1.2 Dandelion Wine - Ray Brudbury

The bleak mansions across the town ravine opened baleful dragon eyes.

Soon, in the morning avenues below, two old women would glide their electric Green Machine, waving at all the dogs. “Mr. Tridden, run to the carbarn!” Soon, scattering hot blue sparks above it, the town trolley would sail the rivering brick streets. “Ready John Huff, Charlie Woodman?” whispered Douglas to the Street of Children.

“Ready!” to baseballs sponged deep in wet lawns, to rope swings hung empty in trees. “Mom, Dad, Tom, wake up.”

Clock alarms tinkled faintly.

The courthouse clock boomed. Birds leaped from trees like a net thrown by his hand, singing. Douglas, conducting an orchestra, pointed to the eastern sky. The sun began to rise.

He folded his arms and smiled a magician's smile.

Yes, sir, he thought, everyone jumps, everyone runs when I yell. It'll be a fine season. He gave the town a last snap of his fingers. Doors slammed open; people stepped out.

Summer 1928 began.