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- Маргарет Митчелл
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- Стр. 4/927
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"
Will
your
mother
ride
the
new
horse
to
the
Wilkes
barbecue
tomorrow
?
"
"
She
wants
to
,
but
Pa
says
he
's
too
dangerous
.
And
,
anyway
,
the
girls
wo
n't
let
her
.
They
said
they
were
going
to
have
her
go
to
one
party
at
least
like
a
lady
,
riding
in
the
carriage
.
"
"
I
hope
it
does
n't
rain
tomorrow
,
"
said
Scarlett
.
"
It
's
rained
nearly
every
day
for
a
week
.
There
's
nothing
worse
than
a
barbecue
turned
into
an
indoor
picnic
.
"
"
Oh
,
it
'll
be
clear
tomorrow
and
hot
as
June
,
"
said
Stuart
.
"
Look
at
that
sunset
.
I
never
saw
one
redder
.
You
can
always
tell
weather
by
sunsets
.
"
They
looked
out
across
the
endless
acres
of
Gerald
O'Hara
's
newly
plowed
cotton
fields
toward
the
red
horizon
.
Now
that
the
sun
was
setting
in
a
welter
of
crimson
behind
the
hills
across
the
Flint
River
,
the
warmth
of
the
April
day
was
ebbing
into
a
faint
but
balmy
chill
.
Spring
had
come
early
that
year
,
with
warm
quick
rains
and
sudden
frothing
of
pink
peach
blossoms
and
dogwood
dappling
with
white
stars
the
dark
river
swamp
and
far-off
hills
.
Already
the
plowing
was
nearly
finished
,
and
the
bloody
glory
of
the
sunset
colored
the
fresh-cut
furrows
of
red
Georgia
clay
to
even
redder
hues
.
The
moist
hungry
earth
,
waiting
upturned
for
the
cotton
seeds
,
showed
pinkish
on
the
sandy
tops
of
furrows
,
vermilion
and
scarlet
and
maroon
where
shadows
lay
along
the
sides
of
the
trenches
.
The
whitewashed
brick
plantation
house
seemed
an
island
set
in
a
wild
red
sea
,
a
sea
of
spiraling
,
curving
,
crescent
billows
petrified
suddenly
at
the
moment
when
the
pink-tipped
waves
were
breaking
into
surf
.
For
here
were
no
long
,
straight
furrows
,
such
as
could
be
seen
in
the
yellow
clay
fields
of
the
flat
middle
Georgia
country
or
in
the
lush
black
earth
of
the
coastal
plantations
.
The
rolling
foothill
country
of
north
Georgia
was
plowed
in
a
million
curves
to
keep
the
rich
earth
from
washing
down
into
the
river
bottoms
.
It
was
a
savagely
red
land
,
blood-colored
after
rains
,
brick
dust
in
droughts
,
the
best
cotton
land
in
the
world
.
It
was
a
pleasant
land
of
white
houses
,
peaceful
plowed
fields
and
sluggish
yellow
rivers
,
but
a
land
of
contrasts
,
of
brightest
sun
glare
and
densest
shade
.
The
plantation
clearings
and
miles
of
cotton
fields
smiled
up
to
a
warm
sun
,
placid
,
complacent
.
At
their
edges
rose
the
virgin
forests
,
dark
and
cool
even
in
the
hottest
noons
,
mysterious
,
a
little
sinister
,
the
soughing
pines
seeming
to
wait
with
an
age-old
patience
,
to
threaten
with
soft
sighs
:
"
Be
careful
!
Be
careful
!
We
had
you
once
.
We
can
take
you
back
again
.
"
To
the
ears
of
the
three
on
the
porch
came
the
sounds
of
hooves
,
the
jingling
of
harness
chains
and
the
shrill
careless
laughter
of
negro
voices
,
as
the
field
hands
and
mules
came
in
from
the
fields
.
From
within
the
house
floated
the
soft
voice
of
Scarlett
's
mother
,
Ellen
O'Hara
,
as
she
called
to
the
little
black
girl
who
carried
her
basket
of
keys
.
The
high-pitched
,
childish
voice
answered
"
Yas
'm
,
"
and
there
were
sounds
of
footsteps
going
out
the
back
way
toward
the
smokehouse
where
Ellen
would
ration
out
the
food
to
the
home-coming
hands
.
There
was
the
click
of
china
and
the
rattle
of
silver
as
Pork
,
the
valet-butler
of
Tara
,
laid
the
table
for
supper
.
