"Robert F. Young - Operation Peanut Butter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

fingers and his toes were real longтАФprobably from gripping boughs and fence wires.
The rest of him was human enough, though (except for his gossamer wings, of course, and they were
more butterfly- than birdlike); he had a long straight nose and a firm mouth and chin; his shoulders were
broad, his hips narrow, and his legs lithe and muscular. But the word "human" never entered Geoffrey's
mind. Mr. Wings was a genuine, honest-to-God pixie, and that was all there was to it.
There was a brief silence. Then: "Hello," Mr. Wings said softly, without moving his lips. "You're
Geoffrey, aren't you?"
Geoffrey didn't consider it at all remarkable that Mr. Wings should know his name. After all, Mr.
Wings was a pixie, and pixies knew just about everything. He nodded. "Yes sir," he said. Then, seeing
the wistful way Mr. Wings was eyeing the peanut butter sandwich, Geoffrey did the most natural thing in
the world. He broke the sandwich in two and gave Mr. Wings half.
Mr. Wings accepted it eagerly. It was the biggest half and it had lots of peanut butter on it. However,
he did not, as Geoffrey had expected, take a bite. Instead, he gave a little kick with his feet, flew across
the brook, and disappeared among the willows.
Geoffrey wasn't angry, though he was a little disappointed. He hoped Mr. Wings would come back,
and after a while Mr. Wings didтАФminus the half a sandwich. This time he brought Sally Sunbeam with
him. Mr. Wings perched on Geoffrey's left shoulder and Sally Sunbeam on his right. They seemed
tremendously excited about something.

Geoffrey had been able to take Mr. Wings in his stride, but Sally Sunbeam took his breath away.
She was all gold, from her feathery golden hair to her tiny golden toenails. Her graceful body was all
softness and curves, and the fine down covering it was like sun-mist. And blue eyes? Geoffrey could
have sworn God had cut two little round pieces of azure out of the sky and slipped them beneath her
feathered lashes, they were so blue.
After Mr. Wings had flown away, Geoffrey had started in on the second peanut butter sandwich.
He'd already taken one bite, and he had it halfway to his mouth now, intending to take another. But when
he saw the way Sally Sunbeam was looking at it, he did not take a bite after all, he gave it to her instead,
the whole sandwich.
"Thank you," Sally Sunbeam said, and Geoffrey wondered how she and Mr. Wings could talk
without opening their mouths. But her words were so sweet and so soft in his mind that the way she said
them didn't seem very important. Then, a moment later, both she and Mr. Wings flew across the brook
and into the willows, and he was left with other things to wonder about.
Where they had come from, instance, and where they going now; and, most important of all, whether
they'd be back or notтАФ
He didn't think they'd be back today, and besides, he was hungry; so he wound his tackle around his
hickory pole, picked up his bait can and his lunch box and started home. He could hardly wait to tell
someone, and when he came to the south field where his father was cultivating the tomato plants, he ran
along in the row beside the tractor till his father stopped at the end of the field and idled the motor and
asked him what he wanted.
тАЬFairies!" Geoffrey shouted. тАЬWeтАЩve got fairies in our woods!"
тАЬHmmph!" his father said.
тАЬHonest, Dad. I saw two of them!тАЭ
 His father's thin face was burned from the sun and the wind, and sweat glistened on his forehead and
cheeks. There were dark circles in under his eyes. "First thing you know, you'll be seeing Martians and
flying saucers," he said. "Run along home now and give your mother a hand with the washing."
The tractor snorted and began to roar again, and Geoffrey had to step out of the way of the
cultivator. He watched his father start down another row and he saw the dust rising from the dry cracked
ground and the sickly tomato plants and the sweat-darkened back of his fatherтАЩs chambray shirt.
Presently, he headed for the house, remembering how it used to be with him and his father. His father
used to pat him on the head and ask him how the fish were biting and how many he'd caught, but he