"Эрнест Хемингуэй. Big two-hearted river" - читать интересную книгу автора

Nick did not care about fishing that hole. He was sure he would get
hooked in the branches.
It looked deep though. He dropped the grasshopper so the current took
it under water, back in under the overhanging branch. The line pulled hard
and Nick struck. The trout threshed heavily, half out of water in the leaves
and branches. The line was caught. Nick pulled hard and the trout was off.
He reeled in and holding the hook in his hand, walked down the stream.
Ahead, close to the left bank, was a big log. Nick saw it was hollow;
pointing up river the current entered it smoothly, only a little ripple
spread each side of the log. The water was deepening. The top of the hollow
log was gray and dry. It was partly in the shadow.
Nick took the cork out of the grasshopper bottle and a hopper clung to
it. He picked him off, hooked him and tossed him out. He held the rod far
out so that the hopper on the water moved into the current flowing into the
hollow log. Nick lowered the rod and the hopper floated in. There was a
heavy strike. Nick swung the rod against the pull. It felt as though he were
hooked into the log itself, except for the live feeling.
He tried to force the fish out into the current. It came, heavily.
The line went slack and Nick thought the trout was gone. Then he saw
him, very near, in the current, shaking his head, trying to get the hook
out. His mouth was clamped shut. He was fighting the hook in the clear
flowing current.
Looping in the line with his left hand. Nick swung the rod to make the
line taut and tried to lead the trout toward the net, but he was gone, out
of sight, the line pumping. Nick fought him against the current, letting him
thump in the water against the spring of the rod. He shifted the rod to his
left hand, worked the trout upstream, holding his weight, fighting on the
rod, and then let him down into the net. He lifted him clear of the water, a
heavy half circle in the net, the net dripping, unhooked him and slid him
into the sack.
He spread the mouth of the sack and looked down in at the two big trout
alive in the water.
Through the deepening water. Nick waded over to the hollow log. He took
the sack off, over his head, the trout flopping as it came out of water, and
hung it so the trout were deep in the water. Then he pulled himself up on
the log and sat, the water from his trouser and boots running down into the
stream. He laid his rod down, moved along to the shady end of the log and
took the sandwiches out of his pocket. He dipped the sandwiches in the cold
water. The current carried away the crumbs. He ate the sandwiches and dipped
his hat full of water to drink, the water running out through his hat just
ahead of his drinking.
It was cool in the shade, sitting on the log. He took a cigarette out
and struck a match to light it. The match sunk into the gray wood, making a
tiny furrow. Nick leaned over the side of the log, found a hard place and
lit the match. He sat smoking and watching the river.
Ahead the river narrowed and went into a swamp. The river became smooth
and deep and the swamp looked solid with cedar trees, their trunks dose
together, their branches solid. It would not be possible to walk through a
swamp like that. The branches grew so low. You would have to keep almost
level with the ground to move at all. You could not crash through the