HE WALKS ACROSS TRAFALGAR SQUARE,
BECAUSE HE KNOWS THE PIGEONS THERE
Title: The little white gate
Author: Florence Hoatson
Illustrator: Margaret Tarrant
Release date: July 29, 2022 [eBook #68642]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: George G. Harrap & Co. Ltd, 1925
Credits: Al Haines
By
FLORENCE HOATSON
Illustrated by
MARGARET W. TARRANT
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD
LONDON CALCUTTA SYDNEY
To
MY FATHER
First published 1925
by GEORGE G. HARRAP & Co. LTD.
39-41 Parker Street, Kingsway, London, W.C.2
Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh
Acknowledgment
The author's best thanks are due to the Editor of The Schoolmistress for permission to include many verses which have appeared in that journal; also to the Editor and Proprietors of Punch for courteously allowing the inclusion of "Hyde Park"; and to the Editor of the Daily News for permission to reprint "Christmas Eve."
HE WALKS ACROSS TRAFALGAR SQUARE,
BECAUSE HE KNOWS THE PIGEONS THERE
Contents
I. Field and Garden
(All the Year Round)
The First Lamb
The First Shoot
The Bulb House
God's Pictures
Yellow
Grey Girl
Buttercup Gold
The Green Bank of England
A Day
A Summer Picture
Leap Year
Songs of the Pine-wood
A Poppy Song
The Bird Bath
Autumn
Who?
The Friend of Santa Claus
Christmas Eve
II. Fairies
Hyde Park
Moss
Little Moth
Fairies in the Cupboard
Fairy Frilly
The Snail and the Fairy
When Fairies have a Picnic
Fairy Gramophone
A Wish
III. Home
Granny
Blossoms
Aunty's Album
Aunt Matilda
Aunt Matilda Again
When Mummy has a Headache
To Mummy
Naughty
The Little Drawer
Mother and the Dark
Influenza
The Little Boy Next Door
A Little Boy's Thoughts
Two Dolls
Tibby
The Thin Cat
Pussy Language
Estella
Dreams
IV. Stories
The Pixies on the Moor
Jerry
The Toys in the Cupboard
The Pencil's Story
New Year
Brother Francis
The Little Red Lamp (missing from source book)
A gate is made for shutting, and that is always right,
But only when it's black, and brown, NEVER when it's white,
Never when it's white, dears, and very tiny too;
It always must be open for the fairies to slip through!
They choose a little white gate became it's clean and neat,
They sit upon the topmost bar and swing their fairy feet;
And if you say you love them they'll make a fairy din,
And open wide the little gate and simply pull you in!
FIELD AND GARDEN
(All the Year Round)
Take a bit of woolly stuff,
Kiss it till it's warm enough,
Roll it up with play and fun,
That's a lamb—a little one!
He peeped up through the winter snow,
His little hands together—so,
I almost think I heard his prayer;
He did not know that I was there.
The little bulb house is a house of brown,
Its doors are locked and its blinds are down
Winds may whistle and winds may creep,
The little brown house is a house of sleep.
But when the sun gives a golden knock
The blinds go up and the doors unlock.
The sleepy tenant will softly stir,
And throw off the garment that covers her.
And she will put on her dress with care,
A Hyacinth lady, tall and fair.
All this magic in scent and blue
You may buy in the shop for a copper or two!
God keeps His pictures in the big Outside,
And some are narrow ones and some are wide.
I like His picture of the field the best,
With grass, and sky that meets it, and the rest
Of very lovely things I cannot name—
The hawthorn hedge around it is the frame.
Of all the colours God has made
I love the pretty yellow shade—
The colour of canaries' wings,
Of baby ducks, and fluffy things;
I think He must have spilt the sun
Upon the darlings, every one!
A little Grey Girl in a little Grey Cloak
Came over the hill by the lane—
She carried a bundle which suddenly broke.
"Oh, dear," cried the Girl in the little Grey Cloak,
"I am losing my beautiful rain!"
There are rich little boys in the big, wide world,
And rich little girls, I'm told.
But the poorest child is the richest child
If he gathers Buttercup gold.
God puts it out in the grassy fields
For anyone passing there.
Come, gather the Buttercup gold with me,
There's more than enough to spare!
Have you seen the gold in the Green Bank of England?
Wonderful, beautiful, lovely to behold—
Aconite and coltsfoot, buttercup and daffodil,
Crocus and celandine, and dandelion bold!
Have you found the gold in the Green Bank of England?
You may go and take it—none of it is sold.
Gorse, broom, and ragwort, bedstraw and cowslip,
Kingcup and pansy, and silver-weed gold.
Yours is the gold in the Green Bank of England,
Yours for the asking—treasury untold;
Potentilla, primrose, yellow vetch, and trefoil,
Pimpernel and hawkweed, and pussy-willow gold.
YOURS IS THE GOLD IN THE GREEN BANK OF ENGLAND
Morning came to Baby, her feet all wet with dew,
Her hair was yellow sunshine, her eyes were skyey blue,
And she said, "Wake up, my darling, I have brought a day for you."
Some red, red earth and a hawthorn hedge,
And a dear little round front door;
A nibble, nibble, along the edge,
And one little nibble more.
A whispering rustle in yellow wheat,
The clink of a milking-pail,
And a sudden scamper of furry feet,
And the bob of a little white tail.
Froggie hopped the other day
Very, very high;
Mrs Frog said, "Well, I never,
Didn't know you were so clever,
Tell the reason why!"
Froggie gave another hop,
Winked his little eye—
"As the year is Leap Year, Mother,
I can really do no other—
That's the reason why!"
There was a little seaside breeze who loved to dance and play;
He'd rush along the yellow sands and fly across the bay;
And when the frothy billows began to sway and roll,
He'd find the highest seaweed rock and rest his little soul.
But other breezes came along, ten thousand and a score;
They pushed and jostled all the day upon the sea and shore;
And little breeze got weary of rough and noisy play,
Said he, "I'll find another home—it's time I went away."
He spread his wings of silver light and flew across the foam,
And in a wood of scented pines he found his little home.
So, if you stop and listen, you'll hear the little breeze
As he sings his sweet sea-music in the branches of the trees.
When the sun comes peeping
Baby Poppy wakes herself,
Twists herself and shakes herself,
Throws aside her greeny bonnet
With the silver down upon it,
Says good-bye to sleeping
When the sun comes peeping.
When the bees come wooing
Lady Poppy crowns herself,
Nods her head and gowns herself
In the prettiest of dresses,
Scarlet crinkled frillinesses,
Knows what she is doing
When the bees come wooing.
When the wind comes calling
Mother Poppy shakes herself,
Brown and crinkled makes herself,
Opens little windows wide,
Drops her babies down outside,
Sees them softly falling
When the wind comes calling.
There is a bird bath on our grass,
I wait to watch it as I pass,
And see the little sparrow things
Stand on the edge with flapping wings.
They give each eye a merry wink
And stoop to take a little drink,
And then, before I'm fairly gone,
They bath with all their clothing on!
Yellow the bracken,
Golden the sheaves,
Rosy the apples,
Crimson the leaves;
Mist on the hillside,
Clouds grey and white.
Autumn, good morning!
Summer, good night!
Who will feed the dicky-birds on the garden wall?
Winter-time is very big—they are very small!
Who will feed the dicky-birds on the frozen trees?
Every little twitter means, "Feed us, if you please!"
Who will feed the dicky-birds in the frost and snow?
See them on the chimney-pot, cuddled in a row!
Who will feed the dicky-birds till the days of spring?
Think of what they do for you and the songs they sing!
I will feed the dicky-birds, and when Spring-time comes,
Every little song will mean, "Thank you for the crumbs!"
She is the friend of Santa Claus,
You never hear her step, because
In velvet shoes she likes to creep
To put the boys and girls to sleep.
They like to stay awake and try
To see the dear old man come by,
But little Sleep, who is so wise,
Puts velvet fingers on their eyes.
She steals across a thousand floors,
This faithful friend of Santa Claus;
So even if you stay awake
She'll leave you sleeping for his sake!
