"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Frog Pond" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

letting his hands open up again. I was glad to see that. "Sorry, Thorny. I guess I'm jumpier than I
thought."

"That's okay," I told him. I didn't want to set him off again.

So Stan stood back and watched me while I looked for frogs.

After a while, he asked me, "Is there anyone needing some help on their farms around here? Anyone you
know of?"
I said no.

"Maybe there's a school somewhere that needs a teacher. Unless I miss my guess, I could teach a few
things. You kids probably don't have too many good teachers."

What a spooky thing to say. "My Pop teaches at the high school. Maybe he could help you find work."
We didn't need teachers, but if Stan knew about teaching, maybe one of the other towns could use him.

"Were you born around here?" Stan was looking around the hollow like anyone's having been born here
was real special and unlikely.

"Nope. Over at Davis." That was where Pop had been doing the research into plant viruses, before he
and the Baxters and the Thompsons and the Wainwrights and the Aumendsens and the Leventhals
bought this place here.

"On a farm?"

"Sort of."

His voice sounded like being born on a farm was something great, like saving the seaweed or maybe
going back to the moon some day.

"I've always wanted to live in the country. Maybe now I can." He stumbled along the bank to the sandy
spot opposite the gravel bar and sat down. Boy, he was really dumb.

"There's snakes there," I said, real gentle. Sure enough, up he shot, squealing like Mrs. Wainwright's pig.

"They won't hurt you. Just watch out for them. They only bite if you hurt 'em or scare 'em."

And with him jumping up and down, I wasn't going to get any more frogs, that was for sure. So I decided
to settle just for conversation.

"Is any place safe in this bank?" he asked.

"Sure," I said with a smile. "Right where you were sitting. Just keep an eye out for the snakes. They're
about two feet long and sort of red. About the color of those pine needles." I pointed up the bank. "Like
that."

"Dear God. How long have the pine needles been that way?"

I slogged over into the deep water. "About the last five, six years. The smog does it."