"Robert F. Young - The Dandelion Girl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Anne, after Jeff returned to college, in their cabin by the lake. This year, though, he was spending the
second two alone. Well, perhaps not quite alone.

His pipe had gone out some time ago, and he had not even noticed. He lighted it again, drawing deeply to
thwart the wind, then he descended the hill and started back through the woods toward the cabin. The
autumnal equinox had come and the days were appreciably shorter. This one was very nearly done, and
the dampness of evening had already begun to pervade the hazy air.

He walked slowly, and the sun had set by the time he reached the lake. It was a small lake, but a deep
one, and the trees came down to its edge. The cabin stood some distance back from the shore in a stand
of pines, and a winding path connected it with the pier. Behind it a gravel drive led to a dirt road that
gave access to the highway. His station wagon stood by the back door, ready to whisk him back to
civilization at a moment's notice.

He prepared and ate a simple supper in the kitchen, then went into the living room to read. The generator
in the shed hummed on and off, but otherwise the evening was unsullied by the usual sounds the ears of
modern man are heir to. Selecting an anthology of American poetry from the well-stocked bookcase by
the fireplace, he sat down and thumbed through it to Afternoon on a Hill. He read the treasured poem
three times, and each time he read it he saw her standing there in the sun, her hair dancing in the wind, her
dress swirling like gentle snow around her long and lovely legs; and a lump came into his throat, and he
could not swallow.

He returned the book to the shelf and went out and stood on the rustic porch and filled and lighted his
pipe. He forced himself to think of Anne, and presently her face came into focus—the firm but gentle
chin, the warm and compassionate eyes with that odd hint of fear in them that he had never been able to
analyze, the still-soft cheeks, the gentle smile—and each attribute was made more compelling by the
memory of her vibrant light brown hair and her tall, lithe gracefulness. As was always the case when he
thought of her, he found himself marveling at her agelessness, marveling how she could have continued
down through the years as lovely as she had been that long-ago morning when he had looked up,
startled, and seen her standing timidly before his desk. It was inconceivable that a mere twenty years later
he could be looking forward eagerly to a tryst with an overimaginative girl who was young enough to be
his daughter. Well, he wasn't—not really. He had been momentarily swayed—that was all. For a moment
his emotional equilibrium had deserted him, and he had staggered. Now his feet were back under him
where they belonged, and the world had returned to its sane and sensible orbit.

He tapped out his pipe and went back inside. In his bedroom he undressed and slipped between the
sheets and turned out the light. Sleep should have come readily, but it did not; and when it finally did
come, it came in fragments interspersed with tantalizing dreams.

"Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit," she had said, "and yesterday a deer, and today, you."




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On the second afternoon she was wearing a blue dress, and there was a little blue ribbon to match tied in
her dandelion-colored hair. After breasting the hill, he stood for some time, not moving, waiting till the
tightness of his throat went away; then he walked over and stood beside her in the wind. But the soft