Вино из одуванчиков

           Thesoundthatwasnosound,thebillionfootfallsofthecaterpillarsstompingthroughtheirownuniverse,died.Tom,whosaidhecouldhearthatsound,preciousasitwas,lookedwithwonderatatownwherenotasinglebird’smouthfulstirred.Too,thecicadashadceased.

           Then,inthesilence,agreatsighingrustlebeganandtheyknewthenwhytheabsenceofcaterpillarandabruptsilenceofcicada.

           Summerrain.

           Therainbeganlight,atouch.Therainincreasedandfellheavily.Itplayedthesidewalksandroofslikegreatpianos.

           Andupstairs,Douglas,insideagain,likeafallofsnowinhisbed,turnedhisheadandopenedhiseyestoseethefreshlyfallingskyandslowlyslowlytwitchhisfingerstowardhisyellownickelpadandyellowTiconderogapencil...

           Therewasagreatflurryofarrival.Somewheretrumpetswereshouting.Somewhereroomswereteemingwithboardersandneighborshavingafternoontea.AnaunthadarrivedandhernamewasRoseandyoucouldhearhervoiceclarionclearabovetheothers,andyoucouldimagineherwarmandhugeasahothouserose,exactlylikehername,fillinganyroomshesatin.Butrightnow,toDouglas,thevoice,thecommotion,werenothingatall.Hehadcomefromhisownhouse,andnowstoodoutsideGrandma’skitchendoorjustasGrandma,havingexcusedherselffromthechickensquabbleintheparlor,whiskedintoherowndomainandsetaboutmakingsupper.