"Tick-tock," said the Nursery Clock,
"Please remember that little sock;
Nannie, mend the hole in the toe,
The goodies will tumble out, you know.
Tick-tock, tick-tock,"
Said the clickity-clackity Nursery Clock.
"Hush, hush," said Santa Claus,
As he peeped inside the bedroom doors,
"I am looking around for a little sock,
Do you know where it is, please, Mr Clock?"
"Tick-tock, tick-tock,
It hangs over there," said the Nursery Clock.
"Tick-tock," said the Nursery Clock,
And pointed straight at the little sock.
Oh, yes, he did, for don't you see,
A clock has hands like you and me....
"Tick-tock, tick-tock,
I am always right," said the Nursery Clock.
FAIRIES
The fairies live in Hyde Park—the London ones, I mean;
They love to see the blue sky and feel a bit of green;
They look out for the children, and beckon as they pass,
And fix up fairy notices, "Please keep ON the grass."
The fairies live in Hyde Park because they love to hide;
They tell the roar of London Town to keep itself outside,
For there are all the furry things, the birds and woolly lambs,
And little new-born fairy-folk asleep inside their prams.
The fairies live in Hyde Park, and in the month of March
A little girl comes riding underneath the Marble Arch;
She goes by way of Hyde Park, the fairies say she can—
A busy little Wendy girl, to stay with Peter Pan.
Very wee and low,
Creeping, as you know,
Up and then across,
Is the little moss.
Fairy fronds of green,
Spreading out are seen,
Very soft and neat,
Fit for fairy feet.
If you see it there,
Will you please take care?
Always step across
When you see the moss.
He didn't know a lamp could burn,
Poor dainty little thing,
So back again he did return,
And burnt his tiny wing!
A fairy heard him crying there,
So like a loving elf
She found she had a wing to spare,
The kind she wore herself.
She fixed it on—her dainty wing—
With bits of softest cloth;
Now half of him's a fairy thing,
The other half is moth!
I know they're in our cupboard;
Shall I tell you why?
I hear them laughing, talking,
As I am passing by.
A teeny-weeny rustle,
The way that dry leaves go—
Oh, yes, they're in our cupboard,
'Cos I know!
I know they're in our cupboard—
One night I heard a chink,
I guess they like our china,
It's rather thin and pink!
It's very smooth and shiny,
For a tiny fairy toe—
Oh, yes, they're in our cupboard,
'Cos I know!
And once when I was peeping,
And it was rather late,
I saw a ring of fairies
Upon the biggest plate!
And there, upon the teapot,
I saw a perfect row—
Oh, yes, they're in our cupboard,
'Cos I know!
I know they're in our cupboard,
I've heard them in the jug;
They scramble on the saucers,
And hide inside my mug.
Their babies love the egg-cups—
They stand inside them—so!
Oh, yes, they're in our cupboard,
'Cos I know!
Fairy Frilly for half an hour
Went to sleep in a poppy flower—
Went to sleep in her little green frock,
And the time of the ball was ten o'clock.
Quarter to ten and five to ten
Ticked from the dandelion clock again,
But Fairy Frilly was deaf to all,
And ten was the time of the fairy ball!
Little West Wind came by that way,
And he pulled off the petal where Frilly lay,
Pulled it off with the fairy on it,
And blew with a great big breath upon it.
Off sailed the petal, Frilly and all—
And that's how she managed to get to the ball.
HE BLEW WITH A GREAT BIG BREATH UPON IT
A fairy went a walk one day
And found that she had lost her way.
"Oh, dear," she cried, "what shall I do,
I promised I'd be in by two!"
Now Brother Snail was passing by;
He heard the little fairy cry;
He stopped awhile and then turned back,
And made for her a silver track!
So if you take a walk to-day,
Don't tread the silver tracks away.
Remember, as you walk along,
To nervous fairies they belong!
When fairies have a picnic they always tidy up;
It would be a disgraceful thing to leave a broken cup.
They roll up bits of paper, and hide the orange-skin,
And find a most convenient hole to put the rubbish in!
When fairies have a picnic they see the fire is out,
For fear that Brother Wind may come and scatter it about.
