The reason he called them the ‘Canterbury Tales’ was because they were supposed to be told by a number of travellers who met at an inn, and went together on a pilgrimage to a saint’s shrine at Canterbury.

But I shall now let Chaucer tell you about his interesting company in his own way.

He begins with a beautiful description of the spring—the time usually chosen for long journeys, or for any new undertaking, in those days.

When you go out into the gardens or the fields, and see the fresh green of the hedges and the white May blossoms and the blue sky, think of Chaucer and his Canterbury Pilgrims!

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Chaucer’s Prologue.

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swooteWhen, sweet
The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote,root
And bathud every veyne in swich licour,such liquor
Of which vertue engendred is the flour;flower
Whan Zephirus[27] eek with his swete breethalso, breath
Enspirud hath in every holte and heethgrove
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonneyoung
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne,run
And smale fowles maken melodie,small birds make
That slepen al the night with open yhe,sleep, eye
So priketh hem nature in here corages:—pricketh them, their impulses
Thanne longen folk to gon on pilgrimages,long, go
And palmers[28] for to seeken straunge strondes,seek, shores
To ferne halwes, kouthe[29] in sondry londes;distant saints
And specially from every schires ende
Of Engelond, to Canturbury they wende,go
The holy blisful martir[30] for to seeke,blessed, seek
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.them, sick
When April hath his sweetest showers brought
To pierce the heart of March and banish drought,
Then every vein is bathéd by his power,
With fruitful juice engendering the flower;
When the light zephyr, with its scented breath,
Stirs to new life in every holt and heath
The tender crops, what time the youthful sun
Hath in the Ram his course but half-way run;
And when the little birds make melody,
That sleep the whole night long with open eye,
So Nature rouses instinct into song,—
Then folk to go as pilgrims greatly long,
And palmers hasten forth to foreign strands
To worship far-off saints in sundry lands;
And specially from every shire’s end
Of England, unto Canterbury they wend,
Before the blessed martyr there to kneel,
Who oft hath help’d them by his power to heal.

It happened that one day in the spring, as I was resting at the Tabard[31] Inn, in Southwark, ready to go on my devout pilgrimage to Canterbury, there arrived towards night at the inn a large company of all sorts of people—nine-and-twenty of them: they had met by chance, all being pilgrims to Canterbury.[32] The chambers and the stables were roomy, and so every one found a place. And shortly, after sunset, I had made friends with them all, and soon became one of their party. We all agreed to rise up early, to pursue our journey together.[33]