this green and fertile Devon lived a 

 widow who owned a rose-covered 

 cottage and loved all her flowers 

 dearly, for she had no children. In 

 her garden plot she grew, year after 

 year, tulips, — great golden ones, pale 

 pink, and scarlet ones like the heart 

 of a glowing coal. Every day in early 

 spring she watched and tended them, 

 covering the young plants with warm 

 leaves and straw when the nights 

 were frosty. When the hawthorn 

 just began to show its buds her tulips 

 were swinging their bells, and passers- 

 by on a clear night heard the softest 

 music coming from the garden bed. 

 They smiled as they heard it, for they 

 knew what it was. The pixies had 

 come out of the wood and were rock- 

 ing their little brown babies to sleep 

 in the tulip cups and singing softly as 

 they rocked. 

 As long as the widow lived her 



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