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Elizabeth's fingers Mendelssohn's song, "Through the dark green Forest," rang deliciously through the little room. Her parents sat quietly listening. Little Ernst dropped asleep. Without, the howling of the storm was lulled, but the snow was driving noiselessly past the uncurtained window in huge flakes. The opposite chimneys, no longer smoking, had put on thick white night-caps, and looked stiffly and coldly, like peevish old age, into the little attic room, which enclosed, in the midst of the snow-storm, a perfect spring of joy and gaiety within its four walls. CHAPTER III. Whitsuntide ! A word that will thrill with its magic the human soul as long as trees burst into leaf, larks soar trilling aloft, and clear spring skies laugh above us. A word which can awaken an echo of spring in hearts encrusted with selfishness and greed of gain, chilled by the snows of age, or deadened by grief and care. Whitsuntide is at hand. A gentle breeze flutters over the Thuringian mountains, and brushes from their brows the last remains of the snow which whirls mistily into the air and leaves its old abiding-place in the guise of luminous spring clouds. Freed from their wintry garments, the mountains deck their rugged brows with wreaths of young strawberry vines and bilberries. In the valley below, the rippling trout-stream is flowing forth from the dark forest directly across the flower-strewn meadow. e lonely saw-mill is clacking merrily, while its lowthatched roof shines white with the fallen blossoms of the sheltering fruit trees. Before the windows of the scattered huts of the woodcutters and of the villagers many an accomplished bullfinch was singing in his little cage the airs which were thefruits of a course of instruction in high art, during the winter in the hot, close ...