"Valentin Katayev. A White Sail Gleams (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

At about ten o'clock in the morning they stopped in a large
half-Moldavian, half-Ukrainian village to water the horses.
Father took Pavlik by the hand and went off to buy some cantaloupes.
Petya remained near the horses. He wanted to see them being watered.
The horses which had pulled the big lumbering coach were led by the
driver to the well; it was the kind known as a "crane-well".
The driver stuck his whip into his boot-top and took hold of the long
pole that hung vertically and had a heavy oak bucket attached by a chain to
the end. Moving one hand over the other up the pole, he lowered the bucket
into the well. The sweep creaked. Its top end swung down, as if trying to
peep into the well, while the other end, which had a large porous rock tied
to it as a counterweight, glided upwards.
Petya flattened himself against the edge of the well and looked down
into it as if it were a telescope.
The shaft was round, and its stone lining was covered with dark-brown
velvety mould. It was very deep. In the cold darkness at the bottom there
gleamed a tiny circle of water in which Petya saw his hat reflected with
photographic distinctness.
He shouted. The well filled with a resounding roar, the way a clay
pitcher does.
Down and down and down the bucket went. It became altogether tiny, but
still it did not reach the water. Finally a faint splash sounded. The bucket
sank into the water, gurgled, and then began to rise.
Heavy drops slapped down into the water, making noises like caps
exploding.
The pole, polished by countless hands to the smoothness of glass, took
a long time to rise. At last the wet chain appeared. The sweep creaked for
the last time. The driver seized the heavy bucket with his strong hands and
emptied it into the stone trough.
But first he drank out of the bucket himself. Then Petya drank. That
was the most thrilling moment in the whole procedure of watering the horses.
The water was as transparent as could be, and as cold as ice. Petya
dipped his nose and chin into it. The inside of the bucket was coated with a
beard of green slime. The bucket and the slime had an almost weird
fascination. There was something very, very old about them, something
reminding him of the forest, of the Russian fairy-tale about the wooden
mill, the Miller who was a sorcerer, the deep mill-pond, and the Frog
Princess.
Petya's forehead immediately began to ache from the ice water. But it
was a hot day, and he knew that the ache would soon pass.
He also knew for certain that about eight or ten buckets were needed to
water the horses. That would take at least half an hour. Plenty of time for
a stroll.
He carefully picked his way through the mud near the trough-mud as
black as boot-polish and indented with hog tracks. Then he followed a gutter
across a meadow strewn with goose down.
The gutter brought him to a bog overgrown with a tall forest of reeds,
sedge and weeds.
Here cool twilight reigned even when the sun was its highest and
brightest. A rush of heady odours struck Petya's nostrils.