Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

―Well, here we are,‖ said Douglas. ―Keep your eyes peeled. If I give the word, break and
scatter. You fellas go ahead,‖ said Douglas. ―I‘ll be down in a minute. I‘ve got some strategizing
to do.‖
Reluctantly they left him and started down the hill. After they had gone a hundred feet
they began to shuffle and then lope, and then run, yelling. They pulled up below, by the tables,
and from a distance, here and there through the ravine, like white birds skimming the grass, came
the girls, running too, all gathered in one place, and there was Calvin C. Quartermain, reeling
down the pathway in a wheelchair, calling out in a high and cheerful voice.
―Hell,‖ said Douglas, standing back alone. ―I mean, heck.‖
The children gathered, shoving and pushing and laughing. Seen from a distance they
were like little figures on a beautiful stage. Their laughter came drifting up to Douglas and his
mouth twitched.
And then, beyond the children, resplendent on its own white-clothed table, was the
birthday cake. Douglas stared.
It rose, tier upon tier, of such a size that it towered like a snowman, magnificent and
shining in the sun.
―Doug, hey, Doug!‖ voices drifted up to him.
But he didn‘t hear.
The cake, the white and beautiful cake, a piece of winter saved from years ago, cool and
snowy now in the late summer day. The cake, the white and magnificent cake, frost and rime and
snowflakes, apple-flower and lily-bud. And the voices laughing and the laughter rolling up to
him where he stood alone and separate and their voices calling, ―Doug, come on, aw, Doug,
come down. Hey, Doug, aw come on . . .‖
His eyes were blinded by the frost and the snow of it. He felt his feet propelling him
down into the ravine and he knew he was moving toward the table and the white vision, and
there was no way to stop his feet, no way to turn his eyes away, and all thoughts of battle plans
and troop movements fled from his mind. He began to shuffle and he began to lope and then he
ran faster and faster, and reaching a large tree, he grabbed hold to catch his breath. He heard
himself whisper, ―Hi.‖
And everyone, looking at him, in the light of the snow mountain, in the glare of the
wintry hill, replied, ―Hi.‖ And he joined the party.
There was Lisabell. Among the others she stood, her face as delicate as the curlicues on
the frosted cake, her lips soft and pink as the birthday candles. Her great eyes fixed him where he
stood. He was suddenly conscious of the grass under his shoes. His throat was dry. His tongue