Once Long Ago

I don't remember not having this book. I vaguely recall reading it late at night when I was supposed to be sleeping, as entranced by the gorgeous pictures as I was by the stories.

I think my mother picked it up second-hand. My copy doesn't have a dust cover - I don't even recognize the one in the picture posted here, so I doubt mine ever had it.

This is the book I would save from a fire. When we purge the bookshelves to downsize, this one is coming with us. It defines for me the arbitrariness of categorizing books by age-group. It still captures my imagination as much as it did when I was four years old.  A good story is a good story. Where does age come into it?