Вітер у вербах
Dulce Domum
Whatarippinglittlehousethisis!Everythingsohandy!"
Heclamberedintohisbunkandrolledhimselfwellupintheblankets,andslumbergatheredhimforthwith,asaswatheofbarleyisfoldedintothearmsofthereapingmachine.
ThewearyMolealsowasgladtoturninwithoutdelay,andsoonhadhisheadonhispillow,ingreatjoyandcontentment.Butereheclosedhiseyesheletthemwanderroundhisoldroom,mellowintheglowofthefirelightthatplayedorrestedonfamiliarandfriendlythingswhichhadlongbeenunconsciouslyapartofhim,andnowsmilinglyreceivedhimback,withoutrancour.HewasnowinjusttheframeofmindthatthetactfulRathadquietlyworkedtobringaboutinhim.Hesawclearlyhowplainandsimple—hownarrow,even—itallwas;butclearly,too,howmuchitallmeanttohim,andthespecialvalueofsomesuchanchorageinone’sexistence.Hedidnotatallwanttoabandonthenewlifeanditssplendidspaces,toturnhisbackonsunandairandalltheyofferedhimandcreephomeandstaythere;theupperworldwasalltoostrong,itcalledtohimstill,evendownthere,andheknewhemustreturntothelargerstage.Butitwasgoodtothinkhehadthistocomebackto,thisplacewhichwasallhisown,thesethingswhichweresogladtoseehimagainandcouldalwaysbecounteduponforthesamesimplewelcome.
