trade steadily after enlistment. He had become a follower of Jim Irwin, because Jim's reform was like dragging the road in front of your own farm—it was reform right at home, and not at the county seat, or Des Moines, or Washington. He had followed Jim Irwin as he had followed Lincoln, and Grant, and Blaine, and McKinley—because Jim Irwin stood for more upward growth for the average American citizen than the colonel could see any prospect of getting from any other choice. And he was proud to live in a country like this, saved and promoted by the great men he had followed, and in a neighborhood served and promoted, if not quite saved, by Jim Irwin. And he was not so sure about its not being saved. Every man and nation had to be saved anew every so often, and the colonel believed that Jim Irwin's new kind of rural school is just as necessary to the salvation of this country as Lincoln's new kind of recognition of human rights was half a century ago. "I am about to close my speech," said the colonel, "and the small service I have been able to give to this nation. I went through the war, neighbors—and am proud of it; but I've done more good in the peaceful service of the last three years than I did in four of fighting and campaigning. That's the way I feel about what we've done in Consolidated District Number One." (Vociferous and long-continued applause.)

"Oh, Colonel!" The voice of Angie Talcott rose from away back near the kitchen. "Can Jennie keep on bein' county superintendent, now she's married?"

A great guffaw of laughter reduced poor Angie to tears; and Jennie had to go over and comfort her. It was all right for her to ask that, and they ought not to laugh at Angie, so there! Now, you're all right, and let's talk about the new schoolhouse, and so forth. Jennie brought the smiles back to Angle's face, just in time to hear Jim tell the people amid louder cheers that he had been asked to go into the rural-school extension work in two states, and had been offered a fine salary in either place, but that he wasn't even considering these offers. And about that time, the children began to get sleepy and cross and naughty, and the women set in motion the agencies which moved the crowd homeward.

* * * * *

Before a bright wood fire—which they really didn't need, but how else was Jim's mother to show off the little fireplace?—sat Jim and Jennie. They had been together for a week now—this being their home-coming—and had only begun to get really happy.

"Isn't it fine to have the fireplace?" said Jennie.

"Yes, but we can't really afford to burn a fire in it—in Iowa," said Jim. "Fuel's too everlastingly scarce. If we use it much, the fagots and deadwood on our 'glebe-land' won't last long."

"If you should take that Oklahoma position," said Jennie, "we could afford to have open wood fires all the time."

"It's warmer in Oklahoma," said Jim, "and wood's more plentiful. Yes"—contemplatively—"we could, dear."

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" said Jennie.

"All right," said Jim briskly, "get me my writing materials, and we'll accept. It's still open."

Jennie sat looking into the fire oblivious of the suggestion. She was smiling. Jim moved uneasily, and rose.

"Well," he said, "I believe I can better guess where mother would put those writing materials than you could, after all. I'll hunt them up."

As he passed, Jennie took him by the hand and pulled him down on the arm of her chair.

"Jim," she said, "don't be mean to me! You know you wouldn't do such a wicked, wicked thing at this time as to leave the people here."

"All right," said Jim, "whatever you say is the law."

When Jennie spoke again things had taken place which caused her voice to emanate from Jim's shirt-front.

"Did you hear," said she, "what Angie Talcott asked?"

"M'h'm," said Jim.

"Well," said Jennie, "now that I'm married can I go on being county superintendent?"

There was a long silence.

"Would you like to?" asked Jim.

"Kind of," said Jennie; "if I knew enough about things to do anything worth while; but I'm afraid that by rising to my full height I shall always just fail to be able to see over anything."

"You've done more for the schools of the county," said Jim, "in the last year than any other county superintendent has ever done."

"And we shall need the money so like—so like the dickens," said Jennie.

"Oh, not so badly," laughed Jim, "except for the first year. I'll have this little farm paying as much as some quarter-sections when we get squared about. Why, we can make a living on this school farm, Jennie,—or I'm not fit to be the head of the school."

There was another silence, during which Jennie took down her hair, and wound it around Jim's neck.

"It will settle itself soon one of these days anyhow," said he at last. "There's enough to do for both of us right here."

"But they won't pay me," she protested.

"They don't pay the ministers' wives," said Jim, "and yet, the ministers with the right sort of wives are always the best paid. I guess you'll be in the bill, Jennie."

Jim walked to the open window and looked out over the still landscape. The untidy grounds appealed to him—there would be lessons in their improvement for both the children and the older people. It was all good. Down in the little meadow grew the dreaming trees, their round crowns rising as from a sea not quite to the level of the bungalow, their thrifty leaves glistening in the moonlight. Across the pretty bridge lay the silent little campus with its twentieth-century temple facing its chief priest. It was all good, without and within. He went across the hall to bid his mother good night. She clung to him convulsively, and they had their own five minutes which arranged matters for these two silent natures on the new basis forever. Jennie was in white before the mantel when he returned, smiling at the inscription thereon.

"Why didn't you put it in Latin?" she inquired. "It would have had so much more distinction."

"I wanted it to have meaning instead," said Jim. "And besides, nobody who was at hand was quite sure how to turn the Latin phrase. Are you?"

Jennie leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and studied it.

"I believe I could," said she, "without any pony. But after all, I like it better as it is. I like everything, Jim—everything!"

"LET US CEASE THINKING SO MUCH OF AGRICULTURAL EDUCATION, AND DEVOTE OURSELVES TO EDUCATIONAL AGRICULTURE. SO WILL THE NATION BE MADE STRONG."

THE END