An October Ride

"An October Ride" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a lyrical novelette that captures the beauty and introspection of a serene autumn journey through the New England countryside. The story follows the protagonist as she takes a leisurely carriage ride, enjoying the vibrant fall colors and the changing landscape. Throughout the ride, she reflects on her relationships, the passage of time, and the simple joys of rural life. Jewett's vivid descriptions and keen observations create a rich tapestry of emotion and nature, celebrating the tranquility and contemplative spirit of October in a way that resonates with readers.

• Short story

								
It was a fine afternoon, just warm enough and just cool enough, and I
started off alone on horseback, though I do not know why I should say
alone when I find my horse such good company. She is called Sheila, and
she not only gratifies one's sense of beauty, but is very interesting in
her character, while her usefulness in this world is beyond question. I
grow more fond of her every week; we have had so many capital good times
together, and I am certain that she is as much pleased as I when we
start out for a run.

I do not say to every one that I always pronounce her name in German
fashion because she occasionally shies, but that is the truth. I do not
mind her shying, or a certain mysterious and apparently unprovoked jump,
with which she sometimes indulges herself, and no one else rides her, so
I think she does no harm, but I do not like the principle of allowing
her to be wicked, unrebuked and unhindered, and some day I shall give my
mind to admonishing this four-footed Princess of Thule, who seems at
present to consider herself at the top of royalty in this kingdom or any
other. I believe I should not like her half so well if she were tamer
and entirely and stupidly reliable; I glory in her good spirits and I
think she has a right to be proud and willful if she chooses. I am proud
myself of her quick eye and ear, her sure foot, and her slender,
handsome chestnut head. I look at her points of high breeding with
admiration, and I thank her heartily for all the pleasure she has given
me, and for what I am sure is a steadfast friendship between us,--and a
mutual understanding that rarely knows a disappointment or a mistake.
She is careful when I come home late through the shadowy, twilighted
woods, and I can hardly see my way; she forgets then all her little
tricks and capers, and is as steady as a clock with her tramp, tramp,
over the rough, dark country roads. I feel as if I had suddenly grown a
pair of wings when she fairly flies over the ground and the wind
whistles in my ears. There never was a time when she could not go a
little faster, but she is willing to go step by step through the close
woods, pushing her way through the branches, and stopping considerately
when a bough that will not bend tries to pull me off the saddle. And she
never goes away and leaves me when I dismount to get some flowers or a
drink of spring water, though sometimes she thinks what fun it would be.
I cannot speak of all her virtues for I have not learned them yet. We
are still new friends, for I have only ridden her two years and I feel
all the fascination of the first meeting every time I go out with her,
she is so unexpected in her ways; so amusing, so sensible, so brave, and
in every way so delightful a horse.

It was in October, and it was a fine day to look at, though some of the
great clouds that sailed through the sky were a little too heavy-looking
to promise good weather on the morrow, and over in the west (where the
wind was coming from) they were packed close together and looked gray
and wet. It might be cold and cloudy later, but that would not hinder my
ride; it is a capital way to keep warm, to come along a smooth bit of
road on the run, and I should have time at any rate to go the way I
wished, so Sheila trotted quickly through the gate and out of the
village. There was a flicker of color left on the oaks and maples, and
though it was not Indian-summer weather it was first cousin to it. I
took off my cap to let the wind blow through my hair; I had half a mind
to go down to the sea, but it was too late for that; there was no moon
to light me home. Sheila took the strip of smooth turf just at the side
of the road for her own highway, she tossed her head again and again
until I had my hand full of her thin, silky mane, and she gave quick
pulls at her bit and hurried little jumps ahead as if she expected me
already to pull the reins tight and steady her for a hard gallop. I
patted her and whistled at her, I was so glad to see her again and to be
out riding, and I gave her part of her reward to begin with, because I
knew she would earn it, and then we were on better terms than ever. She
has such a pretty way of turning her head to take the square lump of
sugar, and she never bit my fingers or dropped the sugar in her life.

Down in the lower part of the town on the edge of York, there is a long
tract of woodland, covering what is called the Rocky Hills; rough, high
land, that stretches along from beyond Agamenticus, near the sea, to the
upper part of Eliot, near the Piscataqua River. Standing on
Agamenticus, the woods seem to cover nearly the whole of the country as
far as one can see, and there is hardly a clearing to break this long
reach of forest of which I speak; there must be twenty miles of it in an
almost unbroken line. The roads cross it here and there, and one can
sometimes see small and lonely farms hiding away in the heart of it. The
trees are for the most part young growth of oak or pine, though I could
show you yet many a noble company of great pines that once would have
been marked with the king's arrow, and many a royal old oak which has
been overlooked in the search for ships' knees and plank for the navy
yard, and piles for the always shaky, up-hill and down, pleasant old
Portsmouth bridge. The part of these woods which I know best lies on
either side the already old new road to York on the Rocky Hills, and
here I often ride, or even take perilous rough drives through the
cart-paths, the wood roads which are busy thoroughfares in the winter,
and are silent and shady, narrowed by green branches and carpeted with
slender brakes, and seldom traveled over, except by me, all summer long.

It was a great surprise, or a succession of surprises, one summer, when
I found that every one of the old uneven tracks led to or at least led
by what had once been a clearing, and in old days must have been the
secluded home of some of the earliest adventurous farmers of this
region. It must have taken great courage, I think, to strike the first
blow of one's axe here in the woods, and it must have been a brave
certainty of one's perseverance that looked forward to the smooth field
which was to succeed the unfruitful wilderness. The farms were far
enough apart to be very lonely, and I suppose at first the cry of fierce
wild creatures in the forest was an every-day sound, and the Indians
stole like snakes through the bushes and crept from tree to tree about
the houses watching, begging, and plundering, over and over again. There
are some of these farms still occupied, where the land seems to have
become thoroughly civilized, but most of them were deserted long ago;
the people gave up the fight with such a persistent willfulness and
wildness of nature and went away to the village, or to find more
tractable soil and kindlier neighborhoods.

I do not know why it is these silent, forgotten places are so
delightful to me; there is one which I always call my farm, and it was a
long time after I knew it well before I could find out to whom it had

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