"Шервуд Андерсен. Марширующие люди (engl) " - читать интересную книгу автора

I see it I'm filled with the notion. I think I want to be a farmer and
work in the fields. Instead of that mother and I sit and plan of the
city. I'm going to be a lawyer. That's all we talk about. Then I come
up here and it seems as though this is the place for me."

The tall woman laughed. "I can see you coming home at night from the
fields," she said. "It might be to that white house there with the
windmill, You would be a big man and would have dust in your red hair
and perhaps a red beard growing on your chin. And a woman with a baby
in her arms would come out of the kitchen door to stand leaning on the
fence waiting for you. When you came up she would put her arm around
your neck and kiss you on the lips. The beard would tickle her cheek.
You should have a beard when you grow older. Your mouth is so big."

A strange new feeling shot through Beaut. He wondered why she had said
that and wanted to take hold of her hand and kiss her then and there.
He got up and looked at the sun going down behind the hill far away at
the other end of the valley. "We'd better be getting along back," he
said.

The woman remained seated on the log. "Sit down," she said, "I'll tell
you something--something it's good for you to hear. You're so big and
red you tempt a girl to bother you. First though you tell me why you
go along the street looking into the gutter when I stand in the
stairway in the evening."

Beaut sat down again upon the log, and thought of what the black-
haired boy had told him of her. "Then it was true--what he said about
you?" he asked.

"No! No!" she cried, jumping up in her turn and beginning to pin on
her hat. "Let's be going."

Beaut sat stolidly on the log. "What's the use bothering each other,"
he said. "Let's sit here until the sun goes down. We can get home
before dark."

They sat down and she began talking, boasting of herself as he had
boasted of his father.

"I'm too old for that boy," she said; "I'm older than you by a good
many years. I know what boys talk about and what they say about women.
I do pretty well. I don't have any one to talk to except father and he
sits all evening reading a paper and going to sleep in his chair. If I
let boys come and sit with me in the evening or stand talking with me
in the stairway it is because I'm lonesome. There isn't a man in town
I'd marry--not one."

The speech sounded discordant and harsh to Beaut. He wished his father
were there rubbing his hands together and muttering rather than this