Вино из одуванчиков

           Butthenifyouborrowedtheearofadogandtunedithighandstretchedittautyoucouldhear,milesandmilesacrossthetownasinginglikearabbiinthelostlands,aMosleminatower.Always,Mr.Jonas’svoicewentclearbeforehimsopeoplehadahalfanhour,anhour,toprepareforhisarrival.Andbythetimehiswagonappeared,thecurbswerelinedbychildren,asforaparade.

           Soherecamethewagonandonitshighboardseatunderapersimmon-coloredumbrella,thereinslikeastreamofwaterinhisgentlehands,wasMr.Jonas,singing.

           "Junk!Junk!No,sir,notJunk!Junk!Junk!No,ma’am,notJunk!Bricabracs,brickbats!Knittingneedles,knick-knacks!Kickshaws!Curies!Camisoles!Cameos!But...Junk!Junk!No,sir,not...Junk!"

           AsanyonecouldtellwhohadheardthesongsMr.Jonasmadeupashepassed,hewasnoordinaryjunkman.Toallappearances,yes,thewayhedressedintattersofmoss-corduroyandthefeltcaponhishead,coveredwitholdpresidentialcampaignbuttonsgoingbackbeforeManilaBay.Buthewasunusualinthisway:notonlydidhetreadthesunlight,butoftenyoucouldseehimandhishorseswimmingalongthemoonlitstreets,circlingandrecirclingbynighttheislands,theblockswhereallthepeoplelivedhehadknownallofhislife.Andinthatwagonhecarriedthingshehadpickeduphereandthereandcarriedforadayoraweekorayearuntilsomeonewantedandneededthem.