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Fifty years in the making, here is the eagerly anticipated sequel to Ray Bradbury's beloved classic Dandelion Wine

Some summers refuse to end . . . October 1st -- the end of summer. The air is still warm, although the leaves on the trees are tinged with autumn rust. Thirteen-year-old Douglas Spaulding, his younger brother Tom, and their friends do their best to take advantage of the days of lingering warmth -- rampaging through the ravine, tormenting the girls . . . and declaring war on the old men who run Green Town, Illinois. For the boys know that Mr. Quartermain and his cohorts want nothing more than to force the boys to put away their wild ways, to settle down, to grow up. If only, the boys think, they could stop the clock atop the courthouse building. Then, surely, they could hold onto the last days of summer . . . and their youth.

But the old men were young once, too, and know that the march of Time is inexorable. And Quartermain, crusty old guardian of the school board and town curfew, is bent on teaching the boys a lesson. What he doesn't know is that before the last leaf turns, the boys -- young men, really -- will give him a gift: they will teach him the importance of not being afraid to let go.

Chapter One
There are those days which seem a taking in of breath which, held, suspends the whole earth in its waiting. Some summers refuse to end.

So along the road those flowers spread that, when touched, give down a shower of autumn rust. By every path it looks as if a ruined circus had passed and loosed a trail of ancient iron at every turning of a wheel. The rust was laid out everywhere, strewn under trees and by riverbanks and near the tracks themselves where once a locomotive had gone but went no more. So flowered flakes and railroad track together turned to moulderings upon the rim of autumn.

"Look, Doug," said Grandpa, driving into town from the farm. Behind them in the Kissel Kar were six large pumpkins picked fresh from the patch. "See those flowers?"

"Yes, sir."

"Farewell summer, Doug. That's the name of those flowers. Feel the air? August come back. Farewell summer."

"Boy," said Doug, "that's a sad name."

Grandma stepped into her pantry and felt the wind blowing from the west. The yeast was rising in the bowl, a sumptuous head, the head of an alien rising from the yield of other years. She touched the swell beneath the muslin cap. It was the earth on the morn before the arrival of Adam. It was the morn after the marriage of Eve to that stranger in the garden bed.

Grandma looked out the window at the way the sunlight lay across the yard and filled the apple trees with gold and echoed the same words:

"Farewell summer. Here it is, October 1st. Temperature's 82. Season just can't let go. The dogs are out under the trees. The leaves won't turn. A body would like to cry and laughs instead. Get up to the attic, Doug, and let the mad maiden aunt out of the secret room."

"Is there a mad maiden aunt in the attic?" asked Doug.

"No, but there should be."

Clouds passed over the lawn. And when the sun came out, in the pantry, Grandma almost whispered, Summer, farewell.

On the front porch, Doug stood beside his grandfather, hoping to borrow some of that far sight, beyond the hills, some of the wanting to cry, some of the ancient joy. The smell of pipe tobacco and Tiger shaving tonic had to suffice. A top spun in his chest, now light, now dark, now moving his tongue with laughter, now filling his eyes with salt water.

He surveyed the lake of grass below, all the dandelions gone, a touch of rust in the trees, and the smell of Egypt blowing from the far east.

"Think I'll go eat me a doughnut and take me a nap," Doug said.

"Poignant, wise . . . Bradbury evokes the rhythms of a long-gone smalltown America with short, swift chapters that build to a lyrical meditation on aging and death . . . Bradbury's mature but fresh return to his beloved early writing conveys a depth of feeling."
—Publishers Weekly

"Bradbury has yet another lesson to share about growing up and growing old...an intriguing coda to one of Bradbury's classics. "
—Kirkus Reviews

"Creepier than [Dandelion Wine] but retains the elegiac tone and lovely descriptions of 1920s boyhood . . . A sequel nearly 50 years in the making will surely find interested readers."
—Library Journal

"[Bradbury's] prose remains masterfully precision-tuned. A touching meditation on memories, aging, and the endless cycle of birth and death."
—Booklist