Вино из одуванчиков. Повесть и рассказы

around a corner like an elfin band came an ice-cream wagon. It jingled out icy melodies, as crisp and rimmed as crystal wineglasses tapped by an expert, summoning all. The children sat up, turning their heads, like sunflowers after the sun.
Mrs. Bentley called, “Would you like some? Here!” The ice-cream wagon stopped and she exchanged money for pieces of the original Ice Age. The children thanked her with snow in their mouths, their eyes darting from her buttoned-up shoes to her white hair.
“Don’t you want a bite?” said the boy.
“No, child. I’m old enough and cold enough; the hottest day won’t thaw me,” laughed Mrs. Bentley.
They carried the miniature glaciers up and sat, three in a row, on the shady porch glider.
<…>
“Not you,” whispered Jane, eyes down, almost to herself. Her empty ice stick had fallen in a vanilla puddle on the porch floor.
<…>
“Good-bye,” said the two girls, giggling away across the lawn under the seas of shade, Tom followed them slowly.
“Thanks for the ice cream!”

“How many years this rug been down?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen years of people stomping across it; I see every shoe print,” gasped Tom.
“Land, boy, you got a tongue,” said Great-grandma.
“I see all the things happened in that house in all those years right here!” Bang! “All the past, sure, but I can see the future, too. Just squinch up my eyes and peek around at the patterns, there, to see where we’ll be walking, running around, tomorrow.”
Douglas stopped swinging the beater. “What else you see in the rug?”
“Threads mostly,” said Great-grandma.