Summer At Fairacre: A Classic Story of English Village Life, Friendship, and the Countryside($11.10Value)

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After a long winter of red noses and wet mittens, summer is a welcome time for Miss Read and her downland village friends. SUMMER AT FAIRACRE charmingly recounts this bright, bustling season and the problems and possibilities that unfold against the background of roses, skylarks, and bees. Joseph Coggs finds a temporary home in the schoolhouse while his mother is in the hospital. Miss Read's friend Amy mysteriously disappears. Perhaps most difficult of all, Mrs. Pringle, the grumpy school cleaner, is unable to work because the pain in her bad leg flares up. Still, the sounds of children playing and the fragrance of summertime flowers fill the air, as Miss Read shepherds her students and friends through the warm season. "If you've ever enjoyed a visit to Mitford, you'll relish a visit to Fairacre." -- Jan Karon Miss Read (1913-2012) was the pseudonym of Mrs. Dora Saint, a former schoolteacher beloved for her novels of English rural life, especially those set in the fictional villages of Thrush Green and Fairacre. The first of these, Village School , was published in 1955, and Miss Read continued to write until her retirement in 1996. In the 1998, she was awarded an MBE, or Member of the Order of the British Empire, for her services to literature.  Summer at Fairacre By Miss Read, J. S. Goodall Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company Copyright © 1984 Miss Read All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-0-618-12704-7 Contents Title Page, Contents, Copyright, Dedication, Frontispiece, The First Day of Spring, Minor Irritations, Henry Mawne Needs Company, The Coggs Are in Distress, Easter Holidays, Public Duties, More Worries for the Coggs Family, Strange Behaviour of Amy, Troubles Never Come Singly, Mrs Pringle Deserts Us, Amy's Party, Minnie Pringle Lends a Hand, Mr Willet to the Rescue, Rain and Romance, Summer's Bounty, Sunshine and Sports, Off to the Wedding, Away From it All, Mrs Pringle on the War Path, The End of Summer, About the Author, CHAPTER 1 The First Day of Spring 'WHAT the Hanover d'you make of this, Miss Read?' Mr Willet took the cap from his head and shook the snow from it, spattering the schoolroom floor with dark spots. 'Twenty-first of March,' he went on. 'First day of spring, and I reckon there's a good inch of snow all over.' 'Well, it can't last,' I replied. 'It's melting already in the playground.' A clashing of pails from the lobby told of the presence of Mrs Pringle, our school cleaner. Both she and Bob Willet, the caretaker, come soon after eight each morning to see that Fairacre School is in good trim to start the day. 'And how's Madam Sunshine today?' asked Mr Willet, nodding towards the source of noise. He was prudent enough, I noticed, to lower his voice. As village schoolmistress, Mrs Pringle is one of the crosses I have to bear. Mrs Pringle enjoys the gloomier side of life, and is never so happy as when she is discussing distressing ailments, other people's peccadilloes, impending disasters or a really slap-up funeral, preferably with inner knowledge of how much money was left by the deceased and to whom it is going. Square, sturdy and sixtyish, Mrs Pringle is as tough as an old boot, but she has 'a Bad Leg' which dominates our lives at Fairacre. If Mrs Pringle decides that she is overworked, and this happens quite often, the afflicted limb is liable to rapid deterioration, and gives its owner a pronounced limp. One can always tell, from the severity of Mrs Pringle's hobbling, what sort of mood the lady is in. There is no love lost between Mr Willet and our cleaner, and I have to be very circumspect in dealing with both. This is not always an easy task, as both parties can be over-sensitive to the reaction of the other. I have to tread as warily as Agag, and then, more often than not, I find that one of them has taken umbrage. Usually, of course, it is Mrs Pringle, who is always on the look-out for the odd insult. One need only comment, in a perfunctory way, about the amount of grime children can collect on their hands, and Mrs Pringle begins to bridle and to point out, with unnecessary acrimony, that there is always a plentiful supply of soap put out in the lobby. Moreover, that very soap has been put there with her own two over-worked hands, and the basins have been cleaned so thoroughly — again by those same hands — that it would be possible to eat your dinner in them, should you feel so disposed. When I first came to Fairacre as the village schoolmistress I used to try to stem this flow of umbrage-taking by making ineffectual apologies and explanations. I know better now. It is far more satisfactory to let Mrs Pringle have her head, and to allow the torrent to flow over one. She thoroughly enjoys it, and I have now become so hardened that it makes very little impression. Over the years we have shaken down together pretty well, and the occasional clash of wills does neither of us serious harm. On this particular morning we