What Wonders Can You Tell Me?

         Harvey had been sitting by his fireplace for what seemed like weeks now, unable to go out into the world due it the excessive amounts of powdery white snow that had been spewing out of the slate gray clouds that loomed above his sturdy European style abode. All he could do was sit in front of the fire engrossed in J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, pausing in intervals to either sip on or brew another kettle of tea. The warm brown liquid warmed his entire body from his chapped, flushed lips, to his woolen, argyle-clad toes. He smiled in spite of himself thinking that the only way the past few days could be any better was if he had a few slices of salted ham to prick his taste buds, but then again anything had to be better than the tasteless gruel he had to warm up on the makeshift stove near the fireplace everyday.
         He sighed adjusting his legs to drape the right one over the left and gingerly used one finger to push his glasses back into place, once adjusted he returned his aristocratic nose to the frayed and torn book. He turned the final, yellowed page to read the last words only to close the book for a few days to give it a rest before returning to it again. His green eyes raised themselves to look curiously to the giant mahogany bookshelf that enveloped the fireplace. The emerald irises locked on to the black leather bound book that had seen better days. He gave an impish smile before getting up to pad across the frigid hardwood floor and grasp the book in his calloused palms; the chipped gold embossing seemed to shine at the warm, friendly touch.
         “What wonders have you waiting for me Mr. Poe?”