Загадочная история Бенджамина Баттона

           Mr.Button’seyesfollowedherpointingfinger,andthisiswhathesaw.Wrappedinavoluminouswhiteblanket,andpartlycrammedintooneofthecribs,theresatanoldmanapparentlyaboutseventyyearsofage.Hissparsehairwasalmostwhite,andfromhischindrippedalongsmoke-colouredbeard,whichwavedabsurdlybackandforth,fannedbythebreezecominginatthewindow.HelookedupatMr.Buttonwithdim,fadedeyesinwhichlurkedapuzzledquestion.

           "AmImad?"thunderedMr.Button,histerrorresolvingintorage."Isthissomeghastlyhospitaljoke?

           "Itdoesn’tseemlikeajoketous,"repliedthenurseseverely."AndIdon’tknowwhetheryou’remadornot—butthatismostcertainlyyourchild."

           ThecoolperspirationredoubledonMr.Button’sforehead.Heclosedhiseyes,andthen,openingthem,lookedagain.Therewasnomistake—hewasgazingatamanofthreescoreandten—ababyofthreescoreandten,ababywhosefeethungoverthesidesofthecribinwhichitwasreposing.

           Theoldmanlookedplacidlyfromonetotheotherforamoment,andthensuddenlyspokeinacrackedandancientvoice."Areyoumyfather?"hedemanded.

           Mr.Buttonandthenursestartedviolently.

           "Becauseifyouare,"wentontheoldmanquerulously,"Iwishyou’dgetmeoutofthisplace—or,atleast,getthemtoputacomfortablerockerinhere,"

           "WhereinGod’snamedidyoucomefrom?Whoareyou?"burstoutMr.Buttonfrantically.