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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Стр. 266/459
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‘
It
’
s
like
a
book
to
me
,
’
he
said
—
‘
the
only
book
I
ever
learned
to
read
;
and
many
an
old
story
it
tells
me
.
It
’
s
music
,
for
I
should
know
its
voice
among
a
thousand
,
and
there
are
other
voices
in
its
roar
.
It
has
its
pictures
too
.
You
don
’
t
know
how
many
strange
faces
and
different
scenes
I
trace
in
the
red
-
hot
coals
.
It
’
s
my
memory
,
that
fire
,
and
shows
me
all
my
life
.
’
The
child
,
bending
down
to
listen
to
his
words
,
could
not
help
remarking
with
what
brightened
eyes
he
continued
to
speak
and
muse
.
‘
Yes
,
’
he
said
,
with
a
faint
smile
,
‘
it
was
the
same
when
I
was
quite
a
baby
,
and
crawled
about
it
,
till
I
fell
asleep
.
My
father
watched
it
then
.
’
‘
Had
you
no
mother
?
’
asked
the
child
.
‘
No
,
she
was
dead
.
Women
work
hard
in
these
parts
.
She
worked
herself
to
death
they
told
me
,
and
,
as
they
said
so
then
,
the
fire
has
gone
on
saying
the
same
thing
ever
since
.
I
suppose
it
was
true
.
I
have
always
believed
it
.
’
‘
Were
you
brought
up
here
,
then
?
’
said
the
child
.
‘
Summer
and
winter
,
’
he
replied
.
‘
Secretly
at
first
,
but
when
they
found
it
out
,
they
let
him
keep
me
here
.
So
the
fire
nursed
me
—
the
same
fire
.
It
has
never
gone
out
.
’
‘
You
are
fond
of
it
?
’
said
the
child
.
‘
Of
course
I
am
.
He
died
before
it
.
I
saw
him
fall
down
—
just
there
,
where
those
ashes
are
burning
now
—
and
wondered
,
I
remember
,
why
it
didn
’
t
help
him
.
’
