"Terry Pratchett. A Hat Full Of Sky " - читать интересную книгу автора

Lane, High Overhang, If Out Leave Letters in Old Boot by Door sounded
promising.
Miss Level, yes, said Miss Tick, defeated. Er, yes. Shes not really
very old but she says shell be happy to have a third pair of hands around
the place.
You couldnt slip words past Tiffany, not even if you were Miss Tick.
So theres someone else there already? she said.
Er . . . no. Not exactly, said Miss Tick.
Then shes got four arms? said Tiffany. Miss Tick had sounded like
someone trying to avoid a subject.
Miss Tick sighed. It was difficult to talk to someone who paid
attention all the time. It put you off.
Its best if you wait until you meet her, she said. Anything I tell you
will only give you the wrong idea. Im sure youll get along with her. Shes
very good with people, and in her spare time shes a research witch. She
keeps bees - and goats, the milk of which, I believe, is very good indeed
owing to homogenized fats.
What does a research witch do? Tiffany asked.
Oh, its a very ancient craft. She tries to find new spells by learning
how old ones were really done. You know all that stuff about ear of bat and
toe of frog? They never work, but Miss Level thinks its because we dont know
exactly what kind of frog, or which toe-
Im sorry, but Im not going to help anyone chop up innocent frogs and
bats, said Tiffany firmly.
Oh, no, she never kills any! said Miss Tick hurriedly. She only uses
creatures that have died naturally or been run over or committed suicide.
Frogs can get quite depressed at times.
The cart rolled on, down the white, dusty road, until it was lost from
view.
Nothing happened. Skylarks sang, so high up they were invisible. Grass
seeds filled the air. Sheep baad, high up on the Chalk.
And then something came along the road. It moved like a little slow
whirlwind, so it could be seen only by the dust it stirred up. As it went
past, it made a noise like a swarm of flies.
Then it, too, disappeared down the hill. . .
After a while a voice, low down in the long grass, said: Ach, crivens!
And its on her trail, right enough!
A second voice said: Surely the old hag will spot it?
Whut? The teachin hag? Shes nae a proper hag!
Shes got the pointy hat under all them flowers, Big Yan, said the
second voice, a bit reproachfully. I seen it. She presses a wee spring an
the point comes up!
Oh, aye, Hamish, an I daresay she does the readin and the writin well
enough, but she disnae ken aboot stuff thats no in books. An Im no showin
meself while shes aroond. Shes the kind of a body thatd write things doon
about a man! Cmon, lets go and find the kelda!

The Nac Mac Feegle of the Chalk hated writing for all kinds of reasons,
but the biggest one was this: writing stays. It fastens words down. A man
can speak his mind and some nasty wee scuggan will write it down and who