Поющие в терновнике

           Itwashotinfrontofthestove,buthedidn’tseemtonotice;beadsofsweatgatheredonhisforehead,glistening.Heputhisarmsbehindhisheadandfellintoadoze.

           ItwasfromPadraicClearythathischildrengottheirvariousshadesofthick,wavingredhair,thoughnonehadinheritedquitesuchanaggressivelyredheadashis.Hewasasmallman,allsteelandspringsinbuild,legsbowedfromalifetimeamonghorses,armselongatedfromyearsshearingsheep;hischestandarmswerecoveredinamattedgoldenfuzzwhichwouldhavebeenuglyhadhebeendark.Hiseyeswerebrightblue,crinkledupintoapermanentsquintlikeasailor’sfromgazingintothefardistance,andhisfacewasapleasantone,withawhimsicalsmilingqualityaboutitthatmadeothermenlikehimataglance.Hisnosewasmagnificent,atrueRomannosewhichmusthavepuzzledhisIrishconfreres,butIrelandhaseverbeenashipwreckcoast.HestillspokewiththesoftquicksluroftheGalwayIrish,pronouncinghisfinalt’sasth’s,butalmosttwentyyearsintheAntipodeshadforcedaquaintoverlayuponit,sothathisa’scameoutasi’sandthespeedofhisspeechhadrundownalittle,likeanoldclockinneedofagoodwinding.Ahappyman,hehadmanagedtoweatherhishardanddrudgingexistencebetterthanmost,andthoughhewasarigiddisciplinarianwithaheavyswingtohisboot,allbutoneofhischildrenadoredhim.