Perhaps There Is A Language Which Is

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.

Sometimes Since I've Been In The Garden I've Looked Up Through The Trees At The Sky And I Have Had A Strange Feeling Of Being Happy As If Something Was Pushing And Drawing In My Chest And Making Me Breathe Fast. Magic Is Always Pushing And Drawing And Making Things Out Of Nothing. Everything Is Made Out Of Magic, Leaves And Trees, Flowers And Birds, Badgers And Foxes And Squirrels And People. So It Must Be All Around Us. In This Garden - In All The Places.

To Speak Robin To A Robin Is Like Speaking French To A Frenchman

She Did Not Care Very Much For Other Little Girls, But If She Had Plenty Of Books She Could Console Herself.

Her Affection For Everything She Could Love Increased.