Falling asleep, I hear everything, like rustling on the piece of iron behind the window, tapping sleepily, gently – this spring, promising – cap-drip. It’s not a boring rain, as it would, for a week, charge, it’s a merry March drop. It causes the sun. Now everywhere drops:
Under the pine – cap.
Under the Christmas tree – cap.
The rooks arrived – now it will go, go. Soon the water will flood, the fish will be caught with nametags – minnows, burbot, – they will bring a whole bucket. Today the snow is big, everyone says: it will take together – all Zamoskvorechye will float. Hence, the pumping station and the baths will be flooded. we will ride on the rafters.
In an anxious-joyful half-sleep I hear this,
Cap-cap. cap-cap-cap. cap-cap.
Already gawking on the piece of iron, jumping and dancing, like a big rain.
I wake up to this gibberish, and my first thought – “took!”. Of course, spring has come. I rub my eyes drowsily, and dazzle me with light. The canopy from my crib was removed when I slept – there is a big wash in the house, Lenten, – windows without curtains, and such a wonderful day, so cheerful, as if there is no fasting. Yes, what now and fasting, if spring came. Look how he plays. – tra-ta-ta-ta! And today we’ll go with Gorkin for the Moscow River, to the “city”, to the mushroom market, where – everyone says – as a holiday.
I squint my eyes and see the sun pouring into the room. A wide golden strip, similar to a brand new board, slants into the room, and goldfish bustle in it. In such stripes, from God, Angels descend from the sky, – I know from the pictures. If you came down to us!
On the painted floor and on the stove there are golden windows, very oblique and narrow, and the black crosses on them are squinting. And they are so transparent that even bubbles-eyelets are visible and specks. and bunnies, blue and red! But where did these bunnies come from and why are they fighting so hard? Yes it’s not bunnies, but as if Easter eggs, transparent as smoke. I look at the window – balls! These are my balls are walking: curling behind the window, the other day they are walking: I let them go for a walk in order to live longer. But they have already run out, hang and wander in the wind, in the sun, and the sun makes them alive. And so wonderful! They play on the stove like bunnies – well, just like Easter eggs, only very large and alive, wonderful. Airy testicles, – I have never seen such. They resemble Easter. It’s like they came down from heaven like Angels.
And the brilliance is more and more. A golden spark sparkles with a hot air. The corner of the chest of the chest, upholstered with a new tin with pimply divorces, snow fire burns. And the decanter on the stove shines with colored lights. A pretty wallpaper. Lies cranes and foxes, already cheerful, because the spring waited – it’s what made friends, even pokumilis at someone in the homeland – the most fun wallpaper. And my cannon is like gold. and the golden drops fall from the roof, they pour out often, often, they curl like golden threads. Spring, spring.
And the noise outside the window, special.
There they are chattering, as if they are breaking something. Cries for horses and rumbling. – Do not they stuff a cellar? The voice of Vasil Vasilich comes dully through the glass, as if he is shouting into the pillow, but the glasses still rattled:
“Hey, look at me, you guys.” to dinner in order.
The voice of Gorkin is also heard, like a mosquito:
“Snowball, snowball.” poddolblivay!
Yes, they fill up the cellars, rush. Ice all yesterday they drove.
I run over, barefooted, to the window, I jump to a cold chair, and I’m poured by the shine of green-blue ice. Its mountains are everywhere, up to the roofs of the sheds, to the very well, – the entire yard is piled up. And the blue doves on it: they have nowhere to go! In the shade, it is blue and snowy, leaden. And in the sun – green, bright. Sharp of its blocks shoot arrows on the eyes, like sparks. And all bring, all new woodbanks. The drivers ride each other, they are confused by the shafts, sleighs, they yell horribly, they swear:
“Devils, do not piss.” Throw, do not zasti.
Blue lobes fly, they knock, slide, jump on each other, collide on the fly and fly to the crystal and dust.
– Empty pills, go off. h-ty. Vasil Vasilich shouts, jumping over the blocks. – Stop. which the. Forty semoe, come on.
They leave for the backyard, wiping their face and neck with their cap; such a hot work, haste: spring covered. Look, as the drops rush – drumming, like a shower fractional. And Vasil-Vasilich is absolutely in his summer – in a pink shirt and vest, without a cap. She jumps with a pencil over the blocks, she thinks. The pigeons, frightened by a din, rush over it, fly up to the sheds and again sink to the ice: they stand with shovels in the sheds and throw and throw snow. The chickens are hovering over the ice, they are not shouting with their own voices, they do not know where to go. And the sun is already high, over Barmikhin’s garden with a little elderberry, and so it’s baked through the glass, like it’s summer. I open the window. Ah, spring. Such warmth and freshness! It smells of warmth and snow, spring fragrant snow. A sharp little cold from the icy mountains. I hear – the river smells like a living river.
