Put Your Hair Up, Min. The Secret

This Story Is About The Baudelaires. And They Are The Sort Of People Who Know That There’s Always Something. Something To Invent, Something To Read, Something To Bite, And Something To Do, To Make A Sanctuary, No Matter How Small. And For This Reason, I Am Happy To Say, The Baudelaires Were Very Fortunate Indeed.

It Is A Lonely Feeling When Someone You Care About Becomes A Stranger.

When Someone Is Crying, Of Course, The Noble Thing To Do Is To Comfort Them. But If Someone Is Trying To Hide Their Tears, It May Also Be Noble To Pretend You Do Not Notice Them.

Who Are You?" Violet Asked. It Is Confusing To Fall Asleep In The Daytime And Wake Up At Night. "what Are You Doing With Uncle Monty's Reptiles?" Klaus Asked. It Is Also Confusing To Realize You Have Been Sleeping On Stairs, Rather Than In A Bed Or Sleeping Bag. "dixnik?" Sunny Asked. It Is Always Confusing Why Anyone Would Choose To Wear A Plaid Shirt.

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.