Free The Summer of the Falcon by Jean Craighead George Page B

following day.
    As soon as she arose June went without hesitation to the bottom bureau drawer and opened it. The raccoon had scattered the garments a bit, but the rumples were friendly. They gave the terribly new clothes an old, comfortable appearance.
    June put on the brassiere. It was tight and hot. She twisted into the girdle then stole softly to the mirror to look at herself. For a long time she stood, and today it was suddenly all matter of fact. She leaped for her slip and the dress her mother had pressed for her the night before. As she smelled its clean freshness she said aloud, “She shouldn’t have to do this work for me anymore. I can do it!” then brushed her hair and walked to the door. The back steps were near but she decided not to use them. She walked lightly to the top of the front stairs and paused. The walnut bannister gleamed in a twist to the vestibule, the white steps shone clean. She stepped down, one, then two, then three...on down, glowing with happiness. It was going to be lovely to be a woman.
    The Falcon Hunt ended the summer. A few days later the Charles Pritchard children departed for the city and school. All winter June worked and learned and stored impressions and ideas. As new experiences came her way she longed for the water and sky of summer and long quiet hours to put them in their place. Eventually the school doors closed and the trunks were once again packed for Pritchard’s.

7. The Housekeeper
    W HEN C HARLES SENIOR KICKED OPEN the doors to the house, June ran upstairs and put her shoes under the bed without thinking. It was a habit, because she had found it was practical. She could save time by finding them quickly. She walked (last year she had leaped) to the window and looked out upon the creek with joy and excitement. Her world at fourteen was pure sun.
    All winter she had been too busy to train Zander; but as she leaned far out and see-sawed on the sill, she promised on the bright water and sun and yellow flowers that she would work with him every day until he was perfect.
    And she knew she would. For at fifteen, almost, June was as positive as the law of gravity.
    She flew down the stairs and lifted her now brilliantly beautiful Zander from the back seat of the car to carry him across the lawn to the maple tree. Here she placed him on his old perch, wind-torn and insect-ridden. Zander had changed all his feathers during the winter and was richer in color. He was now a mature bird.
    He flapped his wings, threw up his head and called “killie, killie, killie,” in the manner of the male sparrow hawk telling trespassers to stay off his land. He remembered the yard at Pritchard’s and was reclaiming it.
    As she tethered the leash to the loop June announced to the world, “This summer you’ll catch the king’s breakfast!”
    Her father, coming down the yard with new canoe paddles, overheard. “And what will the menu be?” he called.
    “Mice tails and cricket wings on toast,” she answered positively...“and you’re the king!”
    “Humph,” he said with a smile. “You get that bird to hunt and I’ll eat them.”
    “You’ll see. I will.” And June raced from the tree to the porch to her father. She felt like a sparkler bursting in sixty directions, for the summer was just beginning.
    “I’m pretty safe,” he said.
    Late in the afternoon when the suitcases were unpacked and the fresh sheets spread on all the sun-aired beds, June stood before her falcon holding the lure. She whistled. Zander did not come. She whistled again and waited. It was almost dinner time when the hungry bird finally leaped on the air and winged to her hand to be fed.
    “Now let’s be faster tomorrow, Zander,” she said.
    The next night and the next night told the same tiresome story. He would not fly immediately, but sat and looked at the robins and bees.
    During the winter June had handed Zander his food. Now she had to break him of expecting food without flying for it—and it was