Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Itwasoneofthefewspotsthereaboutsthathadsurvivedthedryseasonofthelastyear.Nearlyalltheotherspringshaddriedcompletely,whileMissionCreekonDerrick’sranchwasnothingbetterthanadustycuttingintheground,filledwithbrittle,concaveflakesofdriedandsun-crackedmud.

           Presleyclimbedtothesummitofoneofthehills—thehighest—thatroseoutofthecanyon,fromthecrestofwhichhecouldseeforthirty,fifty,sixtymilesdownthevalley,and,fillinghispipe,smokedlazilyforupwardsofanhour,hisheademptyofthought,allowinghimselftosuccumbtoapleasant,gentleinanition,alittledrowsycomfortableinhisplace,proneupontheground,warmedjustenoughbysuchsunlightasfilteredthroughthelive-oaks,soothedbythegoodtobaccoandtheprolongedmurmurofthespringandcreek.Bydegrees,thesenseofhisownpersonalitybecameblunted,thelittlewheelsandcogsofthoughtmovedslowerandslower;consciousnessdwindledtoapoint,theanimalinhimstretcheditself,purring.Adelightfulnumbnessinvadedhismindandhisbody.Hewasnotasleep,hewasnotawake,stupefiedmerely,lapsingbacktothestateofthefaun,thesatyr.

           Afterawhile,rousinghimselfalittle,heshiftedhispositionand,drawingfromthepocketofhisshootingcoathislittletree-calfeditionoftheOdyssey,readfarintothetwenty-firstbook,where,afterthefailureofallthesuitorstobendUlysses’sbow,itisfinallyput,withmockery,intohisownhands.Abruptlythedramaofthestoryrousedhimfromallhislanguor.