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- Джек Лондон
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Far
,
far
away
I
have
a
memory
of
having
lived
,
a
smaller
lad
,
by
the
tree-lined
banks
of
a
stream
.
And
as
the
wagon
jolts
along
,
and
I
sway
on
the
seat
with
my
father
,
I
continually
return
and
dwell
upon
that
pleasant
water
flowing
between
the
trees
.
I
have
a
sense
that
for
an
interminable
period
I
have
lived
in
a
wagon
and
travelled
on
,
ever
on
,
with
this
present
company
.
But
strongest
of
all
upon
me
is
what
is
strong
upon
all
the
company
,
namely
,
a
sense
of
drifting
to
doom
.
Our
way
was
like
a
funeral
march
.
Never
did
a
laugh
arise
.
Never
did
I
hear
a
happy
tone
of
voice
.
Neither
peace
nor
ease
marched
with
us
.
The
faces
of
the
men
and
youths
who
outrode
the
train
were
grim
,
set
,
hopeless
.
And
as
we
toiled
through
the
lurid
dust
of
sunset
often
I
scanned
my
father
's
face
in
vain
quest
of
some
message
of
cheer
.
I
will
not
say
that
my
father
's
face
,
in
all
its
dusty
haggardness
,
was
hopeless
.
It
was
dogged
,
and
oh
!
so
grim
and
anxious
,
most
anxious
.
A
thrill
seemed
to
run
along
the
train
.
My
father
's
head
went
up
.
So
did
mine
.
And
our
horses
raised
their
weary
heads
,
scented
the
air
with
long-drawn
snorts
,
and
for
the
nonce
pulled
willingly
.
The
horses
of
the
outriders
quickened
their
pace
.
And
as
for
the
herd
of
scarecrow
oxen
,
it
broke
into
a
forthright
gallop
.
It
was
almost
ludicrous
.
The
poor
brutes
were
so
clumsy
in
their
weakness
and
haste
.
They
were
galloping
skeletons
draped
in
mangy
hide
,
and
they
out-distanced
the
boys
who
herded
them
.
But
this
was
only
for
a
time
.
Then
they
fell
back
to
a
walk
,
a
quick
,
eager
,
shambling
,
sore-footed
walk
;
and
they
no
longer
were
lured
aside
by
the
dry
bunch-grass
.
"
What
is
it
?
"
my
mother
asked
from
within
the
wagon
.
"
Water
,
"
was
my
father
's
reply
.
"
It
must
be
Nephi
.
"
And
my
mother
:
"
Thank
God
!
And
perhaps
they
will
sell
us
food
.
"
And
into
Nephi
,
through
blood-red
dust
,
with
grind
and
grate
and
jolt
and
jar
,
our
great
wagons
rolled
.
A
dozen
scattered
dwellings
or
shanties
composed
the
place
.
The
landscape
was
much
the
same
as
that
through
which
we
had
passed
.
There
were
no
trees
,
only
scrub
growths
and
sandy
bareness
.
But
here
were
signs
of
tilled
fields
,
with
here
and
there
a
fence
.
Also
there
was
water
.
Down
the
stream
ran
no
current
.
The
bed
,
however
,
was
damp
,
with
now
and
again
a
water-hole
into
which
the
loose
oxen
and
the
saddle-horses
stamped
and
plunged
their
muzzles
to
the
eyes
.
Here
,
too
,
grew
an
occasional
small
willow
.
"
That
must
be
Bill
Black
's
mill
they
told
us
about
,
"
my
father
said
,
pointing
out
a
building
to
my
mother
,
whose
anxiousness
had
drawn
her
to
peer
out
over
our
shoulders
.
An
old
man
,
with
buckskin
shirt
and
long
,
matted
,
sunburnt
hair
,
rode
back
to
our
wagon
and
talked
with
father
.
The
signal
was
given
,
and
the
head
wagons
of
the
train
began
to
deploy
in
a
circle
.
The
ground
favoured
the
evolution
,
and
,
from
long
practice
,
it
was
accomplished
without
a
hitch
,
so
that
when
the
forty
wagons
were
finally
halted
they
formed
a
circle
.
All
was
bustle
and
orderly
confusion
.
Many
women
,
all
tired-faced
and
dusty
like
my
mother
,
emerged
from
the
wagons
.
Also
poured
forth
a
very
horde
of
children
.
