Вітер у вербах
The Wild Wood
Hedidnotwantthewarmcloverandtheplayofseedinggrasses;thescreensofquickset,thebillowydraperyofbeechandelmseemedbestaway;andwithgreatcheerfulnessofspirithepushedontowardstheWildWood,whichlaybeforehimlowandthreatening,likeablackreefinsomestillsouthernsea.
Therewasnothingtoalarmhimatfirstentry.Twigscrackledunderhisfeet,logstrippedhim,fungusesonstumpsresembledcaricatures,andstartledhimforthemomentbytheirlikenesstosomethingfamiliarandfaraway;butthatwasallfun,andexciting.Itledhimon,andhepenetratedtowherethelightwasless,andtreescrouchednearerandnearer,andholesmadeuglymouthsathimoneitherside.
Everythingwasverystillnow.Theduskadvancedonhimsteadily,rapidly,gatheringinbehindandbefore;andthelightseemedtobedrainingawaylikeflood-water.
Thenthefacesbegan.
Itwasoverhisshoulder,andindistinctly,thathefirstthoughthesawaface,alittle,evil,wedge-shapedface,lookingoutathimfromahole.Whenheturnedandconfrontedit,thethinghadvanished.
Hequickenedhispace,tellinghimselfcheerfullynottobeginimaginingthingsortherewouldbesimplynoendtoit.Hepassedanotherhole,andanother,andanother;andthen—yes!—no!—yes!certainlyalittle,narrowface,withhardeyes,hadflashedupforaninstantfromahole,andwasgone.Hehesitated—bracedhimselfupforaneffortandstrodeon.
