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

branches. That must be why the animals that lived in swamps were built the
way they were. Nick thought.
He wished he had brought something to read. He felt like reading. He
did not feel like going on into the swamp. He looked down the river. A big
cedar slanted all the way across the stream. Beyond that the river went into
the swamp.
Nick did not want to go in there now. He felt a reaction against deep
wading with the water deepening up under his armpits, to hook big trout in
places impossible to land them. In the swamp the banks were bare, the big
cedars came together overhead, the sun did not come through, except in
patches; in the fast deep water, in the half light, the fishing would be
tragic. In the swamp fishing was a tragic adventure. Nick did not want it.
He did not want to go down the stream any further today.
He took out his knife, opened it and stuck it in the log. Then he
pulled up the sack, reached into it and brought out one of the trout.
Holding him near the tail, hard to hold, alive, in his hand, he whacked him
against the log. The trout quivered, rigid. Nick laid him on the log in the
shade and broke the neck of the other fish the same way. He laid them side
by side on the log. They were fine trout.
Nick cleaned them, slitting them from the vent to the tip of the jaw.
All the insides and the gills and tongue came out in one piece. They were
both males; long gray-white strips of milt, smooth and clean. All the
insides clean and compact, coming out all together. Nick tossed the offal
ashore for the minks to find.
He washed the trout in the stream. When he held them back up in the
water they looked like live fish. Their color was not gone yet. He washed
his hands and dried them on the log. Then he laid the trout on the sack
spread out on the log, rolled them up in it, tied the bundle and put it in
the landing net. His knife was still standing, blade stuck in the log. He
cleaned it on the wood and put it in his pocket.
Nick stood up on the log, holding his rod, the landing net hanging
heavy, then stepped into the water and splashed ashore. He climbed the bank
and cut up into the woods, toward the high ground. He was going back to
camp. He looked back. The river just showed through the trees. There were
plenty of days coming when he could fish the swamp.