Where's Nora?

"Where's Nora?" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a charming children's story that captures the whimsical adventures of a young girl named Nora. Set in a quaint village, the narrative unfolds as Nora disappears, prompting her friends and family to search for her. Through vivid illustrations and engaging text, the book explores themes of curiosity, friendship, and the importance of community, all while inviting readers to join in the delightful quest to find Nora. Jewett's storytelling shines with warmth and simplicity, making it a delightful read for young audiences.

• Short story

								
I.

"Where's Nora?"

The speaker was a small, serious-looking old Irishman, one of those
Patricks who are almost never called Pat.  He was well-dressed and
formal, and wore an air of dignified authority.

"I don't know meself where's Nora then, so I don't," answered his
companion.  "The shild would n't stop for a sup o' breakfast before she
'd go out to see the town, an' nobody 's seen the l'aste smitch of her
since.  I might sweep the streets wit' a broom and I could n't find
her."

"Maybe she's strayed beyand and gone losing in the strange place,"
suggested Mr. Quin, with an anxious glance.  "Did n't none o' the folks
go wit' her?"

"How would annybody be goin' an' she up an' away before there was a
foot out o' bed in the house?" answered Mike Duffy impatiently.  "'T
was herself that caught sight of Nora stealin' out o' the door like a
thief, an' meself getting me best sleep at the time.  Herself had to
sit up an' laugh in the bed and be plaguin' me wit' her tarkin'.  'Look
at Nora!' says she.  'Where's Nora?' says I, wit' a great start.  I
thought something had happened the poor shild.  'Oh, go to slape, you
fool!' says Mary Ann.  ''T is only four o'clock,' says she, 'an' that
grasshopper greenhorn can't wait for broad day till she go out an' see
the whole of Ameriky.'  So I wint off to sleep again; the first bell
was biginnin' on the mill, and I had an hour an' a piece, good, to
meself after that before Mary Ann come scoldin'.  I don't be sleepin'
so well as some folks the first part of the night."

Mr. Patrick Quin ignored the interest of this autobiographical
statement, and with a contemptuous shake of the head began to feel in
his pocket for a pipe.  Every one knew that Mike Duffy was a person
much too fond of his ease, and that all the credit of their prosperity
belonged to his hard-worked wife.  She had reared a family of
respectable sons and daughters, who were all settled and doing well for
themselves, and now she was helping to bring out some nephews and
nieces from the old country.  She was proud to have been born a Quin;
Patrick Quin was her brother and a man of consequence.

"'Deed, I 'd like well to see the poor shild," said Patrick.  "I'd no
thought they 'd land before the day or to-morrow mornin', or I 'd have
been over last night.  I suppose she brought all the news from home?"

"The folks is all well, thanks be to God," proclaimed Mr. Duffy
solemnly.  "'T was late when she come; 't was on the quarter to nine
she got here.  There 's been great deaths after the winther among the
old folks.  Old Peter Murphy's gone, she says, an' his brother that
lived over by Ballycannon died the same week with him, and Dan Donahoe
an' Corny Donahoe's lost their old aunt on the twelfth of March, that
gave them her farm to take care of her before I came out.  She was old
then, too."

"Faix, it was time for the old lady, so it was," said Patrick Quin,
with affectionate interest.  "She 'd be the oldest in the parish this
tin years past."

"Nora said 't was a fine funeral; they 'd three priests to her, and
everything of the best.  Nora was there herself and all our folks.  The
b'ys was very proud of her for being so old and respicted."

"Sure, Mary was an old woman, and I first coming out," repeated
Patrick, with feeling.  "I went up to her that Monday night, and I
sailing on a Wednesday, an' she gave me her blessing and a present of
five shillings.  She said then she 'd see me no more; 't was poor old
Mary had the giving hand, God bless her and save her!  I joked her that
she 'd soon be marrying and coming out to Ameriky like meself.  'No,'
says she, 'I 'm too old.  I 'll die here where I was born; this old
farm is me one home o' the world, and I 'll never be afther l'avin' it;
't is right enough for you young folks to go,' says she.  I could n't
get my mouth open to answer her.  'T was meself that was very homesick
in me inside, coming away from the old place, but I had great boldness
before every one.  'T was old Mary saw the tears in me eyes then.
'Don't mind, Patsy,' says she; 'if you don't do well there, come back
to it an' I 'll be glad to take your folks in till you 'll be afther
getting started again.'  She had n't the money then she got afterward
from her cousin in Dublin; 't was the kind heart of her spoke, an'
meself being but a boy that was young to maintain himself, let alone a
family.  Thanks be to God, I 've done well, afther all, but for me
crooked leg.  I does be dr'amin' of going home sometimes; 't is often
yet I wake up wit' the smell o' the wet bushes in the mornin' when a
man does be goin' to his work at home."

Mike Duffy looked at his brother-in-law with curiosity; the two men
were sitting side by side before Mike's house on a bit of green bank
between the sidewalk and the road.  It was May, and the dandelions were
blooming all about them, thick in the grass.  Patrick Quin readied out
and touched one of them with his stick.  He was a lame man, and had
worked as section hand for the railroad for many years, until the bad
accident which forced him to retire on one of the company's rarely
given pensions.  He had prevented a great disaster on the road; those
who knew him well always said that his position had never been equal to
his ability, but the men who stood above him and the men who were below
him held Patrick Quin at exactly the same estimate.  He had limped
along the road from the clean-looking little yellow house that he owned
not far away on the river-bank, and his mind was upon his errand.

"I come over early to ask the shild would n't she come home wit' me an'
ate her dinner," said Patrick.  "Herself sent me; she's got a great
wash the day, last week being so rainy, an' we niver got word of Nora
being here till this morning, and then everybody had it that passed by,
wondering what got us last night that we were n't there."

"'T was on the quarter to nine she come," said Uncle Mike, taking up
the narrative with importance.  "Herself an' me had blown out the
light, going to bed, when there come a scuttlin' at the door and I
heard a bit of a laugh like the first bird in the morning"--

"'Stop where you are, Bridget,' says I," continued Mr. Quin, without
taking any notice, "'an' I 'll take me third leg and walk over and
bring Nora down to you.'  Bridget's great for the news from home now,
for all she was so sharp to be l'aving it."

"She brought me a fine present, and the mate of it for yourself," said
Mike Duffy.  "Two good thorn sticks for the two of us.  They 're inside
in the house."

"A thorn stick, indeed!  Did she now?" exclaimed Patrick, with unusual
delight.  "The poor shild, did she do that now?  I 've thought manny 's
the time since I got me lameness how well I 'd like one o' those

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