In this book are several tales of the Beautiful Valley of Phunnyland, a very remarkable place where no one ever dies, and people are always young and beautiful. All the necessities of life—and the luxuries too—grow on trees in this valley, so one merely has to wait until the object of one’s desire is ripe and then pick it. As everywhere else, it rains in Phunnyland, but the drops are lemonade, the lightning resembles fireworks and ‘the thunder is usually a chorus from the opera of Tannhauser.’