Chapter Fifteen
Good-by Summer
SUMMER was almost over. The winding country roads were banked with golden rod and purple asters. The hidden silk of the milkweed floated like fairy wings on the still air. Mom canned peaches and tomatoes, and Aunt Claire pushed and coaxed crooked little pickles into jars.
Martins gathered on the telephone wires at the side of the road. There were mothers and fathers and uncles and aunts and many, many children. They chirped and twittered without end. The young ones darted about constantly as if to say:
“Enough of this talk, and these endless plans. Come, let us be off. See what a fine flier I am. See how cleverly I use my wings.”
The braggart would circle and dip, but he’d soon be back pushing his brothers about rudely to make a place for himself. Sometimes they all started off at once, and the sky was filled with the rushing of wings. Janie strained her eyes after them and sighed,
“If I could only fly along. What sights they must see! What wonderful adventures they must have! Good-by, good-by, until next summer.”
They disappeared in the distance, but early the next morning they were back again, like a bar of music against the sky. One day, of course, they would really leave.
The stove was squat and shiny, like a little old lady in a black taffeta dress. It crackled and glowed, and the curved sheet iron back got slightly pink. The copper tea-kettle on top quivered and spit like an angry cat. Mist hung over the lake and the grass was wet with dew. Uncle Jim, who had lived in China, always described the weather as a one-coat day or a two-coat day. Late August mornings at Oak Lake were one-coat. Breakfast time was one sweater, and by nine o’clock it was hot and clear with shivers and sweaters forgotten.