Вітер у вербах
Wayfarers All
Casually,then,andwithseemingindifference,theMoleturnedhistalktotheharvestthatwasbeinggatheredin,thetoweringwagonsandtheirstrainingteams,thegrowingricks,andthelargemoonrisingoverbareacresdottedwithsheaves.Hetalkedofthereddeningapplesaround,ofthebrowningnuts,ofjamsandpreservesandthedistillingofcordials;tillbyeasystagessuchasthesehereachedmidwinter,itsheartyjoysanditssnughomelife,andthenhebecamesimplylyrical.
BydegreestheRatbegantositupandtojoinin.Hisdulleyebrightened,andhelostsomeofhislisteningair.
PresentlythetactfulMoleslippedawayandreturnedwithapencilandafewhalf-sheetsofpaper,whichheplacedonthetableathisfriend’selbow.
"It’squitealongtimesinceyoudidanypoetry,"heremarked."Youmighthaveatryatitthisevening,insteadof—well,broodingoverthingssomuch.I’veanideathatyou’llfeelalotbetterwhenyou’vegotsomethingjotteddown—ifit’sonlyjusttherhymes."
TheRatpushedthepaperawayfromhimwearily,butthediscreetMoletookoccasiontoleavetheroom,andwhenhepeepedinagainsometimelater,theRatwasabsorbedanddeaftotheworld;alternatelyscribblingandsuckingthetopofhispencil.Itistruethathesuckedagooddealmorethanhescribbled;butitwasjoytotheMoletoknowthatthecurehadatleastbegun.
