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Glazunov’s gnomes have lit a fi re, melted the snow and driven away the winter. Tchaikovsky is admiring larks and snowdrops. Vivaldi has become a goatherd and is now peacefully dozing off in the shade of blooming trees with nymphs dancing around. The air is fi lled with cheerful chatter of Respighi’s birds. LeNeSOns, where is your wheel-barrow? Where is your spade?
11.00 / Saturday / Riga, The Great Guild