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

He realized that the fire must have come the year before, but the
grasshoppers were all black now. He wondered how long they would stay that
way.
Carefully he reached his hand down and took hold of the hopper by the
wings. He turned him up, all his legs walking in the air, and looked at his
jointed belly. Yes, it was black too, iridescent where the back and head
were dusty.
"Go on, hopper," Nick said, speaking out loud for the first time. "Fly
away somewhere."
He tossed the grasshopper up into the air and watched him sail away to
a charcoal stump across the road.
Nick stood up. He leaned his back against the weight of his pack where
it rested upright on the stump and got his arms through the shoulder straps.
He stood with the pack on his back on the brow of the hill looking out
across the country toward the distant river and then struck down the
hillside away from the road. Underfoot the ground was good walking. Two
hundred yards down the hillside the fire line stopped. Then it was sweet
fern, growing ankle high, to walk through, and dumps of jack pines; a long
undulating country with frequent rises and descents, sandy underfoot and the
country alive again.
Nick kept his direction by the sun. He knew where he wanted to strike
the river and he kept on through the pine plain, mounting small rises to see
other rises ahead of him and sometimes from the top of a rise a great solid
island of pines off to his right or his left. He broke off some sprigs of
the heathery sweet fern, and put them under his pack straps. The chafing
crushed it and he smelled it as he walked.
He was tired and very hot, walking across the uneven, shadeless pine
plain. At any time he knew he could strike the river by turning off to his
left. It could not be more than a mile away. But he kept on toward the north
to hit the river as far upstream as he could go in one day's walking.
For some time as he walked Nick had been in sight of one of the big
islands of pine standing out above the rolling high ground he was crossing.
He dipped down and then as he came slowly up to the crest of the bridge
he turned and made toward the pine trees.
There was no underbrush in the island of pine trees. The minks of the
trees went straight up or slanted toward each other. The trunks were
straight and brown without branches. The branches were high above. Some
interlocked to make a solid shadow on the brown forest floor. Around the
grove of trees was a bare space. It was brown and soft underfoot as Nick
walked on it. This was the over-lapping of the pine needle floor, extending
out beyond the width of the high branches. The trees had grown tall and the
branches moved high, leaving in the sun this bare space they had once
covered with shadow. Sharp at the edge of this extension of the forest floor
commenced the sweet fern.
Nick slipped off his pack and lay down in the shade. He lay on his back
and looked up into the pine trees. His neck and back and the small of his
back rested as he stretched. The earth felt good against his back. He looked
up at the sky, through the branches, and then shut his eyes. He opened them
and looked up again. There was a wind high up in the branches. He shut his
eyes again and went to sleep.