"Books - David Eddings - Polgara the Sorceress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eddings David)

'And do they talk back?' Her look was amused.

'Yes,' I answered in an off-hand manner, 'as a matter of fact, they
do.' If she wanted to be snippy and superior, I could play that game,
too.
'What do they talk about?' Her curiosity subdued her irritation
at my superior reply.
'Oh, seeds and the like. Birds take a lot of interest in food. They
talk about flying, too. They can't really understand why I can't fly.
Then they talk about their nests. A bird doesn't really live in his
nest, you know. It's just a place to lay eggs and raise babies.'
'I'd never thought of that,' my sister admitted.
'Neither had I - until they told me about it. A bird doesn't really
need a home, I guess. They also have opinions.'
'Opinions?'
'One kind of bird doesn't really have much use for other kinds
of birds. Sparrows don't like robins, and seagulls don't like ducks.'
'How curious,' Beldaran commented.
'What are you two babbling about now?' uncle Beldin demanded,
looking up from the scroll he'd been studying.
'Birds,' I told him.
He muttered something I won't repeat here and went back to his
study of that scroll.
'Why don't you take a bath and change clothes, Pol,' Beldaran
suggested a bit acidly. 'You've got bird-droppings all over you.'
I shrugged. 'They'll brush off as soon as they dry.'
She rolled her eyes upward.

I left the tower early the next morning and went to the small
storehouse where the twins kept their supplies. The twins are
Alorns, and they do love their beer. One of the major ingredients in
beer is wheat, and I was fairly sure they wouldn't miss a small bag
or two. I opened the bin where they kept the wheat and scooped a
fair amount into a couple of canvas bags I'd found hanging on a
hook on the back wall of the shed. Then, carrying the fruits of my
pilferage, I started back for the Tree.
'Whither goest thou, sister?' It was my poetic lark again. It occurs
to me that my affinity for the studied formality of Wacite Arendish
speech may very well have been born in my conversations with that
lark.
'I'm going back to the Tree,' I told him.
'What are those?' he demanded, stabbing his beak at the two bags
I carried.
'A gift for my new-found friends,' I said.
'What is a gift?'

'You'll see.'
Birds are sometimes as curious as cats, and my lark badgered me
about what was in my bags all the way back to the Tree.