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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- 451 по фаренгейту
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- Стр. 139/158
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He
felt
his
heel
bump
land
,
touch
pebbles
and
rocks
,
scrape
sand
.
The
river
had
moved
him
toward
shore
.
He
looked
in
at
the
great
black
creature
without
eyes
or
light
,
without
shape
,
with
only
a
size
that
went
a
thousand
miles
without
wanting
to
stop
,
with
its
grass
hills
and
forests
that
were
waiting
for
him
.
He
hesitated
to
leave
the
comforting
flow
of
the
water
.
He
expected
the
Hound
there
.
Suddenly
the
trees
might
blow
under
a
great
wind
of
helicopters
.
But
there
was
only
the
normal
autumn
wind
high
up
,
going
by
like
another
river
.
Why
was
n't
the
Hound
running
?
Why
had
the
search
veered
inland
?
Montag
listened
.
Nothing
.
Nothing
.
Millie
,
he
thought
.
All
this
country
here
.
Listen
to
it
!
Nothing
and
nothing
.
So
much
silence
,
Millie
,
I
wonder
how
you
'd
take
it
?
Would
you
shout
Shut
up
,
shut
up
!
Millie
,
Millie
.
And
he
was
sad
.
Millie
was
not
here
and
the
Hound
was
not
here
,
but
the
dry
smell
of
hay
blowing
from
some
distant
field
put
Montag
on
the
land
.
He
remembered
a
farm
he
had
visited
when
he
was
very
young
,
one
of
the
rare
times
he
had
discovered
that
somewhere
behind
the
seven
veils
of
unreality
,
beyond
the
walls
of
parlours
and
beyond
the
tin
moat
of
the
city
,
cows
chewed
grass
and
pigs
sat
in
warm
ponds
at
noon
and
dogs
barked
after
white
sheep
on
a
hill
.
Now
,
the
dry
smell
of
hay
,
the
motion
of
the
waters
,
made
him
think
of
sleeping
in
fresh
hay
in
a
lonely
barn
away
from
the
loud
highways
,
behind
a
quiet
farmhouse
,
and
under
an
ancient
windmill
that
whirred
like
the
sound
of
the
passing
years
overhead
.
He
lay
in
the
high
barn
loft
all
night
,
listening
to
distant
animals
and
insects
and
trees
,
the
little
motions
and
stirrings
.
During
the
night
,
he
thought
,
below
the
loft
,
he
would
hear
a
sound
like
feet
moving
,
perhaps
.
He
would
tense
and
sit
up
.
The
sound
would
move
away
.
He
would
lie
back
and
look
out
of
the
loft
window
,
very
late
in
the
night
,
and
see
the
lights
go
out
in
the
farmhouse
itself
,
until
a
very
young
and
beautiful
woman
would
sit
in
an
unlit
window
,
braiding
her
hair
.
It
would
be
hard
to
see
her
,
but
her
face
would
be
like
the
face
of
the
girl
so
long
ago
in
his
past
now
,
so
very
long
ago
,
the
girl
who
had
known
the
weather
and
never
been
burned
by
the
fire-flies
,
the
girl
who
had
known
what
dandelions
meant
rubbed
off
on
your
chin
.
Then
,
she
would
be
gone
from
the
warm
window
and
appear
again
upstairs
in
her
moon-whitened
room
.
And
then
,
to
the
sound
of
death
,
the
sound
of
the
jets
cutting
the
sky
into
two
black
pieces
beyond
the
horizon
,
he
would
lie
in
the
loft
,
hidden
and
safe
,
watching
those
strange
new
stars
over
the
rim
of
the
earth
,
fleeing
from
the
soft
colour
of
dawn
.
In
the
morning
he
would
not
have
needed
sleep
,
for
all
the
warm
odours
and
sights
of
a
complete
country
night
would
have
rested
and
slept
him
while
his
eyes
were
wide
and
his
mouth
,
when
he
thought
to
test
it
,
was
half
a
smile
.
And
there
at
the
bottom
of
the
hayloft
stair
,
waiting
for
him
,
would
be
the
incredible
thing
.
He
would
step
carefully
down
,
in
the
pink
light
of
early
morning
,
so
fully
aware
of
the
world
that
he
would
be
afraid
,
and
stand
over
the
small
miracle
and
at
last
bend
to
touch
it
.
