Bestselling Floridian author Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings () published the short story “A Mother in Mannville” in It was included in the The overall theme for this short story is people with integrity still lie to protect themselves. Jerry lies about having a mother that lives in Mannville. Transcript of A Mother in Mannville A Mother in Mannville Story by: Marjorie Rawlings Project By: Farhan Rezaul Karim Summary The story takes place in a.

Author: Zolole Vugul
Country: Belize
Language: English (Spanish)
Genre: Sex
Published (Last): 1 May 2018
Pages: 267
PDF File Size: 10.68 Mb
ePub File Size: 11.22 Mb
ISBN: 366-1-27596-517-5
Downloads: 40168
Price: Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]
Uploader: Virg

Sometimes in winter mannvilke snowdrifts are so deep that the institution is cut off from the village below, from all the world. Fog hides the mountain peaks, the snow swirls down the valleys, and a wind blows so bitterly that the orphanage boys who take the milk twice daily to the baby cottage reach the door with fingers stiff in an agony of numbness. I have gloves, ” he added. He liked the late spring, he said. The rhododendron was in bloom, a carpet of color, across the mountainsides, soft as the May winds that stirred the hemlocks.

He called it laurel. I was there in the autumn. I wanted quiet, isolation, to do some troublesome writing. I wanted mountain air to blow out the malaria from too long a time in the subtropics. I was homesick, too, for the flaming of maples in October, and for corn shocks and pumpkins and black-walnut trees and the lift of hills.

I found them all, living in a cabin that belonged to the orphanage, half a mile beyond the orphanage farm. When I took the cabin, I asked mannvillle a boy or man to come and chop wood for the fireplace. The first few days were warm, I found what wood I needed about the cabin, no one came, and I forgot the order.

I looked up from my typewriter one late afternoon, a little startled. A boy stood at the door, and my pointer dog, my companion, was at his side and had not barked to warn me. The boy was probably twelve years old, but undersized. He wore overalls and a torn shirt, and was barefooted.

I’ve been chopping wood at the orphanage a long mohher. I visualized mangled and inadequate branches for my fires.

A MOTHER IN MANNVILLE : Translation In Bangla – Razib Ahmed

I was well into my work and not inclined to conversation. I was a little blunt. Go ahead and see what you can do. I went back to work, closing the door, At first the sound of the boy dragging brush mothef me. Then he began to chop. The blows were rhythmic and steady, and shortly I had forgotten him, the sound no more of an interruption than a consistent rain.

I suppose an hour majnville a half passed, for when I stopped and stretched, and heard the boy’s steps on the cabin stoop, the sun was dropping behind the farthest mountain, and the valleys were purple with something deeper than the asters. The boy said, “I have to go to supper now. I can come again tomorrow evening. I said, “I’ll pay you now for what you’ve done,” thinking I should probably have to insist on an older boy.

We went together back of the cabin. An astonishing amount of solid wood had been cut. There were cherry logs and heavy roots of rhododendron, and blocks from the waste pine and oak left from the building of the cabin.


I looked at him, actually, for the first time. His hair was the color of the corn shocks and his eyes, very direct, were like the mountain sky when rain is pending—gray, with a shadowing of that miraculous blue. As I spoke, a light came over him, as though the setting sun had touched him with the same suffused glory manhville which it touched the mountains. I gave him a quarter. He looked at me, and at the coin, and seemed to want to speak but could not, and turned away. At daylight I was half wakened by the sound of chopping.

Again it was so even in texture that I went back to sleep. motyer

When I left my bed in the cool morning, the boy had come and gone, and a stack of kindling was neat against the cabin wall. He came again after school in the afternoon and worked until time to return to the orphanage. His name was Jerry; he was twelve years old, and he had been at the orphanage since he was four. I could picture him at four, with the same grave gray-blue eyes and the same—independence? No, the word that comes to me is “integrity”. The word means something very special to me, and the quality for which I use it is a rare one.

My father had it—there is another of whom I am almost sure—but almost no man of my acquaintance possesses it with the clarity, the purity, the simplicity of a mountain stream.

But the boy Jerry had it. It is bedded on courage, but it is more than brave. It is honest, but it is more than honesty. The ax handle broke one day. Jerry said the woodshop at the orphanage would repair it. I brought money to pay for the job and he refused it. I brought the ax down careless. I’ll see the man from whom I bought it. It was only then that he would take the money. He was standing back of his own carelessness.

He was free-will agent and he chose to do careful work, and if he failed, he took the responsibility with out subterfuge. And he did for me the unnecessary thing, the gracious thing, that we find done only by the great of heart. Things no training can teach, for they are done on the instant, with no predicated experience. He found a cubbyhole beside the fireplace that I had not noticed.

A Mother in Mannville by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings – moumou的創作 – 巴哈姆特

There, of his own accord, he put kindling and “medium” wood, so that I might always have dry fire material ready in case of sudden wet weather. A stone was loose in the rough walk to the cabin. He dug a deeper hole mothwr steadied it, although he came, himself, by motger short cut over the bank. I found that when I tried to return his thoughtfulness with such things as candy and apples, he was wordless.

He only looked at the gift and at me, and a curtain lifted, so that I saw deep into the clear well of his eyes, and gratitude was motjer, and affection, soft over the firm granite of his character. He made simple excuses to come and sit with me.


I could no more have turned him away than if he had been physically hungry. I suggested once that the manvnille time for us to visit was before supper, when I left off my writing. After that, he waited always until my typewriter had been some time quiet. One day I worked until nearly dark.

I went outside the cabin, having forgotten him. I saw him going up over the hill in the twilight toward the orphanage. When I sat down on my stoop, a place was warm from his body where he had been sitting.

He became intimate, of course, with my pointer, Pat. There is a strange communion between a boy and a dog. Perhaps they possess the same singleness of spirit, the same kind of wisdom. It is difficult to explain, but is exists.

When i went across the state for a weekend, I left the dog in Jerry’s charge. I gave him the dog whistle and the key to the cabin, and left sufficient food. He was to come two or three times a day and let out the dog, and feed and exercise him. I should return Sunday night, and Jerry would take out the dog for the last time Sunday afternoon and then leave the key under an agreed hiding place. My return was belated and fog filled the mountain passes so treacherously that I dared not drive at night.

The fog held the next morning, and it was Monday noon before I reached the cabin. The dog had been fed and cared for that morning.

A MOTHER IN MANNVILLE : Translation In Bangla

Jerry came early in the afternoon, anxious. So I bought Pat some of my breakfast this morning. I ,other have let anything happen to him. He was needed for work at the orphanage and he had to return at once.

I gave him a dollar in payment, and he looked at it and went away. He sat bye the fire with me, with no other light, and told me of their two days together. The dog lay close to him, and found a comfort there that I did not have for him. And it seemed to me that being with my dog, and caring for him, had brought the boy and me, too, together, so that he felt that he belonged to me as well as to the animal. He likes the laurel.

I took him up over the hill and we both ran fast. There was a place where the grass was high and I lay down in it and hid.

I could hear Pat hunting for me. He found my grail and he barked. When he found me, he acted crazy, and he ran around and around me, in circles. Motuer was suddenly impelled to speak of things he had not spoken of before, nor had I cared to ask him.