There Is Naught A Man

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.

Imagine, If You Can, What The Rest Of The Evening Was Like. How They Crouched By The Fire Which Blazed And Leaped And Made Much Of Itself In The Little Grate. How They Removed The Covers Of The Dishes, And Found Rich, Hot Savory Soup, Which Was A Meal In Itself, And Sandwiches And Toast And Muffins Enough For Both Of Them.

She Says It Has Nothing To Do With What You Look Like, Or What You Have. It Has Only To Do With What You Think Of And What You Do.

The Difficulty Will Be To Keep Her From Learning Too Fast And Too Much. She Is Always Sitting With Her Little Nose Burrowing Into Books. She Doesn't Read Them, Miss Minchin; She Gobbles Them Up As If She Were A Little Wolf Instead Of A Little Girl. She Is Always Starving For New Books To Gobble, And She Wants Grown-up Books--great, Big, Fat Ones--french And German As Well As English--history And Biography And Poets, And All Sorts Of Things. Drag Her Away From Her Books When She Reads Too Much.

As Long As You Have A Garden You Have A Future And As Long As You Have A Future You Are Alive.