Властелин колец: Братство кольца
Fog on the Barrow-Downs
Therewasnotreenoranyvisiblewater:itwasacountryofgrassandshortspringyturf,silentexceptforthewhisperoftheairovertheedgesoftheland,andhighlonelycriesofstrangebirds.Astheyjourneyedthesunmounted,andgrewhot.Eachtimetheyclimbedaridgethebreezeseemedtohavegrownless.WhentheycaughtaglimpseofthecountrywestwardthedistantForestseemedtobesmoking,asifthefallenrainwassteamingupagainfromleafandrootandmould.Ashadownowlayroundtheedgeofsight,adarkhazeabovewhichtheupperskywaslikeabluecap,hotandheavy.
Aboutmid-daytheycametoahillwhosetopwaswideandflattened,likeashallowsaucerwithagreenmoundedrim.Insidetherewasnoairstirring,andtheskyseemedneartheirheads.Theyrodeacrossandlookednorthwards.Thentheirheartsrose;foritseemedplainthattheyhadcomefurtheralreadythantheyhadexpected.Certainlythedistanceshadnowallbecomehazyanddeceptive,buttherecouldbenodoubtthattheDownswerecomingtoanend.Alongvalleylaybelowthemwindingawaynorthwards,untilitcametoanopeningbetweentwosteepshoulders.Beyond,thereseemedtobenomorehills.Duenorththeyfaintlyglimpsedalongdarkline.‘Thatisalineoftrees,’saidMerry,‘andthatmustmarktheRoad.AllalongitformanyleagueseastoftheBridgetherearetreesgrowing.Somesaytheywereplantedintheolddays.’
‘Splendid!’saidFrodo.
