Miracles are all about the little ones of Teilo.
"With Brynach aforetime did angels company in the wilderness about Nant Nimer.
No harvest had Llandaff but flower of the broom, the gold-finch of the meadows.
Surely white messengers were at hand for the succour of the Côr of Teilo!"
David listened at first with a slight frown, but by the end of the second triad his countenance had softened.
"Truth governs the tongue of Gwhir," said he. "Hearken! there is also music over yonder. Give me thy arm, my Ismael—I would hear the children sing."
They left the dingle, David and his followers, and ascended a gentle slope that led to an open stretch of level, sheep-cropped sward. Here stunted cowslips grew, and daisies, and a few stray tufts of thyme greeted the footsteps of each comer with their tonic perfume. Young men and girls, partnered in couples, were dancing about a blossoming hawthorn. At their shoulders and wrists, their knees or their ankles, coloured ribbons fluttered; and as they sprang, with outstretched arms, to touch the tree-trunk they hissed between tongue and palate. A man played shrilly upon a pipe, and a number of elderly women, seated upon the ground, were singing:
"Arianrod's battlements light the pathless waste of the sky.
Oak for power, and ash for aid, and birch for constancy!
Bird calls to bird that gone is winter, the time of hunger and fear.