Вітер у вербах
The Open Road
Theoldgreyhorse,dreaming,asheploddedalong,ofhisquietpaddock,inanewrawsituationsuchasthis,simplyabandonedhimselftohisnaturalemotions.Rearing,plunging,backingsteadily,inspiteofalltheMole’seffortsathishead,andalltheMole’slivelylanguagedirectedathisbetterfeelings,hedrovethecartbackwardtowardsthedeepditchatthesideoftheroad.Itwaveredaninstant—thentherewasaheart-rendingcrash—andthecanary-colouredcart,theirprideandtheirjoy,layonitssideintheditch,anirredeemablewreck.
TheRatdancedupanddownintheroad,simplytransportedwithpassion."Youvillains!"heshouted,shakingbothfists."Youscoundrels,youhighwaymen,you—you—road-hogs!—I’llhavethelawofyou!I’llreportyou!I’lltakeyouthroughalltheCourts!"Hishome-sicknesshadquiteslippedawayfromhim,andforthemomenthewastheskipperofthecanary-colouredvesseldrivenonashoalbytherecklessjockeyingofrivalmariners,andhewastryingtorecollectallthefineandbitingthingsheusedtosaytomastersofsteam-launcheswhentheirwash,astheydrovetoonearthebank,usedtofloodhisparlour-carpetathome.
Toadsatstraightdowninthemiddleofthedustyroad,hislegsstretchedoutbeforehim,andstaredfixedlyinthedirectionofthedisappearingmotor-car.
