Вино из одуванчиков/Dandelion wine (Рэй Брэдбери). Страница 14 из 264

Понятно

Понятно

Для того чтобы воспользоваться закладками, необходимо

Войти или зарегистрироваться

Отмена

Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо

Войти или зарегистрироваться

Отмена

Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа

Купить PRO-доступ

Отмена

Предыдущая страница

Even

Grandma

,

when

snow

was

whirling

fast

,

dizzying

the

world

,

blinding

windows

,

stealing

breath

from

gasping

mouths

,

even

Grandma

,

one

day

in

February

,

would

vanish

to

the

cellar

.

Above

,

in

the

vast

house

,

there

would

be

coughings

,

sneezings

,

wheezings

,

and

groans

,

childish

fevers

,

throats

raw

as

butcher

’

s

meat

,

noses

like

bottled

cherries

,

the

stealthy

microbe

everywhere

.

Then

,

rising

from

the

cellar

like

a

June

goddess

,

Grandma

would

come

,

something

hidden

but

obvious

under

her

knitted

shawl

.

This

,

carried

to

every

miserable

room

upstairs

-

and

-

down

would

be

dispensed

with

aroma

and

clarity

into

neat

glasses

,

to

be

swigged

neatly

.

The

medicines

of

another

time

,

the

balm

of

sun

and

idle

August

afternoons

,

the

faintly

heard

sounds

of

ice

wagons

passing

on

brick

avenues

,

the

rush

of

silver

skyrockets

and

the

fountaining

of

lawn

mowers

moving

through

ant

countries

,

all

these

,

all

these

in

a

glass

.

Отключить рекламу

Yes

,

even

Grandma

,

drawn

to

the

cellar

of

winter

for

a

June

adventure

,

might

stand

alone

and

quietly

,

in

secret

conclave

with

her

own

soul

and

spirit

,

as

did

Grandfather

and

Father

and

Uncle

Pert

,

or

some

of

the

boarders

,

communing

with

a

last

touch

of

a

calendar

long

departed

,

with

the

picnics

and

the

warm

rains

and

the

smell

of

fields

of

wheat

and

new

popcorn

and

bending

hay

.

Even

Grandma

,

repeating

and

repeating

the

fine

and

golden

words

,

even

as

they

were

said

now

in

this

moment

when

the

flowers

were

dropped

into

the

press

,

as

they

would

be

repeated

every

winter

for

all

the

white

winters

in

time

.

Saying

them

over

and

over

on

the

lips

,

like

a

smile

,

like

a

sudden

patch

of

sunlight

in

the

dark

.

Dandelion

wine

.

Dandelion

wine

.

Dandelion

wine

.

You

did

not

hear

them

coming

.

You

hardly

heard

them

go

.

The

grass

bent

down

,

sprang

up

again

.

They

passed

like

cloud

shadows

downhill

.

.

.

the

boys

of

summer

,

running

.

Отключить рекламу

Douglas

,

left

behind

,

was

lost

.

Panting

,

he

stopped

by

the

rim

of

the

ravine

,

at

the

edge

of

the

softly

blowing

abyss

.

Here

,

ears

pricked

like

a

deer

,

he

snuffed

a

danger

that

was

old

a

billion

years

ago

.

Here

the

town

,

divided

,

fell

away

in

halves

.

Here

civilization

ceased

.

Here

was

only

growing

earth

and

a

million

deaths

and

rebirths

every

hour

.

And

here

the

paths

,

made

or

yet

unmade

,

that

told

of

the

need

of

boys

traveling

,

always

traveling

,

to

be

men

.

Douglas

turned

.

This

path

led

in

a

great

dusty

snake

to

the

ice

house

where

winter

lived

on

the

yellow

days

.

This

path

raced

for

the

blast

-

furnace

sands

of

the

lake

shore

in

July

.

This

to

trees

where

boys

might

grow

like

sour

and

still

-

green

crab

apples

,

hid

among

leaves

.

This

to

peach

orchard

,

grape

arbor

,

watermelons

lying

like

tortoise

-

shell

cats

slumbered

by

sun

.

That

path

,

abandoned

,

but

wildly

swiveling

,

to

school

!

This

,

straight

as

an

arrow

,

to

Saturday

cowboy

matinees

.

And

this

,

by

the

creek

waters

,

to

wilderness

beyond

town

.

.

.

Предыдущая страница

Предыдущая

Следующая

Следующая страница

Следующая страница