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- Джон Стейнбек
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"
Don
’
t
you
want
your
stick
?
"
"
No
,
Ellen
.
Not
tonight
.
Go
to
bed
,
darling
.
Go
to
bed
.
"
I
ran
away
fast
.
I
guess
I
ran
away
from
her
and
from
Mary
.
I
could
hear
Mary
coming
down
the
stairs
with
measured
steps
.
The
tide
was
on
the
rise
.
I
waded
into
the
warm
bay
water
and
clambered
into
the
Place
.
A
slow
ground
swell
moved
in
and
out
of
the
entrance
,
flowed
through
my
trousers
.
The
fat
billfold
in
my
hip
pocket
swelled
against
my
hip
and
then
grew
thinner
under
my
weight
as
it
water
-
soaked
.
The
summer
sea
was
crowded
with
little
jellyfish
the
size
of
gooseberries
,
dangling
their
tendrils
and
their
nettle
cells
.
As
they
washed
in
against
my
legs
and
belly
I
felt
them
sting
like
small
bitter
fires
,
and
the
slow
wave
breathed
in
and
out
of
the
Place
.
The
rain
was
only
a
thin
mist
now
and
it
accumulated
all
the
stars
and
town
lamps
and
spread
them
evenly
—
a
dark
,
pewter
-
colored
sheen
.
I
could
see
the
third
rock
,
but
from
the
Place
it
did
not
line
up
with
the
point
over
the
sunken
keel
of
the
Belle
-
Adair
.
A
stronger
wave
lifted
my
legs
and
made
them
feel
free
and
separate
from
me
,
and
an
eager
wind
sprang
from
nowhere
and
drove
the
mist
like
sheep
.
Then
I
could
see
a
star
—
late
rising
,
too
late
rising
over
the
edge
.
Some
kind
of
craft
came
chugging
in
,
a
craft
with
sail
,
by
the
slow
,
solemn
sound
of
her
engine
.
I
saw
her
mast
light
over
the
toothy
tumble
of
the
breakwater
but
her
red
and
green
were
below
my
range
of
sight
.
My
skin
blazed
under
the
lances
of
the
jellyfish
.
I
heard
an
anchor
plunge
,
and
the
mast
light
went
out
.
Marullo
’
s
light
still
burned
,
and
old
Cap
’
n
’
s
light
and
Aunt
Deborah
’
s
light
.
It
isn
’
t
true
that
there
’
s
a
community
of
light
,
a
bonfire
of
the
world
.
Everyone
carries
his
own
,
his
lonely
own
A
rustling
school
of
tiny
feeding
fish
flicked
along
the
shore
.
My
light
is
out
.
There
’
s
nothing
blacker
than
a
wick
.
Inward
I
said
,
I
want
to
go
home
—
no
not
home
,
to
the
other
side
of
home
where
the
lights
are
given
.