They leave a pile of brushwood, as that is nice and dry,
For other picnic people who are certain to pass by!
When fairies have a picnic they never break the trees,
They smooth the grass and daisy-buds as gently as you please,
And packing up their baskets they softly steal away,
And leave the place all beautiful for some one else to play!
When you're still and quite alone
Hear the fairy gramophone,
Now a march for fairy feet,
Now a lullaby so sweet;
Overture from fairy play,
Melody of little fay.
Sit upon this mossy stone—
Play on, fairy gramophone!
Sweet the fairy records are,
Sun, and moon, and twinkling star,
Winds that call and streams that rush,
Song of Tit, and Brother Thrush,
Call of little furry things,
Rustle of a hundred wings—
Hear the fairy gramophone
When you're still and quite alone!
I wished a wish the other night as hard as hard could be,
That just a fairy would peep in and come and talk to me.
I cuddled tightly in my bed, the clothes up round my chin,
And kept my eyes awake to watch the fairy coming in.
I counted patterns on the wall and pictures just the same,
To help to while the time away until the fairy came.
The little clock went tick-a-tock, the wind sang round the house,
I heard a step upon the floor as soft as any mouse.
I watched the door so carefully—I didn't want to miss,
But it was only Mother dear who came to have a kiss.
I told my daddy the next day how silly I had been;
He said, "Your wish came more than true—-you saw the fairy Queen!"
HOME
When Granny comes to stop with us she always loves to play;
She talks to every single doll and knows just what to say.
You haven't got to tell her why and lots of things explain,
She's been a little girl like me and wants to be again!
She knows Eliza's got a cough and only has one lung,
She knows Matilda's very bad and says, "Put out your tongue."
She always has a penny for the sweetshop in the lane,
She's been a little girl like me and wants to be again!
She knows a lot of lovely songs and every nursery rime,
She always knows that three o'clock is such a hungry time;
She lets me hold all by myself the 'brella in the rain—
I'm glad she's been a little girl and wants to be again!
Little baby blossoms
Swinging in the trees,
Laughing at the daisies,
Kissing all the bees.
Little baby blossoms
Are very sweet and small,
But Mother's little blossom
Is sweeter than them all!
Little baby blossoms,
Dress in white and pink,
Holding cups of honey
For the bees to drink;
But Mother's little blossom
Has eyes, and nose, and chin,
With the sweetest little dimple
To tuck the kisses in!
Every baby blossom
Swinging gaily there
Grows into an apple,
Or perhaps a pear;
But Mother's little blossom,
Deny it if you can,
Will wear a coat and trousers,
And grow into a man!
When Aunty says that I may look
Inside her precious album-book
I have to sit upon a chair
And take it on my lap with care!
There's Uncle John Josiah Brown
(He has a frame all blue and brown);
He wears a tie all long and wide,
And whiskers growing on each side!
There's Great-Aunt Henrietta too
(Her frame is pink and green and blue),
Her curls hang down beneath her cap,
And you should see her satin lap!
There's Grandpapa, with snow-white hair,
And Grandmamma upon a chair;
There are three cousins, if you please,
With hands put stiffly on their knees.
There's Mummy in the queerest hat,
And Daddy looking very fat;
There's Aunty Bess and Uncle Jim—
It's really very good of him!
But quite the queerest thing I see
Is somebody they say is me!
A horrid little stuck-up girl,
With hair done up in one big curl!
Says Aunty softly in my ear,
"Be careful of the album, dear."
And then she puts it right away,
Until I come another day.
When Aunt Matilda's in the house
I have to walk just like a mouse.
I dare not make a noise, you see,
Because her eye just looks at me.
And if I want to leave my crust
I eat it 'cos I feel I must.
She has a Sunday-morning look,
And reads a fat, improving book.
And once, when she was rather ill,
She said she'd put me in her will!
I ran away, I didn't care,
For fear that she should put me there!
But when I told my daddy, he
Just laughed and laughed and laughed at me!
When Aunt Matilda stays with us
We have to be so neat and clean,
And Father makes a dreadful fuss,
Till after Aunty's been.
