Взобравшись, как индейский следопыт,
На самый верх по яблоне кривой,
Я там сидел, её листвой укрыт.
Вдруг вижу: подлетает к ней стрелой
Какой-то человек – наверняка
Индеец – ярким сполохом огня
В руке сверкает лезвие клинка;
Трепещут ноздри, словно у коня;
Глаза безумны – кажется, вот-вот
Полезут из орбит; как ворс, торчат
Пучки волос и перекошен рот.
Я мысленно молил, чтоб он свой взгляд
Не поднял вдруг…. Но тщетным был испуг –
Беглец помчался дальше во весь дух.
THE APPLE TREE
I was hiding in the crooked apple tree,
Scouting for Indians, when a man came;
I thought it was an Indian, for he
Was running like the wind.--There was a flame
Of sunlight on his hand as he drew near,
And then I saw a knife gripped in his fist.
He panted like a horse; his eyes were queer,
Wide-open, staring frightfully, and, hist!
His mouth stared open like another eye,
And all his hair was matted down with sweat.
I crouched among the leaves for fear he'd spy
Where I was hiding, so he did not get
His awful eyes on me, but like the wind
He fled as if he heard something behind.
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