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

away around the foot of a bluff.
Nick walked back up the ties to where his pack lay in the cinders
beside the railway track. He was happy. He adjusted the pack harness around
the bundle, pulling straps tight, slung the pack on his back, got his arms
through the shoulder straps and took some of the pull off his shoulders by
leaning his forehead against the wide band of the tump-line. Still, it was
too heavy. It was much too heavy. He had his leather rod-case in his hand
and leaning forward to keep the weight of the pack high on his shoulders he
walked along the road that paralleled the railway track, leaving the burned
town behind in the heat, and then turned off around a hill with a high,
fire-scarred hill on either side onto a road that went back into the
country. He walked along the road feeling the ache from the pull of the
heavy pack. The road climbed steadily. It was hard work walking up-hill. His
muscles ached and the day was hot, but Nick felt happy. He felt he had left
everything behind, the need for thinking, the need to write, other needs. It
was all back of him.
From the time he had gotten down off the train and the baggage man had
thrown his pack out of the open car door things had been different. Seney
was burned, the country was burned over and changed, but it did not matter.
It could not all be burned. He knew that. He hiked along the road, sweating
in the sun, climbing to cross the range of hills that separated the railway
from the pine plains.
The road ran on, dipping occasionally, but always climbing. Nick went
on up. Finally the road after going parallel to the burnt hillside reached
the top. Nick leaned back against a stump and slipped out of the pack
harness. Ahead of him, as far as he could see, was the pine plain. The
burned country stopped off at the left with the range of hills. On ahead
islands of dark pine trees rose out of the plain. Far off to the left was
the line of the river. Nick followed it with his eye and caught glints of
the water in the sun.
There was nothing but the pine plain ahead of him, until the far blue
hills that marked the Lake Superior height of land. He could hardly see
them, faint and far away in the heat-light over the plain. If he looked too
steadily they were gone. But if he only half-looked they were there, the
far-off hills of the height of land.
Nick sat down against the charred stump and smoked a cigarette. His
pack balanced on the top of the stump, harness holding ready, a hollow
molded in it from his back. Nick sat smoking, looking out over the country.
He did not need to get his map out. He knew where he was from the position
of the river.
As he smoked, his legs stretched out in front of him, he noticed a
grasshopper walk along the ground and up onto his woolen sock. The
grasshopper was black. As he had walked along the road, climbing, he had
started many grasshoppers from the dust. They were all black. They were not
the big grasshoppers with yellow and black or red and black wings whirring
out from their black wing sheathing as they fly up. These were just ordinary
hoppers, but all a sooty black in color. Nick had wondered about them as he
walked, without really thinking about them. Now, as he watched the black
hopper that was nibbling at the wool of his sock with its fourway lip, he
realized that they had all turned black from living in the burned-over land.