Дэвид Копперфильд

Somebody Turns up

           HowoftenhaveIseenhim,intentuponamatchatmarblesorpegtop,lookingonwithafaceofunutterableinterest,andhardlybreathingatthecriticaltimes!Howoften,athareandhounds,haveIseenhimmountedonalittleknoll,cheeringthewholefieldontoaction,andwavinghishatabovehisgreyhead,obliviousofKingCharlestheMartyr’shead,andallbelongingtoit!HowmanyasummerhourhaveIknowntobebutblissfulminutestohiminthecricket-field!HowmanywinterdayshaveIseenhim,standingblue-nosed,inthesnowandeastwind,lookingattheboysgoingdownthelongslide,andclappinghisworstedglovesinrapture!

           Hewasanuniversalfavourite,andhisingenuityinlittlethingswastranscendent.Hecouldcutorangesintosuchdevicesasnoneofushadanideaof.Hecouldmakeaboatoutofanything,fromaskewerupwards.Hecouldturncramp-bonesintochessmen;fashionRomanchariotsfromoldcourtcards;makespokedwheelsoutofcottonreels,andbird-cagesofoldwire.Buthewasgreatestofall,perhaps,inthearticlesofstringandstraw;withwhichwewereallpersuadedhecoulddoanythingthatcouldbedonebyhands.

           Mr.Dick’srenownwasnotlongconfinedtous.AfterafewWednesdays,DoctorStronghimselfmadesomeinquiriesofmeabouthim,andItoldhimallmyaunthadtoldme;whichinterestedtheDoctorsomuchthatherequested,ontheoccasionofhisnextvisit,tobepresentedtohim.ThisceremonyIperformed;andtheDoctorbeggingMr.

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