Поющие в терновнике

           Inamongthewistaria,greennow,ramblingrosesdrowsedpinkandwhite,fellofftheverandaroof,downthewiremesh,clunglovinglytotheblackshuttersofthesecondstory,stretchedtendrilspastthemtothesky.Thetankstandswerequitesmotheredfromsightnow,sowerethetanksthemselves.Andonecolorwaseverywhereamongtheroses,apalepinkish-grey.Ashesofroses?Yes,thatwasthenameofthecolor.Meggiemusthaveplantedthem,ithadtobeMeggie.

           HeheardMeggie’slaugh,andstoodmotionless,quiteterrified,thenmadehisfeetgointhedirectionofthesound,gonedowntodeliciousgigglingtrills.Justthewaysheusedtolaughwhenshewasalittlegirl.Thereitwas!Overthere,behindagreatclumpofpinkishgreyrosesnearapeppertree.Hepushedtheclustersofblossomsasidewithhishand,hismindreelingfromtheirperfume,andthatlaugh.

           ButMeggiewasn’tthere,onlyaboysquattinginthelushlawn,teasingalittlepinkpigwhichraninidioticrushesuptohim,gallopedoff,sidledback.Unconsciousofhisaudience,theboythrewhisgleamingheadbackandlaughed.Meggie’slaugh,fromthatunfamiliarthroat.Withoutmeaningto,CardinalRalphlettherosesfallintoplaceandsteppedthroughthem,heedlessofthethorns.Theboy,abouttwelveorfourteenyearsofage,justprepubescent,lookedup,startled;thepigsquealed,curledupitstailtightlyandranoff.