"Вуди Гасри. Bound for glory (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

I wasn't much more than two years old when we built our seven-room
house over in the good part of Okemah. This was our new house, and Mama was
awful glad and proud of it. I remember a bright yellow outside--a blurred
haze of a dark inside--some vines looking in through windows.
Sometimes, I seem to remember trying to follow my big sister off to
school. I'd gather up all of the loose books I could find around the house
and start out through the gate and down the sidewalk, going to get myself a
schoolhouse education, but Mama would ran out and catch me and drag me back
into the house kicking and bawling. When Mama would hide the books I'd walk
back to the front porch, afraid to run away, but I'd use the porch for my
stage, and the grass, flowers, and pickets along our fence would be my crowd
of people; and I made up my first song right there:

Listen to the music,
Music, music;
Listen to the music,
Music band.

These days our family seemed to be getting along all right. People rode
down our street in buggies and sarries, all dressed up, and they'd look over
at our house and say, "Charlie and Nora Guthrie's place." "Right new."
Clara was somewhere between nine and ten, but she seemed like an awful
big sister to me. She was always bending and whirling around, dancing away
to school and singing her way back home; and she had long curls that swung
in the wind and brushed in my face when she wrestled me across the floor.
Roy was along in there between seven and eight. Quiet about everything.
Walked so slow and thought so deep that I always wondered what was going on
in his head. I watched him biff the tough kids on the noodle over the fence,
and then he would just come on in home, and think and think about it. I
wondered how he could fight so good and keep so quiet.
I guess I was going on three then.
Peace, pretty weather. Spring turning things green. Summer staining it
all brown. Fall made everything redder, browner, and brittler. And winter
was white and gray and the color of bare trees. Papa went to town and made
real-estate deals with other people, and he brought their money home. Mama
could sign a check for any amount, buy every little thing that her eyes
liked the looks of. Roy and Clara could stop off in any store in Okemah and
buy new clothes to fit the weather, new things to eat to make you healthy,
and Papa was proud because we could all have anything we saw. Our house was
packed full of things Mama liked, Roy liked, Clara liked, and that was what
Papa liked. I remember his leather law books, Blackstone and others. He
smoked a pipe and good tobacco and I wondered if this helped him to stretch
out in his big easy-riding chair and try to think up some kind of a deal or
swap to get some more money.
But those were fighting days in Oklahoma. If even the little newskids
fought along the streets for corroded pennies, it's not hard to see that
Papa had to outwit, outsmart, and outrun a pretty long string of people to
have everything so nice. It kept Mama scared and nervous. She always had
been a serious person with deep-running thoughts in her head; and the old
songs and ballads that she sung over and over every day told me just about