Where Words Fail, Music Speaks.

‎"does All The Beauty Of The World Stop When You Die?" "no," Said The Old Oak; "it Will Last Much Longer - Longer Than I Can Even Think Of." "well, Then," Said The Little May-fly, "we Have The Same Time To Live; Only We Reckon Differently.

It Is Out Of Reality That The Most Peculiar Tale Of All Is Born ... Some Call Me The Elder Granny, Others - The Dryad, But My Real Name Is Memory. It Is I Who Sits On A Tree That Keeps On Growing, And Growing, It Is I Who Reminisces And Tells Stories.

It Is Out Of Reality That The Most Peculiar Tale Of All Is Born ... Some Call Me The Elder Granny, Others - The Dryad, But My Real Name Is Memory. It Is I Who Sits On A Tree That Keeps On Growing, And Growing, It Is I Who Reminisces And Tells Stories.

The Naive Was Only A Part Of My Fairy Tales; Humour Was The Real Salt In Them.

Farewell, Farewell," Said The Swallow, With A Heavy Heart, As He Left The Warm Countries, To Fly Back Into Denmark. There He Had A Nest Over The Window Of A House In Which Dwelt The Writer Of Fairy Tales. The Swallow Sang "tweet, Tweet," And From His Song Came The Whole Story.