The Magic Carpet автор книги: Владислав Крапивин об авторе подробно жанр книги: Детские Приключения серия: Сказки о парусах и крыльях добавлена: 25.06.2003

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о книге: Оказывается, летать можно не только во сне. Герои сказочной повести из цикла «Сказки о парусах и крыльях» — самые обыкновенные ребята. Однажды летом они нашли в старом чулане ковер и узнали его тайну. С этого момента перед друзьями открылись невероятные возможности. Их ждут захватывающие приключения и замечательные путешествия, в которых отважным «летчикам» предстоит совершить множество добрых и справедливых дел. Повесть на английском языке. (c)OZON.ru

отрывок из произведения: ...Vitalka and I lived together or, at least, in summer we did, ever since we made friends. And that was simply ages ago and two years before the adventure with the carpet. I was then going on eight and Vitalka had only just turned nine. He saved me then. It's a long story with a sad beginning but a happy ending. Before I was born, my father had fought in the war against the nazis. He returned home alive but he had had a lung wound. At first it did not cause him much pain and he started working as a physics teacher and married. Then I came along. The years rolled quietly by and then all of a sudden he fell ill again and died. Mother and I lived alone for almost three years but when I was in the first year at school, Uncle Seva, Vsevolod Sergeyevich, that is, and five-year-old Lena appeared on the scene. He worked in the river-port's administration and wore a cap with an anchor. But neither this cap nor its owner appealed to me. Nothing about him did, not even his manner of talking, rather muffled and hollow, almost the same as Dad's. Ha had a thin face, a beard, to straight wrinkles above his thick brows, and large brown eyes. If you weren't trying to find fault with it, you could say it was a perfectly normal and even pleasant face. His eyes weren't angry-looking but quite the reverse and he used to gaze adoringly at Mum and rather guilty at me. Who wanted his looks, guilty or not! Don't imagine I was rude to him or sulked. No, I always said good morning and good night to him and even started calling him Uncle Seva instead of Vsevolod Sergeyevich. Because Mum asked me to. But whenever Uncle Seva tried to pat my shoulder or stroke my head, I shied away as if I had been stung. And I could do nothing about it, and, to tell the truth, did not want to...

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