The farm lay in a hollow among the

The farm lay in a hollow among the Somersetshire hills, an old-fashioned stone house, surrounded by barns and outhouses. Over the doorway the date when it was built had been carved, 1673, and the house, grey and weather-beaten, looked as much a part of the landscape as the trees that surrounded it. An avenue of splendid elms led from the road to the garden. The people who lived here were as stolid, sturdy and unpretentious as the house. Their only boast was that ever since the house was built from father to son they had been
born and died in it. For three hundred years they had farmed the surrounding land.
George Meadows was now a man of fifty, and his wife was a year or two younger. They were both fine, upstanding people in the prime of life; and their children, two sons and three girls, were handsome and strong. I have never seen a more united family. They were merry, industrious and kindly. Their life was patriarchal. They were happy and they deserved their happiness.
But the master of the house was not George Meadows; it was his mother. She was a woman of seventy, tall, upright and dignified, with grey hair, and though her face was much wrinkled, her eyes were bright and shrewd. Her word was law in the house and on the farm; but she had humour, and if her rule was despotic it was also kindly. People laughed at her jokes and repeated them.
One day Mrs. George stopped me on my way home. She was all in a flutter. (Her mother-in-law was the only Mrs. Meadows we knew: George's wife was only known as Mrs. George.)
"Who do you think is coming here today?" she asked me. "Uncle George Meadows. You know, the one that was in China."
"Why, I thought he was dead."
"We all thought he was dead."
I had heard the story of Uncle George Meadows a dozen times, and it had amused me because it was like an old ballad: it was touching to come across it in real life. For Uncle George Meadows and Tom had both courted Mrs. Meadows when she was Emily Green, fifty years and more ago, and when she married Tom, George had gone away to sea.
They heard of him on the China coast. For twenty years now and then he sent them presents; then there was no more news of him. When Tom Meadows died his widow wrote and told him, but received no answer, and at last they came to the conclusion that he must be dead. But two or three days ago to their astonishment they had received a letter from the matron of the sailors' home at Portsmouth saying that for the last ten years George Meadows, crippled with rheumatism, had been living there and feeling that he had not much longer to live, wanted to see once more the house in which he was born. Albert Meadows, his great nephew, had gone over to Portsmouth in the car to fetch him and he was to arrive that afternoon.
"Just fancy," said Mrs. George, "he's not been here for more than fifty years. He's never even seen my George, who's fifty-one next birthday."
"And what does Mrs. Meadows think of it?" I asked.
"Well, you know what she is. She sits there and smiles to herself. All she says is, 'He was a good-looking young fellow when he left, but not so steady as his brother.' That's why she chose my George's father. 'But he's probably quietened down by now,' she says.

Результаты (русский) 1:

The farm lay in a hollow among the Somersetshire hills, an old-fashioned stone house, surrounded by barns and outhouses. Over the doorway the date when it was built had been carved, 1673, and the house, grey and weather-beaten, looked as much a part of the landscape as the trees that surrounded it. An avenue of splendid elms led from the road to the garden. The people who lived here were as stolid, sturdy and unpretentious as the house. Their only boast was that ever since the house was built from father to son they had been born and died in it. For three hundred years they had farmed the surrounding land. George Meadows was now a man of fifty, and his wife was a year or two younger. They were both fine, upstanding people in the prime of life; and their children, two sons and three girls, were handsome and strong. I have never seen a more united family. They were merry, industrious and kindly. Their life was patriarchal. They were happy and they deserved their happiness. But the master of the house was not George Meadows; it was his mother. She was a woman of seventy, tall, upright and dignified, with grey hair, and though her face was much wrinkled, her eyes were bright and shrewd. Her word was law in the house and on the farm; but she had humour, and if her rule was despotic it was also kindly. People laughed at her jokes and repeated them. One day Mrs. George stopped me on my way home. She was all in a flutter. (Her mother-in-law was the only Mrs. Meadows we knew: George's wife was only known as Mrs. George.) "Who do you think is coming here today?" she asked me. "Uncle George Meadows. You know, the one that was in China." "Why, I thought he was dead." "We all thought he was dead." I had heard the story of Uncle George Meadows a dozen times, and it had amused me because it was like an old ballad: it was touching to come across it in real life. For Uncle George Meadows and Tom had both courted Mrs. Meadows when she was Emily Green, fifty years and more ago, and when she married Tom, George had gone away to sea. They heard of him on the China coast. For twenty years now and then he sent them presents; then there was no more news of him. When Tom Meadows died his widow wrote and told him, but received no answer, and at last they came to the conclusion that he must be dead. But two or three days ago to their astonishment they had received a letter from the matron of the sailors' home at Portsmouth saying that for the last ten years George Meadows, crippled with rheumatism, had been living there and feeling that he had not much longer to live, wanted to see once more the house in which he was born. Albert Meadows, his great nephew, had gone over to Portsmouth in the car to fetch him and he was to arrive that afternoon. "Just fancy," said Mrs. George, "he's not been here for more than fifty years. He's never even seen my George, who's fifty-one next birthday." "And what does Mrs. Meadows think of it?" I asked. «Ну, вы знаете, что она является. Она сидит там и улыбается себе. Все, она говорит, «он был симпатичный молодой человек, когда он ушел, но не настолько устойчивым, как его брат.» Вот почему она выбрала моя Джордж отца. «Но он вероятно quietened в настоящее время,» говорит она.

