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.

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.

I Think People Make Their Own Faces, As They Grow.

I Am Not Really Much Interested In Talking To Adults, Although I Suppose Practically Every Mother In The Kingdom Knows My Name And My Books. It's Their Children I Love.

I Do Love The Beginning Of The Summer Hols,' Said Julian. They Always Seem To Stretch Out Ahead For Ages And Ages.' 'they Go So Nice And Slowly At First,' Said Anne, His Little Sister. 'then They Start To Gallop.