Читать книгу Pemrose Lorry, Radio Amateur онлайн

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“Night ... done, stars ... to rest,

Perhaps in soft, white clouds ... a nest,

Among your—dewy flowers....”

“Oh! l-let me!” shivered Una, half-sobbing—transfigured sobs.

Mechanically Pemrose transferred the headpiece.

“Among ... dewy flowers ... see you stand,

You do not know ... in my hand!”

“I hate it! Oh-h, I hate it—it.” Passionately the other girl tore the phones from her ears. “It’s like the hum—” the little stand in her right dark eye was fixed in fear—“makes me feel queer—creepy—I don’t know why!” She began to cry. “I don’t want to listen in! I’ll—never—”

“Nonsense!” said Pemrose sharply. “Only some amateur—crazy amateur—singing into a horn at a near-by station, quite near-by, that’s ‘going strong’!”

But, for a moment, her bright face had looked “sparrow-blasted”, too.

Far away, in the silence, a fox barked.

ssss1

It was the “yamf” of a fox again. The sun was high now. The brown byroad stretched away like a ribbon between the fringing woods that rose on either side of it, screening the mountain’s grandeur, shadowing the path of the gliding automobile.