Like a lot of kids with discerning parents, when I was growing up, I owned a box set containing all twenty-three of Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit tales for children. It is sitting beside me as I write these words, though of course some of the books are missing and all the white slipcovers have long since disappeared. I have loved these books since before I could read, for the same reason that everyone else loves them: The illustrations are comforting and cozy, just like the chamomile tea which old Mrs. Rabbit gives Peter after his misadventure in the McGregor garden.
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