Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

A good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a Wedding, and some other Sports beside:

           ‘Inhisfinehonestpride,hescornstohideOnejotofhishard-weatherscars;They’renodisgrace,forthere’smuchthesametraceOnthecheeksofourbravesttars.ThenagainIsingtilltheroofdothringAnditechoesfromwalltowall—Tothestoutoldwight,fairwelcometo-night,AstheKingoftheSeasonsall!’

           Thissongwastumultuouslyapplauded—forfriendsanddependentsmakeacapitalaudience—andthepoorrelations,especially,wereinperfectecstasiesofrapture.Againwasthefirereplenished,andagainwentthewassailround.

           ‘Howitsnows!’saidoneofthemen,inalowtone.

           ‘Snows,doesit?’saidWardle.

           ‘Rough,coldnight,Sir,’repliedtheman;‘andthere’sawindgotup,thatdriftsitacrossthefields,inathickwhitecloud.’

           ‘WhatdoesJemsay?’inquiredtheoldlady.‘Thereain’tanythingthematter,isthere?’

           ‘No,no,mother,’repliedWardle;‘hesaysthere’sasnowdrift,andawindthat’spiercingcold.Ishouldknowthat,bythewayitrumblesinthechimney.’

           ‘Ah!’saidtheoldlady,‘therewasjustsuchawind,andjustsuchafallofsnow,agoodmanyyearsback,Irecollect—justfiveyearsbeforeyourpoorfatherdied.ItwasaChristmasEve,too;andIrememberthatonthatverynighthetoldusthestoryaboutthegoblinsthatcarriedawayoldGabrielGrub.’

           ‘Thestoryaboutwhat?’saidMr.Pickwick

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