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- Нил Гейман
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- Стр. 111/641
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Within
a
year
,
she
was
delivered
of
another
child
,
another
boy
,
but
as
blond
as
his
father
and
his
half
sister
,
and
they
named
him
John
,
after
his
father
.
The
three
children
went
to
the
local
church
to
hear
the
traveling
preacher
on
Sundays
,
and
they
went
to
the
little
school
to
learn
their
letters
and
their
numbers
with
the
children
of
the
other
small
fanners
;
while
Essie
also
made
sure
they
knew
the
mysteries
of
the
piskies
,
which
were
the
most
important
mysteries
there
were
:
redheaded
men
,
with
eyes
and
clothes
as
green
as
a
river
and
turned
-
up
noses
,
funny
,
squinting
men
who
would
,
if
they
got
a
mind
to
,
turn
you
and
twist
you
and
lead
you
out
of
your
way
,
unless
you
had
salt
in
your
pocket
,
or
a
little
bread
.
When
the
children
went
off
to
school
,
they
each
of
them
carried
a
little
salt
in
one
pocket
,
a
little
bread
in
the
other
,
the
old
symbols
of
life
and
the
earth
,
to
make
sure
they
came
safely
home
once
more
,
and
they
always
did
.
The
children
grew
in
the
lush
Virginia
hills
,
grew
tall
and
strong
(
although
Anthony
,
her
first
son
,
was
always
weaker
,
paler
,
more
prone
to
disease
and
bad
airs
)
and
the
Richardsons
were
happy
;
and
Essie
loved
her
husband
as
best
she
could
.
They
had
been
married
a
decade
when
John
Richardson
developed
a
toothache
so
bad
it
made
him
fall
from
his
horse
.
They
took
him
to
the
nearest
town
,
where
his
tooth
was
pulled
;
but
it
was
too
late
,
and
the
blood
poisoning
carried
him
off
,
black
-
faced
and
groaning
,
and
they
buried
him
beneath
his
favorite
willow
tree
.
The
widow
Richardson
was
left
the
farm
to
manage
until
Richardson
’
s
two
children
were
of
age
:
she
managed
the
indentured
servants
and
the
slaves
,
and
brought
in
the
tobacco
crop
,
year
in
,
year
out
;
she
poured
cider
on
the
roots
of
the
apple
trees
on
New
Year
’
s
Eve
,
and
placed
a
loaf
of
new
-
baked
bread
in
the
fields
at
harvest
time
,
and
she
always
left
a
saucer
of
milk
at
the
back
door
.
The
farm
flourished
,
and
the
widow
Richardson
gained
a
reputation
as
a
hard
bargainer
,
but
one
whose
crop
was
always
good
,
and
who
never
sold
shoddy
for
better
merchandise
.
So
all
went
well
for
another
ten
years
;
but
after
that
was
a
bad
year
,
for
Anthony
,
her
son
,
slew
Johnnie
,
his
half
brother
,
in
a
furious
quarrel
over
the
future
of
the
farm
and
the
disposition
of
Phyllida
’
s
hand
;
and
some
said
he
had
not
meant
to
kill
his
brother
,
and
that
it
was
a
foolish
blow
that
struck
too
deep
,
and
some
said
otherwise
.
Anthony
fled
,
leaving
Essie
to
bury
her
youngest
son
beside
his
father
.
Now
,
some
said
Anthony
fled
to
Boston
,
and
some
said
he
went
south
,
and
his
mother
was
of
the
opinion
that
he
had
taken
ship
to
England
,
to
enlist
in
George
’
s
army
and
fight
the
rebel
Scots
.
But
with
both
sons
gone
the
farm
was
an
empty
place
,
and
a
sad
one
,
and
Phyllida
pined
and
plained
as
if
her
heart
had
been
broken
,
while
nothing
that
her
stepmother
could
say
or
do
would
put
a
smile
back
on
her
lips
again
.
But
heartbroken
or
not
,
they
needed
a
man
about
the
farm
,
and
so
Phyllida
married
Harry
Soames
,
a
ship
’
s
carpenter
by
profession
,
who
had
tired
of
the
sea
and
who
dreamed
of
a
life
on
land
on
a
farm
like
the
Lincolnshire
farm
upon
which
he
had
grown
up
.
And
although
the
Richardsons
’
farm
was
little
enough
like
that
,
Harry
Soames
found
correspondences
enough
to
make
him
happy
.
Five
children
were
born
to
Phyllida
and
Harry
,
three
of
whom
lived
.
The
widow
Richardson
missed
her
sons
,
and
she
missed
her
husband
,
although
he
was
now
little
more
than
a
memory
of
a
fair
man
who
treated
her
kindly
.
Phyllida
’
s
children
would
come
to
Essie
for
tales
,
and
she
would
tell
them
of
the
Black
Dog
of
the
Moors
,
and
of
Raw
-
Head
and
Bloody
-
Bones
,
or
the
Apple
Tree
Man
,
but
they
were
not
interested
;
they
only
wanted
tales
of
Jack
-
Jack
up
the
Beanstalk
,
or
Jack
Giant
-
killer
,
or
Jack
and
his
Cat
and
the
King
.
She
loved
those
children
as
if
they
were
her
own
flesh
and
blood
,
although
sometimes
she
would
call
them
by
the
names
of
those
long
dead
.
It
was
May
,
and
she
took
her
chair
out
into
the
kitchen
garden
to
pick
peas
and
to
shuck
them
in
the
sunlight
,
for
even
in
the
lush
heat
of
Virginia
the
cold
had
entered
her
bones
as
the
frost
had
entered
her
hair
,
and
a
little
warmth
was
a
fine
thing
.
As
the
widow
Richardson
shucked
the
peas
with
her
old
hands
,
she
got
to
thinking
about
how
fine
it
would
be
to
walk
once
more
on
the
moors
and
the
salty
cliffs
of
her
native
Cornwall
,
and
she
thought
of
sitting
on
the
shingle
as
a
little
girl
,
waiting
for
her
father
’
s
ship
to
return
from
the
gray
seas
.
Her
hands
,
blue
-
knuckled
and
clumsy
,
opened
the
pea
pods
,
forced
the
full
peas
into
an
earthenware
bowl
,
and
dropped
the
empty
pea
pods
onto
her
aproned
lap
.
And
then
she
found
herself
remembering
,
as
she
had
not
remembered
for
a
long
time
,
a
life
well
lost
:
how
she
had
twitched
purses
and
filched
silks
with
her
clever
fingers
;
and
now
she
remembers
the
warden
of
Newgate
telling
her
that
it
will
be
a
good
twelve
weeks
before
her
case
would
be
heard
,
and
that
she
could
escape
the
gallows
if
she
could
plead
her
belly
,
and
what
a
pretty
thing
she
was
-
and
how
she
had
turned
to
the
wall
and
bravely
lifted
her
skirts
,
hating
herself
and
hating
him
,
but
knowing
he
was
right
;
and
the
feel
of
the
life
quickening
inside
her
that
meant
that
she
could
cheat
death
for
a
little
longer
.
.
.
"
Essie
Tregowan
?
"
said
the
stranger
.