Результаты (русский) 2:

Ферма лежал в ложбине между холмами Сомерсетшире, старомодный каменный дом, в окружении сараях и надворных построек. За дверью дата, когда он был построен были вырезаны, 1673, и дома, серые и обветренные, посмотрел, как много часть пейзажа, как деревья, которые окружали его. Аллея великолепных вязов вела от дороги в сад. Люди, которые жили здесь были флегматичный, крепкий и неприхотливый, как дома. Их похвастаться лишь в том, что с тех пор, как был построен дом от отца к сыну они были
родился и умер в нем. В течение трехсот лет они обрабатывали окружающие земли.
Джордж Медоуз теперь человек лет пятидесяти, и его жена была год или два моложе. Они оба были прекрасные, вертикальные люди в самом расцвете сил; и их дети, двое сыновей и три девочки, были красивым и сильным. Я никогда не видел более дружной семье. Они были веселы, трудолюбивый и любезно. Их жизнь была патриархальная. Они были счастливы, и они заслужили свое счастье.
Но хозяин дома был не Джордж Медоуз; это была его мать. Она была женщина семидесяти, высокого, вертикальном и достойного, с седыми волосами, и, хотя ее лицо было сильно морщинистые, ее глаза были яркими и проницательный. Ее слово было законом в доме и на ферме; но она была юмор, и если ее правление было деспотическим было также любезно. Люди смеялись ее шутки и повторил их.
Однажды миссис Джордж остановил меня на моем пути домой. Она была вся в флаттера. (Мать-в-законе был единственный миссис Медоуз мы знали:. Жена Георгия было известно только как г-жа Джордж)
"Кто вы думаете, что сюда сегодня?" она спросила меня. "Дядя Джордж Медоуз. Вы знаете, тот, который был в Китае."
"Почему, я думал, что он был мертв."
"Мы все думали, что он мертв."
Я слышал историю дядя Джордж Медоуз десятка раз, и это что забавляло меня, потому что это было, как старый баллады: он был рядом, чтобы встретить его в реальной жизни. Для дяди Джорджа Meadows и Томом оба ухаживали миссис Медоуз, когда она была Эмили Грин, пятьдесят и более лет назад, и когда она вышла замуж за Тома, Джордж ушел в море.
Они слышали о нем на побережье Китая. За двадцать лет, и тогда он послал им подарки; то не было больше новостей о нем. Когда Том Луга умер его вдова написала и рассказала ему, но не получил никакого ответа, и, наконец, они пришли к выводу, что он должен быть мертв. Но два или три дня назад, к своему удивлению они получили письмо от матроны дома моряков в Портсмуте, сказав, что за последние десять лет Джордж Медоуз, калека с ревматизмом, был, живущих там, и чувствуя, что он был не намного больше жить, хотели увидеть еще раз дом, в котором он родился. Альберт Луга, его внучатый племянник, перешел в Портсмут в машине, чтобы принести его, и он должен был прибыть в тот день.
"Подумаешь," сказала миссис Джордж ", он не был здесь в течение более чем пятидесяти лет. Он никогда даже не видел мой Джордж, кто пятьдесят один очередной день рождения.
"" А что миссис Медоуз думаете об этом? " Спросил я.
"Ну, вы знаете, что она. Она сидит там и улыбается сама себе. Все, что она говорит," Он был симпатичный молодой человек, когда он ушел, но не так устойчиво, как его брат. Вот почему она выбрала отца моего Джорджа. Но он, вероятно, успокоились сейчас, "говорит она.

Результаты (русский) 3:

ферма находится в яме между сомерсетшира холмы, старый каменный дом, окруженный сараев и хозяйственные постройки.на дверях того момента, когда он был построен были вырезаны, 1673, и дом, серый и выветренной, выглядел как часть пейзажа, как деревья, которые окружили его.путь великолепной вязов во главе с дороги в сад.люди, которые жили здесь были, как stolid, крепкие и скромный, как дома.их только похвастаться было то, что с тех пор, как был построен дом от отца к сыну они были
родился и умер в нем.за триста лет они возделывали вокруг земли.
джордж луга в настоящее время мужчина за пятьдесят, и его жена была на год или два молодых.они оба были в порядке, честный человек в расцвете жизни;