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- Рэй Брэдбери
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- Марсианские хроники
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- Стр. 268/287
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The
nursery
walls
glowed
.
Animals
took
shape
:
yellow
giraffes
,
blue
lions
,
pink
antelopes
,
lilac
panthers
cavorting
in
crystal
substance
.
The
walls
were
glass
.
They
looked
out
upon
color
and
fantasy
.
Hidden
films
clocked
through
well
-
oiled
sprockets
,
and
the
walls
lived
.
The
nursery
floor
was
woven
to
resemble
a
crisp
,
cereal
meadow
.
Over
this
ran
aluminum
roaches
and
iron
crickets
,
and
in
the
hot
still
air
butterflies
of
delicate
red
tissue
wavered
among
the
sharp
aroma
of
animal
spoors
!
There
was
the
sound
like
a
great
matted
yellow
hive
of
bees
within
a
dark
bellows
,
the
lazy
bumble
of
a
purring
lion
.
And
there
was
the
patter
of
okapi
feet
and
the
murmur
of
a
fresh
jungle
rain
,
like
other
hoofs
,
falling
upon
the
summer
-
starched
grass
.
Now
the
walls
dissolved
into
distances
of
parched
weed
,
mile
on
mile
,
and
warm
endless
sky
.
The
animals
drew
away
into
thorn
brakes
and
water
holes
.
It
was
the
children
’
s
hour
.
Five
o
’
clock
.
The
bath
filled
with
clear
hot
water
.
Six
,
seven
,
eight
o
’
clock
.
The
dinner
dishes
manipulated
like
magic
tricks
,
and
in
the
study
a
click
.
In
the
metal
stand
opposite
the
hearth
where
a
fire
now
blazed
up
warmly
,
a
cigar
popped
out
,
half
an
inch
of
soft
gray
ash
on
it
,
smoking
,
waiting
.
Nine
o
’
clock
.
The
beds
warmed
their
hidden
circuits
,
for
nights
were
cool
here
.
Nine
-
five
.
A
voice
spoke
from
the
study
ceiling
:
"
Mrs
.
McClellan
,
which
poem
would
you
like
this
evening
?
"
The
house
was
silent
.
