Read Afternoons with Emily for Free Online

mittens and a shawl. The lamp continued
     to smoke.
    And in all this chill and gloom, I was more than content — I was eager and joyful! I had laid out our books and papers for
     the morning’s work; we were deep into Viking studies. Mr. Harnett would sharpen our pencils when he came, using the little
     pocketknife I had asked my father to buy for him at Christmas. My tutor had given me some real English watercolors, in tiny
     tubes.
    Our scale model of the Viking Tower at Newport was almost finished, and I had completed my assignment: a day in the life of
     Eric the Yellow, a cowardly Viking who sought every way to avoid fighting. Sometimes he lost his shield; often he fell overboard.
     Today, going for honey to make the mead, he had knocked over the beehive. Now his poor eyes were swollen shut from bee stings
     — he couldn’t possibly fight!
    I listened for the big clock on the landing. When it started striking nine, I began to recite aloud the Shakespeare sonnet
     I was learning. This week’s was
“When to the sessions of sweet silent thought . . .”
And then Mr. Harnett’s deep and expressive voice joined mine —
“I summon up remembrance of things past”
— as he climbed the stairs. We recited together to the end, with a final flourish at
“All losses are restored and sorrows end.”
Then he said, “Good morning, Ara! Tell me what old Eric the Yellow has been up to!” and our class began.
    That particular dark February morning was the precise moment when I realized that this companionship, this action and energy
     and laughter, were all gifts from Mr. Harnett. He had brought the world over the rooftops and into my cold nursery.
    From 1849 to 1852, I marked time passing by the seasons — and whatever I was studying with Mr. Harnett. After the Vikings
     (who arrived here first, after all!) we spent about a year and a half on the Puritans and the Massachusetts Bay Colony.
    “Here’s your chance to learn all about your remarkable family,” Mr. Harnett told me, smiling. “But we’re not in the saint
     business; we’ll have to talk about their faults too.”
    Thus I learned that my ancestors were brave and resolute but sometimes rigid and joyless. When we completed Boston and studied
     the other colonies, I decided Jefferson and Franklin were my true non Puritan heroes — because they had humor and new ideas,
     and enjoyed living. And Jefferson loved the Greeks too, all his life.
    One of these years, around 1850, I became aware of some Springfield relatives: Father’s younger married sister, Aunt Helen
     Chase Sloan, and her family. Aunt Helen came to stay on Mount Vernon Street for a few days. I sensed a sympathy and a gentleness
     that my Latham relatives lacked. Nanny Drummond clearly adored her.
    “I wish I could help your poor father more at this unhappy time,” Aunt Helen mourned. She had a round face like a worn pansy.
    “Why, Aunt Helen? He’s fine. He loves being a professor.”
    “I’d like to be here to help him with your mother’s illness — and to do things for you, Ara dear, since your mother can’t
     be active. But I’m needed at home.”
    Aunt Helen had long private talks with Cousin Daisy and Dr. Jackson — and, I imagine, with Father. Afterward she sighed and
     hugged me — and sighed again.
    “Someday we’ll be closer, Ara,” she promised. “Someday you’ll know your cousin Kate. She’s a bit older, but I know you’ll
     be friends.” This made me very curious about Springfield and Aunt Helen’s life. But not for very long. My own life was now
     peopled by all the characters brought into my nursery by Mr. Harnett.
    In geography, Mr. Harnett and I studied Captain Cook’s adventurous voyages. One spring morning in 1852, we were down on our
     hands and knees, creating the Pacific Ocean. My tutor was sloshing blue paint on a sheet, and I was following him with a stiff
     brush, making wave ripples. Suddenly, Father appeared in the nursery, looking stern and