Дні мрій
Dies Irae
Andnow—”“Alas,mydearfriends,”Iwouldstrikeinhere,wavingtowardsthemanascetichand—oneoftheemaciatedsort,thatletsthelightshinethroughatthefinger-tips—“Alas,youcometoolate!Thisconductisfittingandmeritoriousonyourpart,andindeedIalwaysexpecteditofyou,soonerorlater;butthedieiscast,andyoumaygohomeagainandbewailatyourleisurethistootardyrepentanceofyours.Forme,Iamvowedanddedicated,andmyrelationshenceforthareausterityandholyworks.Onceamonth,shouldyouwishit,itshallbeyourprivilegetocomeandgazeatmethroughthisverysolidgrating;but—”WHACK!
Awell-aimedclodofgardensoil,whizzingjustpastmyear,starredonatree-trunkbehind,spatteringmewithdirt.Thepresentcamebacktomeinaflash,andInimblytookcoverbehindthetrees,realisingthattheenemywasupandabroad,withambuscades,alarms,andthrillingsallies.Itwasthegardener’sboy,Iknewwellenough;aredproletariat,whohatedmejustbecauseIwasagentleman.Hastilypickingupanicestickyclodinonehand,withtheotherIdelicatelyprojectedmyhatbeyondtheshelterofthetree-trunk.IhadnotfoughtwithRed-skinsalltheseyearsfornothing.
AsIhadexpected,anotherclod,ofthefirstclassforsizeandstickiness,tookmypoorhatfullinthecentre.Then,Ajax-like,shoutingterribly,Iissuedfromshelteranddischargedmyammunition.
