"Lewis Padgett - Mimsy Were The Borogoves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Padgett Lewis)

son."
"Scotty would probably be better at it than Betty Dawson," Paradine grunted.
"'He died an enfeebled old dotard at five,'" Jane quoted dreamily. "I want your
olive."
"Here. By the way, I like the shoes."
"Thank you. Here's Rosalie. Dinner?"
"It's all ready, Mix Pa'dine," said Rosalie, hovering. "I'll call Miss Emma 'n' Mista'
Scotty."
"I'll get 'em." Paradine put his head into the next room and roared. "Kids! Come
and get it!"
Small feet scuttered down the stairs. Scott dashed into view, scrubbed and
shining, a rebellious cowlick aimed at the zenith. Emma pursued, levering herself
carefully down the steps. Halfway she gave up the attempt to descend upright and
reversed, finishing the task monkey-fashion, her small behind giving an impression of
marvelous diligence upon the work in hand. Paradine watched, fascinated by the
spectacle, till he was hurled back by the impact of his son's body.
"Hi, dad!" Scott shrieked.
Paradine recovered himself and regarded Scott with dignity. "Hi, yourself. Help
me in to dinner. You've dislocated at least one of my hip joints."
But Scott was already tearing into the next room, where he stepped on Jane's new
shoes in an ecstasy of affection, burbled an apology, and rushed off to find his place
at the dinner table. Paradine cocked up an eyebrow as he followed, Emma's pudgy
hand desperately gripping his forefinger.
"Wonder what the young devil's been up to?"
"No good, probably," Jane sighed. "Hello, darling. Let's see your ears."
"They're clean. Mickey licked 'em."
"Well, that Airedale's tongue is far cleaner than your ears," Jane pondered, making
a brief examination. "Still, as long as you can hear, the dirt's only superficial."
"Fisshul?"
"Just a little, that means." Jane dragged her daughter to the table and inserted her
legs into a high chair. Only lately had Emma graduated to the dignity of dining with
the rest of the family, and she was, as Paradine remarked, all eaten up with pride by
the prospect. Only babies spilled food, Emma had been told. As a result, she took
such painstaking care in conveying her spoon to her mouth that Paradine got the
jitters whenever he watched.
"A conveyer belt would be the thing for Emma," he suggested, pulling out a chair
for Jane. "Small buckets of spinach arriving at her face at stated intervals."
Dinner proceeded uneventfully until Paradine happened to glance at Scott's plate.
"Hello, there. Sick? Been stuffing yourself at lunch?"
Scott thoughtfully examined the food still left before him. "I've had all I need,
dad," he explained.
"You usually eat all you can hold, and a great deal more," Paradine said. "I know
growing boys need several tons of foodstuff a day, but you're below par tonight.
Feel O.K.?"
"Uh-huh. Honest, I've had all I need."
"All you want?"
"Sure. I eat different."
"Something they taught you at school?" Jane inquired.
Scott shook his head solemnly.
"Nobody taught me. I found it out myself. I used spit."