CORNELLI
had gone by and already a mild wind was blowing through the streets, and the melting snow was dropping from the roofs.
From the top of a roof a little bird was whistling and singing a song of delight to the bright blue sky above. Cornelli’s school had been over sooner than the other children’s, so she was in no hurry and stood still to listen. A ray of sunshine was flowing into the street, and the bird kept on singing and whistling, on and on, a heavenly, familiar sound.
Suddenly the lovely beech wood at home rose before Cornelli’s eyes, and she saw the trees in their first green leaves, the first violets under the hedge, her beloved first violets; she saw the yellow crocuses sparkling beside the bright red primroses in the garden. The birds at home used to whistle above her in all the trees in just the same way as these in the city.
Oh, how lovely the coming of the spring had always been at home! How wonderful it would be to see all these familiar sights again! At that thought Cornelli ran to the house as fast as she possibly could. Sitting down beside her ink-well she wrote as follows:
238
