a nice, gloomy, mournful place, into which the townspeople did not

much care to go, except in broad daylight, and when the sun was

shining; consequently, he was not a little indignant to hear a young

urchin roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this

very sanctuary which had been called Coffin Lane ever since the days

of the old abbey, and the time of the shaven-headed monks. As

Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he found it proceeded

from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one of the little

parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself company,

and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the

song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy

came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over the

head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to modulate

his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his head,

singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very

heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard, locking the gate

behind him.

He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the

unfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good- will.

But the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy

matter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although there was a

moon, it was a very young one, and shed little light upon the grave,

which was in the shadow of the church. At any other time, these

obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable,

but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy's

singing, that he took little heed of the scanty progress he had made,

and looked down into the grave, when he had finished work for the

night, with grim satisfaction, murmuring as he gathered up his things

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

The Pickwick Papers