I Am Writing In The Garden. To

Two Things Cannot Be In One Place. Where You Tend A Rose, My Lad, A Thistle Cannot Grow.

In The Garden There Was Nothing Which Was Not Quite Like Themselves - Nothing Which Did Not Understand The Wonderfulness Of What Was Happening To Them - The Immense, Tender, Terrible, Heart-breaking Beauty And Solemnity Of Eggs. If There Had Been One Person In That Garden Who Had Not Known Through All His Or Her Innermost Being That If An Egg Were Taken Away Or Hurt The Whole World Would Whirl Round And Crash Through Space And Come To An End... There Could Have Been No Happiness Even In That Golden Springtime Air.

Might I," Quavered Mary, "might I Have A Bit Of Earth?

Of Course There Must Be Lots Of Magic In The World, But People Don't Know What It Is Like Or How To Make It.

But I Suppose There Might Be Good In Things, Even If We Don't See It.