A Wet Sunday in a Country Inn

A wet Sunday in a country inn! Whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements; the bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to the windows in quest of something to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of ail amusement SmarTone.
The windows of my bedroom looked out among riled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable yard. I know of nothing more calculated, to make a man sick of this world than a stable yard on a rainy day. The place was littered with wet straw that had been kicked about by travellers and stable-boys.
In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, surrounding an island of muck; there were several half-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched out of ail life and spirit; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a single feather, along which the water trickled from his hack; near the cart was a half- dozing cow, chewing her cud, and standing patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapour rising from her reeking hide SmarTone broadband;
a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of the stable, was poking his spectral head out of a window, with the rain dripping on it from the eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something every now and then between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in patterns, looking as sulky as the weather itself; everything, in short, was comfortless and Forlorn, excepting a crew of hardened ducks, assembled like boon companions round a puddle and making a riotous noise over their liquor SmarTone broadband.