Девять рассказов
For Esmé with Love and Squalor
Hadanyone,sheasked,everheardofalittledickeybirdthatdaredtosinghischarmingsongwithoutfirstopeninghislittlebeakwide,wide,wide?Apparentlynobodyeverhad.Shewasgivenasteady,opaquelook.Shewentontosaythatshewantedallherchildrentoabsorbthemeaningofthewordstheysang,notjustmouththem,likesilly-billyparrots.Shethenblewanoteonherpitch-pipe,andthechildren,likesomanyunderageweightlifters,raisedtheirhymnbooks.
Theysangwithoutinstrumentalaccompaniment—or,moreaccuratelyintheircase,withoutanyinterference.Theirvoicesweremelodiousandunsentimental,almosttothepointwhereasomewhatmoredenominationalmanthanmyselfmight,withoutstraining,haveexperiencedlevitation.Acoupleoftheveryyoungestchildrendraggedthetempoatrifle,butinawaythatonlythecomposer’smothercouldhavefoundfaultwith.Ihadneverheardthehymn,butIkepthopingitwasonewithadozenormoreverses.Listening,Iscannedallthechildren’sfacesbutwatchedoneinparticular,thatofthechildnearestme,ontheendseatinthefirstrow.Shewasaboutthirteen,withstraightash-blondhairofear-lobelength,anexquisiteforehead,andblaseeyesthat,Ithought,mightverypossiblyhavecountedthehouse.Hervoicewasdistinctlyseparatefromtheotherchildren’svoices,andnotjustbecauseshewasseatednearestme.Ithadthebestupperregister,thesweetest-sounding,thesurest,anditautomaticallyledtheway.
