"Lev Kassil. The black book and Schwambrania (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

associate with were forever coming and going here. The people we were not.
to associate with were: ragmen, knife-grinders, delivery boys, plumbers,
glaziers, postmen, firemen, organ-grinders, beggars, chimney-sweeps,
janitors, the neighbours' cooks, coal men, gypsy fortune-tellers, carters,
coopers, coachmen and wood-cutters. They were all third class passengers.
And they were probably the best, the most interesting people in the world.
But we were told that they were carriers of the most dreadful diseases and
that their bodies swarmed with germs.
One day Oska said to Levonty Abramkin, the master garbage man, "Are you
really swamping, I mean swaping, uh ... you know, full of measle bugs
crawling all over you?"
"What's that?" Levonty sounded hurt. "These here are natural lice.
There's no such animal as measle bugs. There's worms, but that's something
you get in the stomach."
"Oh! Do you have worms swarping inside your stomach?" Oska cried
excitedly.
This was the last straw. Levonty pulled on his cap and stalked out,
slamming the door behind him.
The kitchen was a seat of learning. In Schwambrania the King sat
enthroned in the kitchen and let anyone in who wanted to come. The
neighbourhood children would come carolling there on Christmas Eve.
On New Year's Day our precinct policeman would call to pay his
respects. He would click his heels and say:
"My respects."
He would be offered a glass of vodka brought out on a saucer, and a
silver rouble The policeman would take the rouble, offer his thanks and then
drink to our health Oska and I stared into his mouth. He would grunt and
then stop breathing for moment. He seemed to be listening to some inner
process in his body, listening to the progress of the vodka, as it were,
down into his policeman's stomach. Then he would click his heels again and
salute.
"What's he doing?" Oska whispered.
"He's offering us his respects."
"For a rouble?"
The policeman seemed embarrassed.
"What are you doing here, you rascals?" our father boomed.
"Papa! The policeman's giving us his respects for a rouble!" Oska
shouted.

OUR CAPTAIN AT HOME


Papa was a very tall man with a great mass of curly blond hair. He had
tremendous drive and never seemed to tire. After a hard day he could drink a
samovar-full of tea. His movements were quick and his voice loud. Sometimes,
when Papa got angry at a local peasant who had come to him with an ailment,
he would begin to shout, and we feared the patient might die of fright, if
nothing else, for we certainly would have.
However, Papa was also a very cheerful person. Sometimes a man who had
come to complain of a pain in the chest would soon forget about it and roar