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- Фрэнк Норрис
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- Спрут: Калифорнийская история
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- Стр. 215/416
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On
the
hillsides
,
in
thinly
scattered
groups
were
the
cattle
,
grazing
deliberately
,
working
slowly
toward
the
water
-
holes
for
their
evening
drink
,
the
horses
keeping
to
themselves
,
the
colts
nuzzling
at
their
mothers
’
bellies
,
whisking
their
tails
,
stamping
their
unshod
feet
.
But
once
in
a
remoter
field
,
solitary
,
magnificent
,
enormous
,
the
short
hair
curling
tight
upon
his
forehead
,
his
small
red
eyes
twinkling
,
his
vast
neck
heavy
with
muscles
,
Presley
came
upon
the
monarch
,
the
king
,
the
great
Durham
bull
,
maintaining
his
lonely
state
,
unapproachable
,
austere
.
Presley
found
the
one
-
time
shepherd
by
a
water
-
hole
,
in
a
far
distant
corner
of
the
range
.
He
had
made
his
simple
camp
for
the
night
.
His
blue
-
grey
army
blanket
lay
spread
under
a
live
oak
,
his
horse
grazed
near
at
hand
.
He
himself
sat
on
his
heels
before
a
little
fire
of
dead
manzanita
roots
,
cooking
his
coffee
and
bacon
.
Never
had
Presley
conceived
so
keen
an
impression
of
loneliness
as
his
crouching
figure
presented
.
The
bald
,
bare
landscape
widened
about
him
to
infinity
.
Vanamee
was
a
spot
in
it
all
,
a
tiny
dot
,
a
single
atom
of
human
organisation
,
floating
endlessly
on
the
ocean
of
an
illimitable
nature
.
The
two
friends
ate
together
,
and
Vanamee
,
having
snared
a
brace
of
quails
,
dressed
and
then
roasted
them
on
a
sharpened
stick
.
After
eating
,
they
drank
great
refreshing
draughts
from
the
water
-
hole
.
Then
,
at
length
,
Presley
having
lit
his
cigarette
,
and
Vanamee
his
pipe
,
the
former
said
:
“
Vanamee
,
I
have
been
writing
again
.
”
Vanamee
turned
his
lean
ascetic
face
toward
him
,
his
black
eyes
fixed
attentively
.
“
I
know
,
”
he
said
,
“
your
journal
.
”
“
No
,
this
is
a
poem
.
You
remember
,
I
told
you
about
it
once
.
’
The
Toilers
,
’
I
called
it
.
”
“
Oh
,
verse
!
Well
,
I
am
glad
you
have
gone
back
to
it
.
It
is
your
natural
vehicle
.
”
“
You
remember
the
poem
?
”
asked
Presley
.
“
It
was
unfinished
.
”
