Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "JERK"
Входимость: 2. Размер: 120кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 12кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 50кб.
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Входимость: 2. Размер: 120кб.
Часть текста: across my back was a pack, at my belt a cartridge pouch, in my hand a heavy rifle. The band struck up, and the colours were carried out of the colonel's lodgings. A command rang out; the regiment noiselessly presented arms. Then a terrific uproar arose: the colonel shouted a command, and this was taken up by the battalion and company commanders and the platoon NCO's. The result was a confused and to me quite unintelligible movement of greatcoats, which ended in the regiment stretching out in a long column and swinging off to the sounds of the regimental band, which blared out a gay march. I marched along, too, trying to keep in step with my neighbour. The pack pulled backwards, the heavy pouches forwards, the rifle kept slipping off my shoulder, and the collar of the greatcoat chafed my neck; but despite all these little discomforts, the music, the orderly heavy movement of the column, the fresh early morning air, and the sight of the bristling bayonets and grim suntanned faces attuned one's soul to a calm and steadfast mood. Despite the early hour people stood about in crowds outside the houses, and half-dressed figures looked out of the windows. We marched down a long straight street, past the market-place, where the Moldavians on their ox-waggons were already beginning to arrive; the street climbed uphill and ran into the town cemetery. The morning was cold, bleak, and drizzly, the trees in the cemetery loomed through a mist; the tops of the gravestones could be seen peeping from behind the gates and the wall. We skirted the cemetery, which we left on our right. It seemed to me to be looking at us perplexedly through the mist. "Why must you thousands go thousands of miles to die in foreign fields when you can die here, die peacefully and repose your bodies under my wooden crosses and stone slabs? Stay!" But we did not stay. Some unknown secret force drew us on, a...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 12кб.
Часть текста: so nice, so delightful, that he all but let out a croak, but fortunately remembered that it was autumn already, and that frogs do not croak in the autumn-they had the spring to do that in-and that no self-respecting frog would be caught croaking in the autumn. And so he kept silent and basked in the rain. All of a sudden a shrill, intermittent whirring noise came from overhead. There is a breed of ducks whose wings, when they fly, cleave the air with a sound as if they were singing, or rather whistling. Whew-whew-whew-whew-goes the air when a flock of such ducks flies high above you, so high that you cannot even see them. On this occasion the ducks described an immense semicircle and alighted on the very bog in which our frog lived. "Kra, kra!" one of them said. "We have a long way to fly yet, and must have something to eat." The frog hid himself at once. Although he knew that the ducks would not eat such a big fat frog as he was, he dived under the snag just in case. On second thoughts, he decided to poke his head out of the water-so curious was he to know where the ducks were flying to. "Kra, kra!" said another duck. "It's getting cold! We must hurry south, and be quick about it!" And all the other ducks began quacking their approval. "I beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen," the frog said, plucking up courage, "but can you tell me-what is this south you are flying to?" All the ducks crowded round the frog. At first they wanted to eat him, but then every duck thought to itself that the frog was too big and would not go down its throat Then they all began gabbling together and flapping their wings. "Oh, it's good down south! It's warm there now! There are such warm lovely swamps there! And the worms! It's wonderful down south!" They gabbled so loud that they almost deafened the frog. It was all he could do to silence them. Then...
Входимость: 1. Размер: 50кб.
Часть текста: Russian and foreign conversation, the quiet dignified voices of the local worthies, the pretty babble of the young ladies, and the boisterous voices of the senior schoolboys clustering around two or three of them. A burst of laughter from one such group made Vasily Petrovich turn round. The gay crowd passed him; one of the youths was saying something to a young schoolgirl; his chums were noisily interrupting what was apparently a vehement apologetic speech. "Don't you believe him, Nina! He's a liar! He's making it all up!" "No, really, Nina, it isn't my fault in the least!" "Look here, Shevyrev, if you ever try to deceive me again..." the girl began with affected hauteur in a pretty young voice. Vasily Petrovich did not catch the rest of the sentence, as the crowd passed out of earshot. Half a minute later another burst of laughter came out of the darkness. "There is my future field of activity upon which I shall toil like the humble ploughman," thought Vasily Petrovich, first, because he had been appointed to the post of teacher in the local Gymnasium, and secondly, because he had a predilection for figurative thinking even when...