"It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside."
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More by Maud Hart Lovelace
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"This poor world, the object of so much insane attachment, we are about to leave; it is but misery, vanity, and folly; a phantom, — the very fashion of which "passeth away."
"Ah! Silence is golden. When I was in my observatory at Belle-croix, I dared not move as the silence opened to me a course of discoveries. The families of the wood were then in action. It was the silen…"
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