On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.

And if he forgets them so quickly," Wendy argued, "how can we expect that he will go on remembering us?

That fiend!" Mr. Darling would cry, and Nana's bark was the echo of it, but Mrs. Darling never upbraided Peter; there was something in the right-hand corner of her mouth that wanted her not to call Peter names.

I suppose it's like the ticking crocodile, isn't it? Time is chasing after all of us.

All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust.

If growing up means it would be beneath my dignity to climb a tree, I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up! Not me!

Boy, why are you crying?