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.

For quiet, solitary and observant children create their own world and live in it, nourishing their imaginations on the material at hand.

I have just made stories to please myself, because I never grew up.

Here comes Peter Cottontail right down the bunny trail.

I fear that we shall be obliged to leave this pudding

I cannot rest, I must draw, however poor the result, and when I have a bad time come over me it is a stronger desire than ever.

So much perfection argues rottenness somewhere.