Chapters 20
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1 Winter - Read by ADD 0:55
In the rigorous hours, when down the iron lane, The redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws. Lo! Shining flowers upon my window-pane, The silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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2 Winter - Read by BS 0:56
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane, the redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws. Lo, shining flowers, upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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3 Winter - Read by CAL 0:46
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth the laughter of the logs, More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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4 Winter - Read by CD 0:56
flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws when all the snowy hill and all the bare woods are still When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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5 Winter - Read by CMW 0:50
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson. In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane, The red-breast looks in vain for hips and haws. Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane, The silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth the laughter of the logs, More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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6 Winter - Read by DII 0:48
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red-breast looks in vain for hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snives are silent in the frozen box, And all the garden garth is whelmed with mire. Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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7 Winter - Read by DL 0:53
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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8 Winter - Read by EEP 0:56
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red-breast looks in vain for hips and horse, lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen box, and all the garden-garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs! More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!
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9 Winter - Read by GK 0:54
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson. In rigorous hours when down the iron lane the redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws. Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth the laughter of the logs, More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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10 Winter - Read by GOS 0:53
Winter, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs. More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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11 Winter - Read by JOC 0:54
Two thousand nine in rigorous hours when down the iron lane the red-breast looks in vain for hips and haws. Low shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws when all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden-garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth the laughter of the logs, More fair than roses, Lo, the flowers of fire.
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12 Winter - Read by KTH 0:52
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane, the red-breast looks in vain, for hips and hauls, lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-goth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses. Lo, the flowers of fire.
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13 Winter - Read by LKP 0:45
Winter, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red-breast looks in vain for hips and haws, lo, the shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, More fair than roses, lo, the flower of fire.
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14 Winter - Read by MDV 0:49
for hips and haws low shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws when all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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15 Winter - Read by PG 0:55
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red-breast looks in vain for hips and hauls, low shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses. Lo, the flowers of fire.
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16 Winter - Read by RD 0:50
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson.
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws, Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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17 Winter - Read by RG 1:00
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson. In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red-breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden-garth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses. Lo, the flowers of fire.
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18 Winter - Read by RN 1:00
winter, in rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the red breast looks in vain for hips and haws, low shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill And the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden-garth is whelmed in mire, Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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19 Winter - Read by SMH 0:52
In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane the redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws. Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, and all the garden garth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.
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20 Winter - Read by TG 0:47
Winter by Robert Louis Stevenson. In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane, the redbreast looks in vain for hips and haws. Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane, the silver pencil of the winter draws. When all the snowy hill and the bare woods are still, when snipes are silent in the frozen bogs, And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire. Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs, more fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire.