"Wentworth-AsYouSow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

As they grew taller, he staked each twisting, dark-green vine and tied it firmly
with thin strips of linen. Elongated white pods formed near the tops, two to
each vine.

One rainy, gray morning, Sonya stopped by the kitchen garden on her way to feed
the pigs. She gazed at the sinuous vines for a long silent moment. "They should
be hatching soon."

"Yes, soon, "Ungern murmured, keeping his eyes on the weeds.

"But why are they so big?" She balanced the bowl of slops on her jutting hip and
fingered a pod. "Is there more than one bird in each?"

"That-- must be it, "Ungern agreed, while a little voice inside his head nagged
he was just postponing his misery.

Sonya narrowed her eyes and went on to her pigs.

Two days later, Ungern was just tying up the last of his weekly shipment of
fodder to the landlord, when he heard a distinct peeping. Giving the twine a
final twist, he dropped the bale of hay to the ground and bounded up to the
garden.

At the base of the glossy green vines, several small white shapes tottered back
and forth. He ran harder, knowing from the previous years this moment was
critical; unless the newly hatched chicks saw him within the first hour of
hatching, they would fly away as soon as their feathers were mature, instead of
staying near the cottage all summer to delight Sonya with their song.

At the sight of him, the white hatchlings retreated into the vines. He dropped
to his knees, whispering, "Come, babies, come."

The dark-green leaves rustled.

He held out his fingers and waggled them invitingly. "Come to Ungern." A small
white head poked out of the leaves, then the young bird inched forward, its
bright black eyes fixed on his face. He clucked encouragingly at it. "Come,
babies."

Another appeared behind it, then another, each with a long curving neck and
frowning hooked beak that seemed to have been dipped in black ink. His heart
skipped a beat. These were most definitely not nightingales or goldfinches or
larks or any other sort of bird he had ever seen before in his life.

The nearest chick opened its bizarre bill in a tentative, unmelodic squawk, then
circled him shakily on skinny, impossibly long legs.

Ungern sat back on his heels. What in the name of Saint Peter had that peddler
sold him? If he squinted, they looked a little like geese, but those legs! Their
heads already reached as high as his shins, and they were only just hatched.