While the dwarf and the White Witch were saying this， miles away the Beavers and the children were walking on hour after hour into what seemed a delicious dream. Long ago they had left the coats behind them. And by now they had even stopped saying to one another， “Look！ there’s a kingfisher，” or， “I say， bluebells！” or， “What was that lovely smell？” or， “Just listen to that thrush！” They walked on in silence drinking it all in， passing through patches of warm sunlight into cool， green thickets and out again into wide mossy glades where tall elms raised the leafy roof far overhead， and then into dense masses of flowering currant and among hawthorn bushes where the sweet smell was almost overpowering.
