Oh, Sometimes I Think It Is Of

It Was October Again ... A Glorious October, All Red And Gold, With Mellow Mornings When The Valleys Were Filled With Delicate Mists As If The Spirit Of Autumn Had Poured Them In For The Sun To Drain - Amethyst, Pearl, Silver, Rose, And Smoke-blue. The Dews Were So Heavy That The Fields Glistened Like Cloth Of Silver And There Were Such Heaps Of Rustling Leaves In The Hollows Of Many-stemmed Woods To Run Crisply Through.

Don't You Just Love Poetry That Gives You A Crinkly Feeling Up And Down Your Back?

One June Evening, When The Orchards Were Pink-blossomed Again, When The Frogs Were Singing Silverly Sweet In The Marshes About The Head Of The Lake Of Shining Waters, And The Air Was Full Of The Savor Of Clover Fields And Balsamic Fir Woods, Anne Was Sitting By Her Gable Window. She Had Been Studying Her Lessons, But It Had Grown Too Dark To See The Book, So She Had Fallen Into Wide-eyed Reverie, Looking Out Past The Boughs Of The Snow Queen, Once More Bestarred With Its Tufts Of Blossom.

Isn't It Splendid To Think Of All The Things There Are To Find Out About? It Just Makes Me Feel Glad To Be Alive--it's Such An Interesting World. It Wouldn't Be Half So Interesting If We Know All About Everything, Would It? There'd Be No Scope For Imagination Then, Would There?but Am I Talking Too Much? People Are Always Telling Me I Do. Would You Rather I Didn't Talk? If You Say So I'll Stop. I Can Stop When I Make Up My Mind To It, Although It's Difficult.

Why Is It That The Nicest Things Never Are Healthy?