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Updated: May 8, 2025
It was the end of March; the turtle-doves were all preparing for their flight to England; the pair that had built their nest under the musician's window had a home in some quiet woods in Surrey, where it was delightfully mild and pleasant even in winter, but they never were there in winter, although the wood had the name of Winterdown.
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. 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.
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