Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

An old-fashioned Card-party — The Clergyman’s verses — The Story of the Convict’s Return

           

           ‘Nowthis,’saidthehospitablehost,whowassittingingreatstatenexttheoldlady’sarm-chair,withherhandfastclaspedinhis—‘thisisjustwhatIlikethehappiestmomentsofmylifehavebeenpassedatthisoldfireside;andIamsoattachedtoit,thatIkeepupablazingfirehereeveryevening,untilitactuallygrowstoohottobearit.Why,mypooroldmother,here,usedtositbeforethisfireplaceuponthatlittlestoolwhenshewasagirl;didn’tyou,mother?’

           Thetearwhichstartsunbiddentotheeyewhentherecollectionofoldtimesandthehappinessofmanyyearsagoissuddenlyrecalled,stoledowntheoldlady’sfaceassheshookherheadwithamelancholysmile.

           ‘Youmustexcusemytalkingaboutthisoldplace,Mr.Pickwick,’resumedthehost,afterashortpause,‘forIloveitdearly,andknownoothertheoldhousesandfieldsseemlikelivingfriendstome;andsodoesourlittlechurchwiththeivy,aboutwhich,bythebye,ourexcellentfriendtheremadeasongwhenhefirstcameamongstus.Mr.Snodgrass,haveyouanythinginyourglass?’

           ‘Plenty,thankyou,’repliedthatgentleman,whosepoeticcuriosityhadbeengreatlyexcitedbythelastobservationofhisentertainer.‘Ibegyourpardon,butyouweretalkingaboutthesongoftheIvy.’

           ‘Youmustaskourfriendoppositeaboutthat,’saidthehostknowingly,indicatingtheclergymanbyanodofhishead.

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