I Pretend I Am A Princess,so That

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.

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

And They Both Began To Laugh Over Nothing As Children Will When They Are Happy Together. And They Laughed So That In The End They Were Making As Much Noise As If They Had Been Two Ordinary Healthy Natural Ten-year-old Creatures—instead Of A Hard, Little, Unloving Girl And A Sickly Boy Who Believed That He Was Going To Die.

I Am Writing In The Garden. To Write As One Should Of A Garden One Must Write Not Outside It Or Merely Somewhere Near It, But In The Garden.

Whatever Comes Cannot Alter One Thing.