"anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did."

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It is noticeable how intuitively in age we go back with strange fondness to all that is fresh in the earliest dawn of youth. If we never cared for little children before, we delight to see them roll in the grass over which we hobble on crutches. The grandsire turns wearily from his middle-aged, careworn son, to listen with infant laugh to the prattle of an infant grandchild. It is the old who plant young trees; it is the old who are most saddened by the autumn; and feel most delight in the returning spring.

— Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton