In Summer Weather Page #2

"In Summer Weather" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a short story that captures the essence of a New England summer through the lens of rural life and relationships. The narrative unfolds in a picturesque setting, exploring themes of nature, community, and the passage of time. Through rich descriptions and keen observations, Jewett immerses readers in the simple joys and complexities of life, illustrating how the warmth of the season can evoke both nostalgia and reflection. The story highlights the intimate connections between characters as they navigate their experiences in the bucolic landscapes, offering a glimpse into the profound beauty found in everyday moments.

• Short story

								

his life he was willing to have a friendly talk, Mrs. Meeker thought,
and she proceeded to make the most of her opportunity.

"I think the care of that girl of Ad'line's has been too much for her
all along," she announced, "she's wild as a hawk, and a perfect
torment. One day she'll come strollin' in and beseechin' me for a
bunch o' flowers, and the next she'll be here after dark scarin' me
out o' my seven senses. She rigged a tick-tack here the other night
against the window, and my heart was in my mouth. I thought 'twas a
warnin' much as ever I thought anything in my life; the night before
my mother died 'twas in that same room and against that same winder
there came two or three raps, and my sister Drew and me we looked at
each other, and turned cold all over, and mother set right up in bed
the next night and looked at that winder and then laid back dead. I
was all sole alone the other evenin',--Wednesday it was,--and when I
heard them raps I mustered up, and went and put my head out o' the
door, and I couldn't see nothing, and when I went back, knock--knock,
it begun again, and I went to the door and harked. I hoped I should
hear somebody or 'nother comin' along the road, and then I heard
somethin' a rus'lin' amongst the sunflowers and hollyhocks, and then
there was a titterin', and come to find out 'twas that young one. I
chased her up the road till my wind give out, and I had to go and set
on the stone wall, and come to. She won't go to bed till she's a mind
to. One night I was up there this spring, and she never come in until
after nine o'clock, a dark night, too; and the pore old lady was in
distress, and thought she'd got into the river. I says to myself there
wa'n't no such good news. She told how she'd be'n up into Jake an'
Martin's oaks, trying to catch a little screech owl. She belongs with
wild creatur's, I do believe,--just the same natur'. She'd better be
kept to school, 'stead o' growin' up this way; but she keeps the rest
o' the young ones all in a brile, and this last teacher wouldn't have
her there at all. She'd toll off half the school into the pasture at
recess time, and none of 'em would get back for half an hour."

"What's a tick-tack? I don't remember," asked the doctor, who had been
smiling now and then at this complaint.

"They tie a nail to the end of a string, and run it over a bent pin
stuck in the sash, and then they get out o' sight and pull, and it
clacks against the winder, don't ye see? Ain't it surprisin' how them
devil's tricks gets handed down from gineration to gineration, while
so much that's good is forgot," lamented Mrs. Meeker, but the doctor
looked much amused.

"She's a bright child," he said, "and not over strong. I don't believe
in keeping young folks shut up in the schoolhouses all summer long."

Mrs. Meeker sniffed disapprovingly. "She's tougher than ellum roots. I
believe you can't kill them peakèd-looking young ones. She'll run like
a fox all day long and live to see us all buried. I can put up with
her pranks; 't is of pore old Mis' Thacher I'm thinkin'. She's had
trouble enough without adding on this young 'scape-gallows. You had
better fetch her up to be a doctor," Mrs. Meeker smilingly continued,
"I was up there yisterday, and one of the young turkeys had come
hoppin' and quawkin' round the doorsteps with its leg broke, and she'd
caught it and fixed it off with a splint before you could say Jack
Robi'son. She told how it was the way you'd done to Jim Finch that
fell from the hay-rigging and broke his arm over to Jake an' Martin's,
haying time."

"I remember she was standing close by, watching everything I did,"
said the doctor, his face shining with interest and pleasure. "I
shall have to carry her about for clerk. Her father studied medicine
you know. It is the most amazing thing how people inherit"--but he did
not finish his sentence and pulled the reins so quickly that the wise
horse knew there was no excuse for not moving forward.

Mrs. Meeker had hoped for a longer interview. "Stop as you come back,
won't you?" she asked. "I'm goin' to pick you some of the handsomest
poppies I ever raised. I got the seed from my sister-in-law's cousin,
she that was 'Miry Gregg, and they do beat everything. They wilt so
that it ain't no use to pick 'em now, unless you was calc'latin' to
come home by the other road. There's nobody sick about here, is
there?" to which the doctor returned a shake of the head and the
information that he should be returning that way about noon. As he
drove up the hill he assured himself with great satisfaction that he
believed he hadn't told anything that morning which would be repeated
all over town before night, while his hostess returned to her house
quite dissatisfied with the interview, though she hoped for better
fortune on Dr. Leslie's return.

For his part, he drove on slowly past the Thacher farmhouse, looking
carefully about him, and sending a special glance up the lane in
search of the invalid turkey. "I should like to see how she managed
it," he told himself half aloud. "If she shows a gift for such things
I'll take pains to teach her a lesson or two by and by when she is
older.... Come Major, don't go to sleep on the road!" and in a few
minutes the wagon was out of sight, if the reader had stood in the
Thacher lane, instead of following the good man farther on his errand
of mercy and good fellowship.

At that time in the morning most housekeepers were busy in their
kitchens, but Mrs. Thacher came to stand in her doorway, and shaded
her forehead and eyes with her hand from the bright sunlight, as she
looked intently across the pastures toward the river. She seemed
anxious and glanced to and fro across the fields, and presently she
turned quickly at the sound of a footstep, and saw her young
grand-daughter coming from the other direction round the corner of the
house. The child was wet and a little pale, though she evidently had
been running.

"What have you been doin' now?" asked the old lady fretfully. "I won't
have you gettin' up in the mornin' before I am awake and stealin' out
of the house. I think you are drowned in the river or have broken your
neck fallin' out of a tree. Here it is after ten o'clock. I've a mind
to send you to bed, Nanny; who got you out of the water, for in it
you've been sure enough?"

"I got out myself," said the little girl. "It was deep, though," and
she began to cry, and when she tried to cover her eyes with her
already well-soaked little apron, she felt quite broken-hearted and
unnerved, and sat down dismally on the doorstep.

"Come in, and put on a dry dress," said her grandmother, not unkindly;
"that is, if there's anything but your Sunday one fit to be seen. I've
told you often enough not to go playin' in the river, and I've wanted
you more than common to go out to Jake and Martin's to borrow me a
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