Вітер у вербах

           Itwasaprettysight,andaseasonableone,thatmettheireyeswhentheyflungthedooropen.Inthefore-court,litbythedimraysofahornlantern,someeightortenlittlefield-micestoodinasemicircle,redworstedcomfortersroundtheirthroats,theirfore-pawsthrustdeepintotheirpockets,theirfeetjiggingforwarmth.Withbrightbeadyeyestheyglancedshylyateachother,sniggeringalittle,sniffingandapplyingcoat-sleevesagooddeal.Asthedooropened,oneoftheelderonesthatcarriedthelanternwasjustsaying,"Nowthen,one,two,three!"andforthwiththeirshrilllittlevoicesuproseontheair,singingoneoftheold-timecarolsthattheirforefatherscomposedinfieldsthatwerefallowandheldbyfrost,orwhensnow-boundinchimneycorners,andhandeddowntobesunginthemirystreettolamp-litwindowsatYule-time.