Вино из одуванчиков

           Theyslidwhisperingonmeadowswashedwithwildsunflowerspastabandonedwaystationsemptyofallsavetransfer-punchedconfetti,tofollowaforeststreamintoasummercountry,whileDouglastalked.

           "Why,justthesmellofatrolley,that’sdifferent.IbeenonChicagobuses;theysmellfunny."

           "Trolleysaretooslow,"saidMr.Tridden."Goingtoputbusseson.Fussesforpeopleandbussesforschool."

           Thetrolleywhinedtoastop.FromoverheadMr.Triddenreacheddownhugepicnichampers.Yelling,thechildrenhelpedhimcarrythebasketsoutbyacreekthatemptiedintoasilentlakewhereanancientbandstandstoodcrumblingintotermitedust.

           TheysateatinghamsandwichesandfreshstrawberriesandwaxyorangesandMr.Triddentoldthemhowithadbeentwentyyearsago,thebandplayingonthatornatestandatnight,themenpumpingairintotheirbrasshorns,theplumpconductorflingingperspirationfromhisbaton,thechildrenandfirefliesrunninginthedeepgrass,theladieswithlongdressesandhighpompadourstreadingthewoodenxylophonewalkswithmeninchokingcollars.Therewasthewalknow,allsoftenedintoafibermushbytheyears.Thelakewassilentandblueandserene,andfishpeacefullythreadedthebrightreeds,andthemotormanmurmuredonandon,andthechildrenfeltitwassomeotheryear,withMr.Triddenlookingwonderfullyyoung,hiseyeslightedlikesmallbulbs,blueandelectric.Itwasadrifting,easyday,nobodyrushingandtheforestallabout,thesunheldinoneposition,asMr.