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Updated: April 30, 2025
"We are not in England, my dear Emma," said Mr. Campbell; "and wild turkeys are not to be ordered from the poulterer's." "I know that we are not in England, my dear uncle, and I feel it too. How was the day before every Christmas-day spent at Wexton Hall!
Do you know, I don't believe Achilles had ever so much as seen a hare before? not a live one! He smelt one once at a poulterer's a dead one that was starting for the Antipodes with its legs crossed. The poulterer lost his temper, very absurdly...." "Well did he catch the hare? I mean the first hare." "That I can't say. Both vanished, and I suspect the hare got away.
Among his finer pictures are 'An Old Woman reading the Bible to her Husband, in the Louvre; 'The Poulterer's Shop, in the National Gallery. His chef d'oeuvre, 'The Woman Sick of the Dropsy, is in the Louvre. His candlelight is the finest rendered by any master. There is a good example of it in 'The Evening School, in the Amsterdam Gallery.
In the broad High Street, thronged with folk, and dissonant with tram cars and motor 'buses, he came upon a quarrelsome crowd looking up at a window above a poulterer's shop, from which hung something white, like a strip of wall paper. Approaching, he perceived that it bore a crude drawing of a convict and "Good old Dartmoor" for legend.
For he never used, he said, to pass the value of sixpence at a meal no, nor even that much, "For when I bring home a goose," quoth he, "it is not out of the poulterer's shop, where folk find them with their feathers ready plucked and see which is the fattest, and yet for sixpence buy and choose the best; but out of the housewife's house, at first hand, which can supply them somewhat cheaper, you know, than the poulterer can.
So going home, and my coach stopping in Newgate Market over against a poulterer's shop, I took occasion to buy a rabbit, but it proved a deadly old one when I came to eat it, as I did do after an hour being at my office, and after supper again there till past 11 at night. So home,, and to bed. This day Mr.
Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob's will be!" The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one, but write it he did, somehow, and went down-stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer's man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye. "I shall love it, as long as I live!" cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand.
I shut the door into the inner office and moved up behind him. He made no sign that he saw or heard. I looked over his shoulder, and read, amid half-formed words, sentences, and wild scratches: Very cold it was. Very cold The hare the hare the hare The birds He raised his head sharply, and frowned toward the blank shutters of the poulterer's shop where they jutted out against our window.
The pillars of stacked ware flanking the fronts of pottery shops were in a constant state of wreckage and reconstruction; the stalls of fruiterers perfumed the air with crushed and over-ripe produce; litters with dark-eyed occupants and fan-bearing attendants stood before the doorways of lapidaries and booths of stuffs; venders of images, unguents, trinkets and wines strove to outcry one another or the poulterer's squawking stall.
Somehow the face seemed to him familiar, and he set himself to recall whose it could be. At length he recollected that it was the face of his hostess. Probably it meant, in the bird's alien tongue, "Good morning to you!" Chichikov retorted by calling the bird a fool, and then himself approached the window to look at the view. It appeared to comprise a poulterer's premises.
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