I dream of Ireland in the Spring

and of England in the Fall.

Of Paris in the winter

and Prince Edward Island in the summer.

I dream of a backpack with my journal and a change of clothes,

of meeting people on the road.

I dream of sleeping on a beach on the Australian coast

and becoming best friends with an Alaskan bear.

I spend my Saturdays thinking about riding horses through the Highlands

and having tea with a German duke.

Having tea with Peter in Kensington Gardens... mayhap we'll catch a Wendy-bird.

(Today is JM Barrie's birthday - Make sure you send him a kiss! )

What a life that would be. Before I grow up, I intend to live it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I haven't the energy within me, my darlings, to find some lovely pictures to go with my post,

please forgive me. My words will have to be enough for today

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Home again, Home again,

soon we will be home again.

All will be well

I have returned to the place of my heart for the summer, and there isn't a happier clam

in the sea than me. I have a dreadful amount of unpacking to do, but once that is finished,

I will move on to more pleasant things.

Like romping in the woods,

and writing stories,

and spending time with Papa, Brother and Bubba Bears

and Mama Bears too.

I have a whole list of books I am determined to read

and many new friends I am intending to meet.

Summer! Welcome back my dear friend! I have missed you so.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of dear friends, I simply must share with you what one of mine gave me the other day. 

My very first blog award and the sweetest one I have ever seen. Pixie dear, how did you ever know that cupcakes are my very favorite? I am truly touched. 

If you wish to read the most sincerely thoughtful and lovingly beautiful blogs on my blog list, please go visit my dear friend Pixie July. The rest of your day will be delightful if you do. I know mine always are.

The sun just touched the morning;
The morning, happy thing,
Supposed that he had come to dwell,
And life would be all spring.
She felt herself supremer,—
A raised, ethereal thing;
Henceforth for her what holiday!
Meanwhile, her wheeling king
Trailed slow along the orchards
His haughty, spangled hems,
Leaving a new necessity,—
The want of diadems!
The morning fluttered, staggered,
Felt feebly for her crown,—
Her unanointed forehead
Henceforth her only one. ~Emily Dickinson