451 по фаренгейту

           Now,thedrysmellofhay,themotionofthewaters,madehimthinkofsleepinginfreshhay inalonelybarnawayfromtheloudhighways,behindaquietfarmhouse, andunderanancientwindmillthatwhirredlikethesoundofthepassingyearsoverhead. Helayinthehighbarnloftallnight,listeningtodistantanimalsandinsectsandtrees, thelittlemotionsandstirrings. 

           Duringthenight,hethought,belowtheloft,hewouldhearasoundlikefeetmoving,perhaps. Hewouldtenseandsitup. Thesoundwouldmoveaway. Hewouldliebackandlookoutoftheloftwindow, verylateinthenight,andseethelightsgooutinthefarmhouseitself, untilaveryyoungandbeautifulwomanwouldsitinanunlitwindow,braidingherhair. Itwouldbehardtoseeher,butherfacewouldbelikethefaceofthegirlsolongagoinhispastnow, soverylongago,thegirlwhohadknowntheweatherandneverbeenburnedbythefire-flies,thegirlwhohadknownwhatdandelionsmeantrubbedoffonyourchin. Then,shewouldbegonefromthewarmwindowandappearagainupstairsinhermoon-whitenedroom. Andthen,tothesoundofdeath,thesoundofthejetscuttingtheskyintotwoblackpiecesbeyondthehorizon, hewouldlieintheloft,hiddenandsafe,watchingthosestrangenewstarsovertherimoftheearth, fleeingfromthesoftcolourofdawn. 

           Inthemorninghewouldnothaveneededsleep,forallthewarmodoursandsightsofacompletecountrynightwouldhaverested andslepthimwhilehiseyeswerewideandhismouth,whenhethoughttotestit,washalfasmile. 

           Andthereatthebottomofthehayloftstair,waitingforhim,wouldbetheincrediblething. Hewouldstepcarefullydown,inthepinklightofearlymorning,sofullyawareoftheworldthathewouldbeafraid, andstandoverthesmallmiracleandatlastbendtotouchit.