Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
Yourfondson,Stephen
Howfarawaytheywere!Therewascoldsunlightoutsidethewindow.Hewonderedifhewoulddie.Youcoulddiejustthesameonasunnyday.Hemightdiebeforehismothercame.ThenhewouldhaveadeadmassinthechapellikethewaythefellowshadtoldhimitwaswhenLittlehaddied.Allthefellowswouldbeatthemass,dressedinblack,allwithsadfaces.Wellstoowouldbetherebutnofellowwouldlookathim.Therectorwouldbethereinacopeofblackandgoldandtherewouldbetallyellowcandlesonthealtarandroundthecatafalque.Andtheywouldcarrythecoffinoutofthechapelslowlyandhewouldbeburiedinthelittlegraveyardofthecommunityoffthemainavenueoflimes.AndWellswouldbesorrythenforwhathehaddone.Andthebellwouldtollslowly.
Hecouldhearthetolling.HesaidovertohimselfthesongthatBrigidhadtaughthim.
Dingdong!Thecastlebell!
Farewell,mymother!
Burymeintheoldchurchyard
Besidemyeldestbrother.
Mycoffinshallbeblack,
Sixangelsatmyback,
Twotosingandtwotopray
Andtwotocarrymysoulaway.
Howbeautifulandsadthatwas!HowbeautifulthewordswerewheretheysaidBURYMEINTHEOLDCHURCHYARD!Atremorpassedoverhisbody.
