Writing For Children Is An Art In

The Little Island Seemed To Float On The Dark Lake-waters. Trees Grew On It, And A Little Hill Rose In The Middle Of It. It Was A Mysterious Island, Lonely And Beautiful. All The Children Stood And Gazed At It, Loving It And Longing To Go To It. It Looked So Secret - Almost Magic.

Leave Something For Someone But Dont Leave Someone For Something.

They Lay On Their Heathery Beds And Listened To All The Sounds Of The Night. They Heard The Little Grunt Of A Hedgehog Going By. They Saw The Flicker Of Bats Overhead. They Smelt The Drifting Scent Of Honeysuckle, And The Delicious Smell Of Wild Thyme Crushed Under Their Bodies. A Reed-warbler Sang A Beautiful Little Song In The Reeds Below, And Then Another Answered.

Mothers Were Much Too Sharp. They Were Like Dogs. Buster Always Sensed When Anything Was Out Of The Ordinary, And So Did Mothers. Mothers And Dogs Both Had A Kind Of Second Sight That Made Them See Into People's Minds And Know When Anything Unusual Was Going On.

Here Mr Potts Come Here You Little Idiot!