In one jacket, without a hat, a father jumps on the ice, walks on sharp blocks, trying to hold back: waving his hands funny. He spread his legs, puffed out his chest and looked for some reason into the sky. He must be glad of spring. He laughs something, jokes with Vasil-Vasilich, and suddenly – pushes. Vasil Vasilich flies from the ice and falls on a basket of snow, which is taken from the garden. On the roofs all gaily giggle, play with brand new shovels, – the snow is flying and falling, Vasily-Vasilich clinging. He struggles to get out, all white, shakes himself off, threatens, grabs clods and starts throwing on the roof. He is showered again. Gorkin passes, in a pendant and hat, threatens something to his father: he must dress himself, he must. The father jumps on him, they fall together in the snow and are hung up in a general laugh. I want to shout in the window. but now my father is going to snowball, and it’s more pleasant to look at the window leaf. Sparrows are sitting on the branches, everything is wet, from drops, swing. – and I want to swing with them. The buds on the poplar swelled. I hear, my father screams: – Well, it will be dallying. You live happily, guys. for dinner, to fill all the cellars, there will be a tray! From the roof he was shouted: – We are not under the nose, but in the very best of luck! Well, they are timid, respect the owner, for the spring. And we respect the ho-zyain,
Pick up a familiar that I love: it’s sung when the piles are hammered. But my father tells me to shut up:
– Well, not the time now, guys. fast!
– Pickled cucumbers and letting go of a cabbage, and without a song you will be ripe! – Vasil Vasilich is joking.
The work is boiling: ice blocks crash into trays, snow baskets are rolling down, an ice-ball-rubble is clinking – on a strong backfill. Deep cellars are swallowed and swallowed. A white road runs from the sled to the dirty dirty yard, the clods are brightly white.
– Look. there. they shout somewhere above their heads.
I see how Gorkin jumps on the blocks, threatening someone and outside the window to darken in hissing rustle. Gray snow curtains litter the gray curtain, and the sharp snow dust, brought by the wind into the window, gives me face and neck. Throw snow from home! It is densely densely, as if winter has come. I jumped off the window and looked for a long time: I admire it: a snowstorm, even the sun is not visible, – such a joy!
For dinner – no blocks of ice, only a loose heap of fragments, slippery crunched into the snow. All the cellars are full. The young men were brought up on a scale, and, warmed from work, wet with snow and sweat, they crunched on the will of strong cucumber, ice cream, white circles of radish, covered with hemp oil, seized with slices of bread, like a snowball crunching. Although the Great Lent, but Gorkin does not say a word: so it’s started, the ice cream is getting stronger. They chomping in silence on logs, in the sun, listening to the drops. But it no longer goes, but flows. At the very first time, they were ready to eat: a snowball.
– Wow, what were they. but they hid everything!
Hidden in the cellar all the mountains. Well, as if in a fairy tale: Vasilisa the Wise said.
They rustle in the stables of the horse, they beat on the stalls. It’s always in the spring. Vaughn, too, walks about, the gypsy Zadorny, terrible with his bag, – to throw the blood to the horses. The coachman leads him by the stables, the workers run to look. Gorkin does not let me in: he’s not fit to look at the blood.
Chickens and pigeons wander around the snow-covered courtyard, choose oats pouring horses. From the roofs it is already pouring right, and in the backyard, at the melted stacks of pine, a puddle begins to accumulate – the true beginning of spring. They are waiting for it – the ducks that have come to freedom will not wait: a snowball is standing and rubbing their noses with their noses, they stand for hours on their feet. A nevidnye streams trickle. I also look: I’ll soon ride on the dam. Vasil Vasilich is also standing, looking and thinking about how to deal with it. Says Gorkin:
– Swearing again will be, but where it, rascal, you’ll get it! Everywhere it flows, so it’s settled. And really on the go. The fronts get stuck, you can not take out the boards. Again, crap, is typed.
“And do not touch her better, Vasya.” – advises and Gorkin. “She lives from time to time.” So here it is laid. Who knows. maybe, so, to the court is fitted. And look familiar, and the ducks are rambling.
I am glad. I love our puddle, like Gorkin. Sometimes, he sits on logs, watches ducks splashing, chambers float.
– And before us was, the Lord with her. o-bet.
And Vasil Vasilich is still thinking. He walks and quacks, nothing can come up with anything: stack everywhere! So do the ducks: so-so. so-so. It smells of them in spring, spring warm acid. He sips from the canopies with tar: they smear axes and wheels, prepare the exit. And from the warmed stacks of pine trees, the acid smells of acid from the sheds of old and from the puddle, from the calm old yard.
– It was like – let it go and it will be so! – Vasil Vasilich decides. – So I’ll tell the owner.
– It is clear: say so: let her remain so.
So do the ducks, joyful, so-so. so-so. And droplets from the sheds joyfully chatter with each other – cap-drip. And in everything that I see that looks at me lovingly, I hear it – so-so. And serenely taps the heart – so-so.