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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 420/859
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Brave
lodgings
for
one
,
brave
lodgings
for
one
,
A
few
feet
of
cold
earth
,
when
life
is
done
;
A
stone
at
the
head
,
a
stone
at
the
feet
,
A
rich
,
juicy
meal
for
the
worms
to
eat
;
Rank
grass
overhead
,
and
damp
clay
around
,
Brave
lodgings
for
one
,
these
,
in
holy
ground
!
‘
"
Ho
!
ho
!
"
laughed
Gabriel
Grub
,
as
he
sat
himself
down
on
a
flat
tombstone
which
was
a
favourite
resting
-
place
of
his
,
and
drew
forth
his
wicker
bottle
.
"
A
coffin
at
Christmas
!
A
Christmas
box
!
Ho
!
ho
!
ho
!
"
‘
"
Ho
!
ho
!
ho
!
"
repeated
a
voice
which
sounded
close
behind
him
.
‘
Gabriel
paused
,
in
some
alarm
,
in
the
act
of
raising
the
wicker
bottle
to
his
lips
,
and
looked
round
.
The
bottom
of
the
oldest
grave
about
him
was
not
more
still
and
quiet
than
the
churchyard
in
the
pale
moonlight
.
The
cold
hoar
frost
glistened
on
the
tombstones
,
and
sparkled
like
rows
of
gems
,
among
the
stone
carvings
of
the
old
church
.
The
snow
lay
hard
and
crisp
upon
the
ground
;
and
spread
over
the
thickly
-
strewn
mounds
of
earth
,
so
white
and
smooth
a
cover
that
it
seemed
as
if
corpses
lay
there
,
hidden
only
by
their
winding
sheets
.
Not
the
faintest
rustle
broke
the
profound
tranquillity
of
the
solemn
scene
.
Sound
itself
appeared
to
be
frozen
up
,
all
was
so
cold
and
still
.
