Моя жена учуяла это и, так как она стала моей женой совсем недавно, усмотрела тут недостаток, который нужно исправить. Мне было мило в ней это стремление исправлять недостатки (Джоа..
Я с детства понимать привык Твое молчание немое И твой таинственный язык Как что-то близкое, родное...
Напрасно ему объясняли со всевозможной кротостью, что он обращается в неподлежащее место, что ему надобно направиться туда-то, что следует представ..
Шервуд Андерсон. Сын Винди МакФерсон(engl) The Project Gutenberg EBook of Windy McPherson's Son, by Sherwood Anderson Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the header without written permission. Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.
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Title: Windy McPherson's Son Author: Sherwood Anderson Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7443] [This file was first posted on April 30, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English Character set encoding: US-ASCII *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, WINDY MCPHERSON'S SON ***
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WINDY MCPHERSON'S SON BY SHERWOOD ANDERSON
TO THE LIVING MEN AND WOMEN OF MY OWN MIDDLE WESTERN HOME TOWN THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
WINDY MCPHERSON'S SON
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
At the beginning of the long twilight of a summer evening, Sam McPherson, a tall big-boned boy of thirteen, with brown hair, black eyes, and an amusing little habit of tilting his chin in the air as he walked, came upon the station platform of the little corn-shipping town of Caxton in Iowa. It was a board platform, and the boy walked cautiously, lifting his bare feet and putting them down with extreme deliberateness on the hot, dry, cracked planks. Under one arm he carried a bundle of newspapers. A long black cigar was in his hand. In front of the station he stopped; and Jerry Donlin, the baggage-man, seeing the cigar in his hand, laughed, and slowly drew the side of his face up into a laboured wink. "What is the game to-night, Sam?" he asked. Sam stepped to the baggage-room door, handed him the cigar, and began giving directions, pointing into the baggage-room, intent and business- like in the face of the Irishman's laughter. Then, turning, he walked across the station platform to the main street of the town, his eyes bent on the ends of his fingers on which he was making computations with his thumb. Jerry looked after him, grinning so that his red gums made a splash of colour on his bearded face. A gleam of paternal pride lit his eyes and he shook his head and muttered admiringly.
