Somewhere, buried deep in the collected works of one of those old authors I love so well, I read the story—the legend perhaps—of a battle-weary crusader who had returned from the Holy Land. The years spent far from his home in England, and all the horrors he had witnessed in battle, had served to temper his character. He now longed for nothing more than to retire to his estates and to oversee his lands and holdings.
Terrible memories and horrifying dreams were not the only thing that returned with him, for he also carried a little leather pouch that was filled with seeds. As he had marched through the countryside outside Jerusalem, his eye had often alighted upon a beautiful white flower that covered the hills like a gentle blanket. He had eventually determined he would collect some of its seeds and carefully transport them home to see if they could grow in the vastly different climate of southern England.
And sure enough, the seeds proved hardy and quickly sprouted and grew. Year after year they responded to the first warm rays of the spring sun and brought forth their precious white blooms. Year after year they
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