Monkeys Who Very Sensibly Refrain From Speech,

Spring Was Moving In The Air Above And In The Earth Below And Around Him, Penetrating Even His Dark And Lowly Little House With Its Spirit Of Divine Discontent And Longing.

Monkeys Who Very Sensibly Refrain From Speech, Lest They Should Be Set To Earn Their Livings.

As A Rule, Indeed, Grown-up People Are Fairly Correct On Matters Of Fact; It Is In The Higher Gift Of Imagination That They Are So Sadly To Seek.

There He Got Out The Luncheon-basket And Packed A Simple Meal, In Which, Remembering The Stranger's Origin And Preferences, He Took Care To Include A Yard Of Long French Bread, A Sausage Out Of Which The Garlic Sang, Some Cheese Which Lay Down And Cried, And A Long-necked Straw-covered Flask Wherein Lay Bottled Sunshine Shed And Garnered On Far Southern Slopes.

The Mole Was Bewitched, Entranced, Fascinated. By The Side Of The River He Trotted As One Trots, When Very Small, By The Side Of A Man Who Holds One Spellbound By Exciting Stories; And When Tired At Last, He Sat On The Bank, While The River Still Chattered On To Him, A Babbling Procession Of The Best Stories In The World, Sent From The Heart Of The Earth To Be Told At Last To The Insatiable Sea.