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- Маргарет Митчелл
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- Стр. 319/927
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"
Put
that
over
her
face
.
It
'll
keep
the
sun
out
of
her
eyes
.
"
Then
as
the
heat
beat
down
upon
her
unprotected
head
,
she
thought
:
"
I
'll
be
as
freckled
as
a
guinea
egg
before
this
day
is
over
.
"
She
had
never
in
her
life
been
out
in
the
sunshine
without
a
hat
or
veils
,
never
handled
reins
without
gloves
to
protect
the
white
skin
of
her
dimpled
hands
.
Yet
here
she
was
exposed
to
the
sun
in
a
broken-down
wagon
with
a
broken-down
horse
,
dirty
,
sweaty
,
hungry
,
helpless
to
do
anything
but
plod
along
at
a
snail
's
pace
through
a
deserted
land
.
What
a
few
short
weeks
it
had
been
since
she
was
safe
and
secure
!
What
a
little
while
since
she
and
everyone
else
had
thought
that
Atlanta
could
never
fall
,
that
Georgia
could
never
be
invaded
.
But
the
small
cloud
which
appeared
in
the
northwest
four
months
ago
had
blown
up
into
a
mighty
storm
and
then
into
a
screaming
tornado
,
sweeping
away
her
world
,
whirling
her
out
of
her
sheltered
life
,
and
dropping
her
down
in
the
midst
of
this
still
,
haunted
desolation
.
Was
Tara
still
standing
?
Or
was
Tara
also
gone
with
the
wind
which
had
swept
through
Georgia
?
She
laid
the
whip
on
the
tired
horse
's
back
and
tried
to
urge
him
on
while
the
waggling
wheels
rocked
them
drunkenly
from
side
to
side
.
There
was
death
in
the
air
.
In
the
rays
of
the
late
afternoon
sun
,
every
well-remembered
field
and
forest
grove
was
green
and
still
,
with
an
unearthly
quiet
that
struck
terror
to
Scarlett
's
heart
.
Every
empty
,
shell-pitted
house
they
had
passed
that
day
,
every
gaunt
chimney
standing
sentinel
over
smoke-blackened
ruins
,
had
frightened
her
more
.
They
had
not
seen
a
living
human
being
or
animal
since
the
night
before
.
Dead
men
and
dead
horses
,
yes
,
and
dead
mules
,
lying
by
the
road
,
swollen
,
covered
with
flies
,
but
nothing
alive
.
No
far-off
cattle
lowed
,
no
birds
sang
,
no
wind
waved
the
trees
.
Only
the
tired
plop-plop
of
the
horse
's
feet
and
the
weak
wailing
of
Melanie
's
baby
broke
the
stillness
.
The
countryside
lay
as
under
some
dread
enchantment
.
Or
worse
still
,
thought
Scarlett
with
a
chill
,
like
the
familiar
and
dear
face
of
a
mother
,
beautiful
and
quiet
at
last
,
after
death
agonies
.
She
felt
that
the
once-familiar
woods
were
full
of
ghosts
.
Thousands
had
died
in
the
fighting
near
Jonesboro
.
They
were
here
in
these
haunted
woods
where
the
slanting
afternoon
sun
gleamed
eerily
through
unmoving
leaves
,
friends
and
foes
,
peering
at
her
in
her
rickety
wagon
,
through
eyes
blinded
with
blood
and
red
dust
--
glazed
,
horrible
eyes
.
"
Mother
!
Mother
!
"
she
whispered
.
If
she
could
only
win
to
Ellen
!
If
only
,
by
a
miracle
of
God
,
Tara
were
still
standing
and
she
could
drive
up
the
long
avenue
of
trees
and
go
into
the
house
and
see
her
mother
's
kind
,
tender
face
,
could
feel
once
more
the
soft
capable
hands
that
drove
out
fear
,
could
clutch
Ellen
's
skirts
and
bury
her
face
in
them
.
Mother
would
know
what
to
do
.
She
would
n't
let
Melanie
and
her
baby
die
.
She
would
drive
away
all
ghosts
and
fears
with
her
quiet
"
Hush
,
hush
.
"
But
Mother
was
ill
,
perhaps
dying
.
Scarlett
laid
the
whip
across
the
weary
rump
of
the
horse
.
They
must
go
faster
!
They
had
crept
along
this
never-ending
road
all
the
long
hot
day
.
Soon
it
would
be
night
and
they
would
be
alone
in
this
desolation
that
was
death
.
She
gripped
the
reins
tighter
with
hands
that
were
blistered
and
slapped
them
fiercely
on
the
horse
's
back
,
her
aching
arms
burning
at
the
movement
.
If
she
could
only
reach
the
kind
arms
of
Tara
and
Ellen
and
lay
down
her
burdens
,
far
too
heavy
for
her
young
shoulders
--
the
dying
woman
,
the
fading
baby
,
her
own
hungry
little
boy
,
the
frightened
negro
,
all
looking
to
her
for
strength
,
for
guidance
,
all
reading
in
her
straight
back
courage
she
did
not
possess
and
strength
which
had
long
since
failed
.
