-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Рэй Брэдбери
-
- Вино из одуванчиков
-
- Стр. 15/264
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Douglas
squinted
.
Who
could
say
where
town
or
wideness
began
?
Who
could
say
which
owned
what
and
what
owned
which
?
There
was
always
and
forever
that
indefinable
place
where
the
two
struggled
and
one
of
them
won
for
a
season
to
possess
a
certain
avenue
,
a
deli
,
a
glen
,
a
tree
,
a
bush
.
The
thin
lapping
of
the
great
continental
sea
of
grass
and
flower
,
starting
far
out
in
lonely
farm
country
,
moved
inward
with
the
thrust
of
seasons
.
Each
night
the
wilderness
,
the
meadows
,
the
far
country
flowed
down
-
creek
through
ravine
and
welled
up
in
town
with
a
smell
of
grass
and
water
,
and
the
town
was
disinhabited
and
dead
and
gone
back
to
earth
.
And
each
morning
a
little
more
of
the
ravine
edged
up
into
town
,
threatening
to
swamp
garages
like
leaking
rowboats
,
devour
ancient
cars
which
had
been
left
to
the
flaking
mercies
of
rain
and
therefore
rust
.
"
Hey
!
Hey
!
"
John
Huff
and
Charlie
Woodman
ran
through
the
mystery
of
ravine
and
town
and
time
.
"
Hey
!
"
Douglas
moved
slowly
down
the
path
.
The
ravine
was
indeed
the
place
where
you
came
to
look
at
the
two
things
of
life
,
the
ways
of
man
and
the
ways
of
the
natural
world
.
The
town
was
,
after
all
,
only
a
large
ship
filled
with
constantly
moving
survivors
,
bailing
out
the
grass
,
chipping
away
the
rust
.
Now
and
again
a
lifeboat
,
a
shanty
,
kin
to
the
mother
ship
,
lost
out
to
the
quiet
storm
of
seasons
,
sank
down
in
silent
waves
of
termite
and
ant
into
swallowing
ravine
to
feel
the
flicker
of
grasshoppers
rattling
like
dry
paper
in
hot
weeds
,
become
soundproofed
with
spider
dust
and
finally
,
in
avalanche
of
shingle
and
tar
,
collapse
like
kindling
shrines
into
a
bonfire
,
which
thunderstorms
ignited
with
blue
lightning
,
while
flash
-
photographing
the
triumph
of
the
wilderness
.
It
was
this
then
,
the
mystery
of
man
seizing
from
the
land
and
the
land
seizing
back
,
year
after
year
,
that
drew
Douglas
,
knowing
the
towns
never
really
won
,
they
merely
existed
in
calm
peril
,
fully
accoutered
with
lawn
mower
,
bug
spray
and
hedge
shears
,
swimming
steadily
as
long
as
civilization
said
to
swim
,
but
each
house
ready
to
sink
in
green
tides
,
buried
forever
,
when
the
last
man
ceased
and
his
trowels
and
mowers
shattered
to
cereal
flakes
of
rust
.
The
town
.
The
wideness
.
The
houses
.
The
ravine
.
Douglas
blinked
back
and
forth
.
But
how
to
relate
the
two
,
make
sense
of
the
interchange
when
.
.
.
His
eyes
moved
down
to
the
ground
.
The
first
rite
of
summer
,
the
dandelion
picking
,
the
starting
of
the
wine
,
was
over
.
Now
the
second
rite
waited
for
him
to
make
the
motions
,
but
he
stood
very
still
.
"
Doug
.
.
.
come
on
.
.
.
Doug
.
.
.
!
"
The
running
boys
faded
.
"
I
’
m
alive
,
"
said
Douglas
.
"
But
what
’
s
the
use
?
They
’
re
more
alive
than
me
.
How
come
?
How
come
?
"
And
standing
alone
,
he
knew
the
answer
,
staring
down
at
his
motionless
feet
.
.
.
