The Book of the Native

The airs that blew from the brink of day Were fresh and wet with the breath of May. I heard the babble of brown brooks falling, And golden-wings in the woodside calling.

Produced by Larry B. Harrison, John Campbell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by...

“I must go back. Ride on to the river. Over the ford and the long marsh ride, Straight on to the town. And I’ll meet you, Sweetheart, Somewhere on the other side.”