Дэвид Копперфильд

I have a Memorable Birthday

           Omerandanothercometomakeusready.AsPeggottywaswonttotellme,longago,thefollowersofmyfathertothesamegraveweremadereadyinthesameroom.

           ThereareMr.Murdstone,ourneighbourMr.Grayper,Mr.Chillip,andI.Whenwegoouttothedoor,theBearersandtheirloadareinthegarden;andtheymovebeforeusdownthepath,andpasttheelms,andthroughthegate,andintothechurchyard,whereIhavesooftenheardthebirdssingonasummermorning.

           Westandaroundthegrave.Thedayseemsdifferenttomefromeveryotherday,andthelightnotofthesamecolourofasaddercolour.Nowthereisasolemnhush,whichwehavebroughtfromhomewithwhatisrestinginthemould;andwhilewestandbareheaded,Ihearthevoiceoftheclergyman,soundingremoteintheopenair,andyetdistinctandplain,saying:‘IamtheResurrectionandtheLife,saiththeLord!’ThenIhearsobs;and,standingapartamongthelookers-on,Iseethatgoodandfaithfulservant,whomofallthepeopleuponearthIlovethebest,anduntowhommychildishheartiscertainthattheLordwillonedaysay:‘Welldone.’

           TherearemanyfacesthatIknow,amongthelittlecrowd;facesthatIknewinchurch,whenminewasalwayswonderingthere;facesthatfirstsawmymother,whenshecametothevillageinheryouthfulbloom.

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