a note of gold still sounding in the ear and heart, 

 we dance over the snow, stoop, and confidently brush 

 it aside, expecting not a miracle — only the fulfil- 

 ment of the robin's prophecy. Sure enough, there 

 before us, awakening from its bed of white, is the 

 still drowsy head of the snowdrop — small bell-like 

 head, whose tinkle is only to be heard by the fairies 

 and the friends of the fairies. 



110 



