"Эрнест Хемингуэй. Big two-hearted river" - читать интересную книгу автора

sputtered in the pan.
When it was cooked Nick regreased the skillet. He used all the batter.
It made another big flapjack and one smaller one.
Nick ate a big flapjack and a smaller one, covered with apple butter.
He put apple butter on the third cake, folded it over twice, wrapped it in
oiled paper and put it in his shirt pocket. He put the apple butter jar back
in the pack and cut bread for two sandwiches.
In the pack he found a big onion. He sliced it in two and peeled the
silky outer skin. Then he cut one half into slices and made onion
sandwiches. He wrapped them in oiled paper and buttoned them in the other
pocket of his khaki shirt. He turned the skillet upside down on the grill,
drank the coffee, sweetened and yellow brown with the condensed milk in it,
and tidied up the camp. It was a good camp.
Nick took his fly rod out of the leather rod-case, jointed it, and
shoved the rod-case back into the tent. He put on the reel and threaded the
line through the guides. He had to hold it from hand to hand, as he threaded
it, or it would slip back through its own weight. It was a heavy, double
tapered fly line. Nick had paid eight dollars for it a long time ago. It was
made heavy to lift back in the air and come forward flat and heavy and
straight to make it possible to cast a fly which has no weight. Nick opened
the aluminum leader box. The leaders were coiled between the damp flannel
pads. Nick had wet the pads at the water cooler on the train up to St.
Ignace. In the damp pads the gut leaders had softened and Nick unrolled one
and tied it by a loop at the end to the heavy fly line. He fastened a hook
on the end of the leader. It was a small hook; very thin and springy.
Nick took it from his hook book, sitting with the rod across his lap.
He tested the knot and the spring of the rod by pulling the line taut. It
was a good feeling. He was careful not to let the hook bite into his finger.
He started down to the stream, holding his rod, the bottle of
grasshoppers hung from his neck by a thong tied in half hitches around the
neck of the bottle. His landing net hung by a hook from his belt. Over his
shoulder was a long flour sack tied at each comer into an ear. The cord went
over his shoulder. The sack flapped against his legs.
Nick felt awkward and professionally happy with all his equipment
hanging from him. The grasshopper bottle swung against his chest. In his
shin the breast pockets bulged against him with the lunch and his fly book.
He stepped into the stream. It was a shock. His trousers clung tight to
his legs. His shoes felt the gravel. The water was a rising cold shock.
Rushing, the current sucked against his legs. Where he stepped in, the
water was over his knees. He waded with the current. The gravel slid under
his shoes. He looked down at the swirl of water below each leg and tipped up
the bottle to get a grasshopper.
The first grasshopper gave a jump in the neck of the bottle and went
out into the water. He was sucked under in the whirl by Nick's right leg and
came to the surface a little way down stream. He floated rapidly, kicking.
In a quick circle, breaking the smooth surface of the water, he disappeared.
A trout had taken him.
Another hopper poked his face out of the bottle. His antennae wavered.
He was getting his front legs out of the bottle to jump. Nick took him by
the head and held him while he threaded the slim hook under his chin, down