-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Рэй Брэдбери
-
- Вино из одуванчиков
-
- Стр. 25/264
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
Yes
,
summer
was
rituals
,
each
with
its
natural
time
and
place
.
The
ritual
of
lemonade
or
ice
-
tea
making
,
the
ritual
of
wine
,
shoes
,
or
no
shoes
,
and
at
last
,
swiftly
following
the
others
,
with
quiet
dignity
,
the
ritual
of
the
front
-
porch
swing
.
On
the
third
day
of
summer
in
the
late
afternoon
Grandfather
reappeared
from
the
front
door
to
gaze
serenely
at
the
two
empty
eye
rings
in
the
ceiling
of
the
porch
.
Moving
to
the
geranium
-
pot
-
lined
rail
like
Ahab
surveying
the
mild
mild
day
and
mild
-
looking
sky
,
he
wet
his
finger
to
test
the
wind
,
and
shucked
his
coat
to
see
how
shirt
sleeves
felt
in
the
westering
hours
.
He
acknowledged
the
salutes
of
other
captains
on
yet
other
flowered
porches
,
out
themselves
to
discern
the
gentle
ground
swell
of
weather
,
oblivious
to
their
wives
chirping
or
snapping
like
fuzzball
hand
dogs
hidden
behind
black
porch
screens
.
"
All
right
,
Douglas
,
let
’
s
set
it
up
.
"
In
the
garage
they
found
,
dusted
,
and
carried
forth
the
howdah
,
as
it
were
,
for
the
quiet
summer
-
night
festivals
,
the
swing
chair
which
Grandpa
chained
to
the
porch
-
ceiling
eyelets
.
Douglas
,
being
lighter
,
was
first
to
sit
in
the
swing
.
Then
,
after
a
moment
,
Grandfather
gingerly
settled
his
pontifical
weight
beside
the
boy
.
Thus
they
sat
,
smiling
at
each
other
,
nodding
,
as
they
swung
silently
back
and
forth
,
back
and
forth
.
Ten
minutes
later
Grandma
appeared
with
water
buckets
and
brooms
to
wash
down
and
sweep
off
the
porch
.
Other
chairs
,
rockers
and
straight
-
backs
,
were
summoned
from
the
house
.
"
Always
like
to
start
sitting
early
in
the
season
,
"
said
Grandpa
,
"
before
the
mosquitoes
thicken
.
"
About
seven
o
’
clock
you
could
hear
the
chairs
scraping
back
from
the
tables
,
someone
experimenting
with
a
yellow
-
toothed
piano
,
if
you
stood
outside
the
dining
-
room
window
and
listened
.
Matches
being
struck
,
the
first
dishes
bubbling
in
the
suds
and
tinkling
on
the
wall
racks
,
somewhere
,
faintly
,
a
phonograph
playing
.
And
then
as
the
evening
changed
the
hour
,
at
house
after
house
on
the
twilight
streets
,
under
the
immense
oaks
and
elms
,
on
shady
porches
,
people
would
begin
to
appear
,
like
those
figures
who
tell
good
or
bad
weather
in
rain
-
or
-
shine
clocks
.
Uncle
Bert
,
perhaps
Grandfather
,
then
Father
,
and
some
of
the
cousins
;
the
men
all
coming
out
first
into
the
syrupy
evening
,
blowing
smoke
,
leaving
the
women
’
s
voices
behind
in
the
cooling
-
warm
kitchen
to
set
their
universe
aright
.
Then
the
first
male
voices
under
the
porch
brim
,
the
feet
up
,
the
boys
fringed
on
the
worn
steps
or
wooden
rails
where
sometime
during
the
evening
something
,
a
boy
or
a
geranium
pot
,
would
fall
off
.
At
last
,
like
ghosts
hovering
momentarily
behind
the
door
screen
,
Grandma
,
Great
-
grandma
,
and
Mother
would
appear
,
and
the
men
would
shift
,
move
,
and
offer
seats
.
The
women
carried
varieties
of
fans
with
them
,
folded
newspapers
,
bamboo
whisks
,
or
perfumed
kerchiefs
,
to
start
the
air
moving
about
their
faces
as
they
talked
.
