In Summer Weather Page #3

"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

								

little cinnamon. You're a real trial this summer. I believe the bigger
you are the worse you are. Now just say what you've been about. I
declare I shall have to go and have a talk with the doctor, and he'll
scold you well. I'm gettin' old and I can't keep after you; you ought
to consider me some. You'll think of it when you see me laying dead,
what a misery you've be'n. No schoolin' worth namin';" grumbled Mrs.
Thacher, as she stepped heavily to and fro in the kitchen, and the
little girl disappeared within the bed-room. In a few minutes,
however, her unusual depression was driven away by the comfort of dry
garments, and she announced triumphantly that she had found a whole
flock of young wild ducks, and that she had made a raft and chased
them about up and down the river, until the raft had proved
unseaworthy, and she had fallen through into the water. Later in the
day somebody came from the Jake and Martin homesteads to say that
there must be no more pulling down of the ends of the pasture fences.
The nails had easily let go their hold of the old boards, and a stone
had served our heroine for a useful shipwright's hammer, but the
young cattle had strayed through these broken barriers and might have
done great damage if they had been discovered a little later,--having
quickly hied themselves to a piece of carefully cultivated land. The
Jake and Martin families regarded Nan with a mixture of dread and
affection. She was bringing a new element into their prosaic lives,
and her pranks afforded them a bit of news almost daily. Her
imagination was apt to busy itself in inventing tales of her unknown
aunt, with which she entertained a grandchild of Martin Dyer, a little
girl of nearly her own age. It seemed possible to Nan that any day a
carriage drawn by a pair of prancing black horses might be seen
turning up the lane, and that a lovely lady might alight and claim her
as her only niece. Why this event had not already taken place the
child never troubled herself to think, but ever since Marilla had
spoken of this aunt's existence, the dreams of her had been growing
longer and more charming, until she seemed fit for a queen, and her
unseen house a palace. Nan's playmate took pleasure in repeating these
glowing accounts to her family, and many were the head-shakings and
evil forebodings over the untruthfulness of the heroine of this story.
Little Susan Dyer's only aunt, who was well known to her, lived as
other people did in a comparatively plain and humble house, and it was
not to be wondered at that she objected to hearing continually of an
aunt of such splendid fashion. And yet Nan tried over and over again
to be in some degree worthy of the relationship. She must not be too
unfit to enter upon more brilliant surroundings whenever the time
should come,--she took care that her pet chickens and her one doll
should have high-sounding names, such as would seem proper to the
aunt, and, more than this, she took a careful survey of the house
whenever she was coming home from school or from play, lest she might
come upon her distinguished relative unawares. She had asked her
grandmother more than once to tell her about this mysterious
kinswoman, but Mrs. Thacher proved strangely uncommunicative, fearing
if she answered one easy question it might involve others that were
more difficult.

The good woman grew more and more anxious to fulfil her duty to this
troublesome young housemate; the child was strangely dear and
companionable in spite of her frequent naughtiness. It seemed, too, as
if she could do whatever she undertook, and as if she had a power
which made her able to use and unite the best traits of her ancestors,
the strong capabilities which had been illy balanced or allowed to run
to waste in others. It might be said that the materials for a fine
specimen of humanity accumulate through several generations, until a
child appears who is the heir of all the family wit and attractiveness
and common sense, just as one person may inherit the worldly wealth of
his ancestry.
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