Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton

           Atanyothertime,theseobstacleswouldhavemadeGabrielGrubverymoodyandmiserable,buthewassowellpleasedwithhavingstoppedthesmallboy’ssinging,thathetooklittleheedofthescantyprogresshehadmade,andlookeddownintothegrave,whenhehadfinishedworkforthenight,withgrimsatisfaction,murmuringashegathereduphisthings

           Bravelodgingsforone,bravelodgingsforone,

           Afewfeetofcoldearth,whenlifeisdone;

           Astoneatthehead,astoneatthefeet,

           Arich,juicymealforthewormstoeat;

           Rankgrassoverhead,anddampclayaround,

           Bravelodgingsforone,these,inholyground!

           ‘"Ho!ho!"laughedGabrielGrub,ashesathimselfdownonaflattombstonewhichwasafavouriteresting-placeofhis,anddrewforthhiswickerbottle."AcoffinatChristmas!AChristmasbox!Ho!ho!ho!"

           ‘"Ho!ho!ho!"repeatedavoicewhichsoundedclosebehindhim.

           ‘Gabrielpaused,insomealarm,intheactofraisingthewickerbottletohislips,andlookedround.Thebottomoftheoldestgraveabouthimwasnotmorestillandquietthanthechurchyardinthepalemoonlight.Thecoldhoarfrostglistenedonthetombstones,andsparkledlikerowsofgems,amongthestonecarvingsoftheoldchurch.

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