Here comes Peter Cottontail right down the bunny trail.

There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you.

I fear that we shall be obliged to leave this pudding

I think if she lived in A little shoe-house That little old woman was Surely a mouse!

Sunday, January 27, 1884. -- There was another story in the paper a week or so since. A gentleman had a favourite cat whom he taught to sit at the dinner table where it behaved very well. He was in the habit of putting any scraps he left onto the cat's plate. One day puss did not take his place punctually, but presently appeared with two mice, one of which it placed on its master's plate, the other on its own.

Most people, after one success, are so cringingly afraid of doing less well that they rub all the edge off their subsequent work.

Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some chamomile tea: "One table-spoonful to be taken at bedtime.