It was a
lovely wood: broad-leaved arums and primroses, and violets blue and
white, covered the ground in spring, and in summer there were hundreds
and hundreds of glow-worms, and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with
ivy and honeysuckle. It was a very pleasant place, and near to it a
poet's children were born; they had wandered in its wilds, had gathered
its flowers, and admired its glow-worms, and listened to the
turtle-doves, when they were very young; now, however, their home was
near London; they only went to Winterdown about once a year for a great
holiday. The old turtle-doves talked about the poet's children in
Winterdown, and the young doves fancied that they lived there always.
[Illustration: THE POET'S CHILDREN.]
It was now the time for them to set off on their long journey; the old
doves had exercised their young ones, and they were sure that they could
perform the journey. Next morning early they were to set off.
All night there was a light burning in the young musician's chamber,
and towards morning the most heavenly music sounded from the window,
which the old monk had opened a little, a very little, for fresh air,
because his young friend had complained of the room being close and hot.
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