He Was Never More Sinister Than When

For Several Days After My First Book Was Published, I Carried It About In My Pocket And Took Surreptitious Peeps At It To Make Sure The Ink Had Not Faded.

Peter Was Not Quite Like Other Boys; But He Was Afraid At Last. A Tremour Ran Through Him, Like A Shudder Passing Over The Sea; But On The Sea One Shudder Follows Another Till There Are Hundreds Of Them, And Peter Felt Just The One. Next Moment He Was Standing Erect On The Rock Again, With That Smile On His Face And A Drum Beating Within Him. It Was Saying, "to Die Will Be An Awfully Big Adventure.

I've Sometimes Thought . . . That The Difference Between Us And The English Is That The Scotch Are Hard In All Other Respects But Soft With Women, And The English Are Hard With Women But Soft In All Other Respects.

Times Have Changed Since A Certain Author Was Executed For Murdering His Publisher. They Say That When The Author Was On The Scaffold He Said Good-bye To The Minister And To The Reporters, And Then He Saw Some Publishers Sitting In The Front Row Below, And To Them He Did Not Say Good-bye. He Said Instead, "i'll See You Again."

Of Course The Neverlands Vary A Good Deal. John's, For Instance, Had A Lagoon With Flamingos Flying Over It At Which John Was Shooting, While Michael, Who Was Very Small, Had A Flamingo With Lagoons Flying Over It. John Lived In A Boat Turned Upside Down On The Sands, Michael In A Wigwam, Wendy In A House Of Leaves Deftly Sewn Together. John Had No Friends, Michael Had Friends At Night, Wendy Had A Pet Wolf Forsaken By Its Parents.