MSGID: 2:221/6.0 5d1d3398   
   PID: JamNNTPd/Cygwin32 1.3 20190208   
   CHRS: IBMPC 2   
   TZUTC: 0300   
   TID: hpt/w32-mvc 1.9.0-cur 2019-01-08   
   Since  it  is  much easier to indicate motes in others' eyes   
   than to notice beams  in  one's  own,  I  will  now  try  to   
   translate  a piece of artistic prose.  Prepare your brushes,   
   for motes are going to come aplenty.   Besides  the  general   
   clumsiness  of  my  rendition,  I am lost in tenses, weak in   
   vocabulary, and often have a hard time linking a  couple  of   
   words  into  a  phrase,  let  alone  composing  a  sentence.   
   Translating an accomplished writer is  more  difficult  than   
   expressing  one's  own simple thoughts.  I will be greateful   
   if  you  indicate,  and  help  me  correct,  my  errors  and   
   stylistic blunders and screamers:   
      
   Lying  on  wet snow in wait of a near death, Bianca suddenly   
   remembered the smell of her mother woven from  weak,  barely   
   recalled  odours:  of  her  warm thick milk, of dry hay with   
   patches  of  withered  bluebottles,  of  smokily  smoldering   
   folliage that people burned at their summer houses that very   
   first autumn of her commencing life.   
      
   The odour of smoldering leaves was one of  the  very  first,   
   and  therefore  special: pungent, thick, comprising all that   
   the brief earthly life of any leaf can have imbided: from  a   
   sticky  button shooting towards warmth unto a doomed descent   
   to the cold body of the earth.  Late  September  was  pining   
   away,  and  the  trees were shedding leaves all around.  The   
   mapple covered the still green grass with a  lush  mandarine   
   blanket.   Lazily yet somehow in concert, the poplars shaked   
   off their last ashen fluff.  The old willow, whose bole only   
   three  men  could embrace, littered the ground with its tiny   
   leaves inelegantly and widely (? -- too wide around?).   But   
   in  sunny  places  rowan  trees  were still posing daintily,   
   clothed in dim purple, the heavy bunches  of  their  berries   
   slightly  touched  by nightly colds, whereas a light yolkish   
   yellow entwined the tremulous aspens.   
      
   The short train of lucid  days  would  pass  all  too  soon,   
   cloudy  mirk  for  long  would  cover  the azure of the sky,   
   frequent rains would soak the trees to their very cores  and   
   the  gusty  northern wind would tear off the last leaves and   
   carry them off into the dirt, the puddles, the decay.   Then   
   winter would come.  Endless.  Cold.   
      
   But  Binca  had  not  known winter, nor had she seen summer.   
   Having come into the world in the  beginning  of  September,   
   she  perceived  autumn  as  the  eternal  state of the world   
   around her.   
      
   The sun caressed her shut eyes with its warm beams,  filling   
   with  pink  light  the  thin films of the (or her?) eyelids.   
   She felt the kindness of that light, and her commencing life   
   promised  her -- a  small  God's  creature -- love great and   
   interminable.   
      
   Her mother she did not know either.   By  touch  and  strong   
   smell  she found her rough nipples and fell to them, sucking   
   the milk greedily, choking,  and  without  an  idea  of  its   
   source.  She felt constant hunger and hurried to satiate it.   
      
   In  the  first  days,  she  slept  a  lot biside her mother,   
   partaking in her warmth.   Whenever  her  mother  left,  she   
   wouild  call  for her in weak, barely audible squeals.  Then   
   her  brothers  and  sisters  would  follow  suit  and  whine   
   plaintively.   And the mother would return.  Carefully, lest   
   she should harm the puppies, she would  lay  herself  beside   
   them.   
      
   ---   
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