Вино из одуванчиков

           Theonethingshehadmostenjoyedtouchingandlisteningtoandlookingatshehadn’tsaved.Johnwasfaroutinthemeadowcountry,datedandboxedandhiddenundergrasses,andnothingremainedofhimbuthishighsilkhatandhiscaneandhisgoodsuitinthecloset.Somuchoftherestofhimhadbeendevouredbymoths.

           Butwhatshecouldkeepshehadkept.Herpink-flowereddressescrushedamongmothballsinvastblacktrunks,andcut-glassdishesfromherchildhood—shehadbroughtthemallwhenshemovedtothistownfiveyearsago.Herhusbandhadownedrentalpropertyinanumberoftowns,and,likeayellowivorychesspiece,shehadmovedandsoldoneafteranother,untilnowshewashereinastrangetown,leftwithonlythetrunksandfurniture,darkandugly,crouchedaboutherlikethecreaturesofaprimordialzoo.

           Thethingaboutthechildrenhappenedinthemiddleofsummer.Mrs.Bentley,comingouttowatertheivyuponherfrontporch,sawtwocool-coloredsprawlinggirlsandasmallboylyingonherlawn,enjoyingtheimmensepricklingofthegrass.

           AttheverymomentMrs.Bentleywassmilingdownuponthemwithheryellowmaskface,aroundacornerlikeanelfinbandcameanice-creamwagon.Itjingledouticymelodies,ascrispandrimmedascrystalwineglassestappedbyanexpert,summoningall.Thechildrensatup,turningtheirheads,likesunflowersafterthesun.

           Mrs.Bentleycalled,"Wouldyoulikesome?Here!"Theice-creamwagonstoppedandsheexchangedmoneyforpiecesoftheoriginalIceAge.