Рождественская история

           For,thepeoplewhowereshovellingawayonthehousetopswerejovialandfullofglee;callingouttooneanotherfromtheparapets,andnowandthenexchangingafacetioussnowball—better-naturedmissilefarthanmanyawordyjest—laughingheartilyifitwentrightandnotlessheartilyifitwentwrong.Thepoulterers’shopswerestillhalfopen,andthefruiterers’wereradiantintheirglory.Thereweregreat,round,round,pot-belliedbasketsofchestnuts,shapedlikethewaistcoatsofjollyoldgentlemen,lollingatthedoors,andtumblingoutintothestreetintheirapoplecticopulence.Therewereruddy,brown-faced,broad-girthedSpanishonions,shininginthefatnessoftheirgrowthlikeSpanishFriars,andwinkingfromtheirshelvesinwantonslynessatthegirlsastheywentby,andglanceddemurelyatthehung-upmistletoe.Therewerepearsandapples,clusteredhighinbloomingpyramids;therewerebunchesofgrapes,made,intheshopkeepers’benevolence,todanglefromconspicuoushooks,thatpeople’smouthsmightwatergratisastheypassed;therewerepilesoffilberts,mossyandbrown,recalling,intheirfragrance,ancientwalksamongthewoods,andpleasantshufflingsankledeepthroughwitheredleaves;therewereNorfolkBiffins,squatandswarthy,settingofftheyellowoftheorangesandlemons,and,inthegreatcompactnessoftheirjuicypersons,urgentlyentreatingandbeseechingtobecarriedhomeinpaperbagsandeatenafterdinner.