We got a lot out of that page, rain and sun and sky and clouds, mountains, gardens, roses, lilies, flowers in general, "Blossoms of delight" they were called in the book and trees and the sea, and the desert and silver and iron--as much of all of them as anybody could possibly want.

There are no limits to poets' imaginations, you know.' 'I see,' said Lucy, and took a large bite of cake.

'And where did you come from, Polly, dear ?' 'I,' said the parrot modestly, 'came out of the same book as the Hippogriff.

We were on the same page.

My wings entitled me to associate with him, of course, but I have sometimes thought they just put me in as a contrast.