Mistress Mary Quite Contrary

I Am Sure There Is Magic In Everything, Only We Have Not Sense Enough To Get Hold Of It And Make It Do Things For Us

On The Hob Was A Little Brass Kettle, Hissing And Boiling; Spread Upon The Floor Was A Warm, Thick Rug; Before The Fire Was A Folding-chair, Unfolded And With Cushions On It; By The Chair Was A Small Folding-table, Unfolded, Covered With A White Cloth, And Upon It Were Spread Small Covered Dishes, A Cup And Saucer, And A Tea-pot; On The Bed Were New, Warm Coverings, A Curious Wadded Silk Robe, And Some Books. The Little, Cold, Miserable Room Seemed Changed Into Fairyland. It Was Actually Warm And Glowing.

At First People Refuse To Believe That A Strange New Thing Can Be Done, Then They Begin To Hope It Can Be Done, Then They See It Can Be Done--then It Is Done And All The World Wonders Why It Was Not Done Centuries Ago.

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.

We Do Not Believe Until We Want A Thing And Feel That We Shall Die If 'tis Not Granted To Us, And Then We Kneel And Kneel And Believe, Because We Must Have Someone To Ask Help From.