I’m supposed to be posting a review of The Daring Book for Girls here tomorrow. The problem is, I haven’t read it yet because I cannot get it away from my daughters.
Jane just may have to be the one to review it. She snatched it up the moment it arrived, and that’s the last I saw of it.
Come to think of it, I haven’t seen much of her either. She surfaced briefly, brandishing a roll of packing tape, to ask if we had any old newspapers she could use to make a waterproof cushion for sitting on out-of-doors.
"It’s from the book," she explained.
She’s asleep right now…maybe I can sneak into her room and snatch the book from her bedside table. Because that’s the kind of daring girl I am.
E. B. White Essays
Hephaestus, Probably, Because He Always Seemed Kind of Sweet
Q: How Do You Feed the Habit?
Brouhaha over Books