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Хора от бездната (People of the abyss, english version)
Preface
Chapter I. The descent
Chapter II. Johnny Upright
Chapter III. My lodging and some others
Chapter IV. A man and the abyss
Chapter V. Those on the edge
Chapter VI. Frying-pan alley and a glimpse of inferno
Chapter VII. A winner of the victoria cross
Chapter VIII. The carter and the carpenter
Chapter IX. The spike
Chapter X. Carrying the banner
Chapter XI. The peg
Chapter XII. Coronation day
Chapter XIII. Dan Cullen, docker
Chapter XIV. Hops and hoppers
Chapter XV. The Sea Wife
Chapter XVI. Property versus person
Chapter XVII. Inefficiency
Chapter XVIII. Wages
Chapter XIX. The Ghetto
Chapter XX. Coffee-houses and doss-houses
Chapter XXI. The precariousness of life
Chapter XXII. Suicide
Chapter XXIII. The children
Chapter XXIV. A vision of the night
Chapter XXV. The hunger wail
Chapter XXVI. Drink, temperance, and thrift
Chapter XXVII. The management
Challenge
  
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Хора от бездната (People of the abyss, english version)
Автор:
Джек Лондон (Jack London)

Challenge

    I have a vague remembrance
       Of a story that is told
    In some ancient Spanish legend
       Or chronicle of old.

    It was when brave King Sanche
       Was before Zamora slain,
    And his great besieging army
       Lay encamped upon the plain.

    Don Diego de Ordenez
       Sallied forth in front of all,
    And shouted loud his challenge
       To the warders on the wall.

    All the people of Zamora,
       Both the born and the unborn,
    As traitors did he challenge
       With taunting words of scorn.

    The living in their houses,
       And in their graves the dead,
    And the waters in their rivers,
       And their wine, and oil, and bread.

    There is a greater army
       That besets us round with strife,
    A starving, numberless army
       At all the gates of life.

    The poverty-stricken millions
       Who challenge our wine and bread,
    And impeach us all as traitors,
       Both the living and the dead.

    And whenever I sit at the banquet,
       Where the feast and song are high,
    Amid the mirth and music
       I can hear that fearful cry.

    And hollow and haggard faces
       Look into the lighted hall,
    And wasted hands are extended
       To catch the crumbs that fall

    And within there is light and plenty,
       And odours fill the air;
    But without there is cold and darkness,
       And hunger and despair.

    And there in the camp of famine,
       In wind, and cold, and rain,
    Christ, the great Lord of the Army,
       Lies dead upon the plain.

                                        LONGFELLOW

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