"Jerome K. Jerome. Three Men in a Boat (Трое в лодке, не считая собаки. англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops
down to kiss it with a sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms around
it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever
whispering, out to meet its king, the sea - till our voices die away in
silence, and the pipes go out - till we, common-place, everyday young men
enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not
care or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from
our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the lapping
water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still
stars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet as she
used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face,
ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart - sweet
as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us,
her children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of painted
civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned
sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led
with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many
thousands years ago.

Harris said:

"How about when it rained?"

You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris - no wild
yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why."
If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has
been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.

If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:

"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the
waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by
seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say:

"I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now, you come along
with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop
of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted - put you right in less than
no time."

Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get
something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met
Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would
immediately greet you with:

"So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round the
corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar."

In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, his
practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in