Матильда

           Ithadagreyslateroofandonesmallchimney,andthereweretwolittlewindowsatthefront.Eachwindowwasnolargerthanasheetoftabloidnewspaperandtherewasclearlynoupstairstotheplace.Oneithersideofthepaththerewasawildernessofnettlesandblackberrythornsandlongbrowngrass.Anenormousoaktreestoodovershadowingthecottage.Itsmassivespreadingbranchesseemedtobeenfoldingandembracingthetinybuilding,andperhapshidingitaswellfromtherestoftheworld.

           MissHoney,withonehandonthegatewhichshehadnotyetopened,turnedtoMatildaandsaid,"ApoetcalledDylanThomasoncewrotesomelinesthatIthinkofeverytimeIwalkupthispath."

           Matildawaited,andMissHoney,inaratherwonderfulslowvoice,beganrecitingthepoem:

           "Neverandnever,mygirlridingfarandnearInthelandofthehearthstonetales,andspelledasleep,

           Fearorbelievethatthewolfinthesheepwhitehood

           Lopingandbleatingroughlyandblithelyshallleap,mydear,mydear,

           Outofalairintheflockedleavesinthedewdippedyear

           Toeatyourheartinthehouseintherosywood."

           Therewasamomentofsilence,andMatilda,whohadneverbeforeheardgreatromanticpoetryspokenaloud,wasprofoundlymoved."It’slikemusic,"shewhispered.

           "Itismusic,"MissHoneysaid.Andthen,asthoughembarrassedathavingrevealedsuchasecretpartofherself,shequicklypushedopenthegateandwalkedupthepath.Matildahungback.Shewasabitfrightenedofthisplacenow.