We never have to make a noise,
It's so unladylike, you see,
For girls to act like great rough boys.
(I'm sure that's meant for me!)
We go to bed at seven P.M.,
That is the hour that Aunties keep
When they are young! (I pity them—
However did they sleep!)
We have to be so very good—
At meal-times never once be late,
And eat up every scrap of food
Upon the dinner-plate.
On Sundays we must always wear
Our dresses with clean 'tuckers' in;
I really don't know how I bear
The pricking on my chin!
But Father dear forgets to frown,
And Mother looks quite young again,
When Aunty gets the Bradshaw down,
And finds a morning train.
When Mummy has a headache
I help her all I can;
I put scent on a hankie,
And fan her with a fan.
I play with little Jackie
(He's very nearly three),
And then I lay the table,
And make the toast for tea.
When Mummy has a headache,
I kiss her on her hair,
And tell her not to worry,
'Cause I am ready there.
And Mummy's head gets better—
And once I heard her say,
A darling little fairy
Had sent it quite away!
I shall never leave you, Mummy,
Even when I'm tall.
I'll build a darling little house
Beside our garden wall.
And you'll never see me grown-up,
You'll only see me small.
I'll never leave you, Mummy,
Because you'd miss me so,
But Daddy says it's awkward
(And Daddy ought to know),
And so I've quite decided
I don't intend to grow!
I ain't a-goin' to wash myself, nor brush and comb my hair,
I call it just a waste of time, for dust is everywhere;
I get myself as black as black a hundred times a day,
So what's the good o' washing, anyway?
I ain't a-going to bed at all; the best time for a lark
Is when the inside is lit up and outside all is dark;
And if you go to bed at night you get up when it's day,
So what's the good o' goin', anyway?
Mother has a little drawer
Which she will unlock for me,
When I'm very, very good,
With a tiny key!
In it are the nicest things,
Little socks and baby's shoes;
Just the ones I like the best
Mother lets me choose.
There are tiny pinafores,
And a faded frock, I see.
Mother says the little frock
Once belonged to me.
There's a tiny hat as well,
Made of lace with crumpled strings;
And the teeny-weeny bibs
Are such darling things!
Lavender is here and there
In the cosy little drawer;
And I beg to look again,
Just a little more!
"Why does Mother keep them all?"
But she only strokes my hand:
When I'm big as Mother dear
I shall understand!
When Mother tucks me up in bed and kisses me good-night
I often wish she'd leave the lamp a weeny bit alight,
For whispers seem to float about and little shadows creep,
And though I try so very hard I cannot go to sleep!
The pillow gets into a lump and sticks into my head,
The bedclothes go and twist themselves and tumble off the bed;
There was a biscuit that I ate (I saved it from my tea),
And every tiny little crumb seems sticking into me!
I see the Dark come riding by—he looks so big and tall,
And when I think I am asleep I'm not asleep at all;
And so I pull the bedclothes up and tuck them round my chin
To stop the little bits of Dark from trying to get in.
But somehow all the horrid clothes seem slipping off from me,
The silly counterpane is where the blanket ought to be;
I pull and pull like anything to get them round my feet,
But all that I can find is just a little bit of sheet!
But somebody is at the door, for I can see her peep,
And somebody is whispering, "Is little Boy asleep?"
And Mother comes and tucks me up and drives the Dark away,
For Dark and mothers can't agree, whatever you may say!
My daddy had an aching head
And looked so ill that Mother said,
"Don't make a noise, for Dad's in bed,
In bed with Influenza."
I crept up like a mouse would creep,
In case dear Daddy was asleep,
And round the door I tried to peep
To look at Influenza!
I only saw dear Daddy's head
Upon the pillow on the bed.
He was alone ... yet Mother said
He was with Influenza!
There is a little boy next door,
He often peeps at me
When Nursie takes me for a walk
Before I have my tea.
And when I take my dollies out
He watches more and more—
I wonder why he doesn't play—
The little boy next door!
His eyes are very big and brown,
His hair is soft and bright;
But I am sure he's ill, because
His face is thin and white.
He never walks a single step,
Although I'm sure he's four—
His nursie always carries him—
The little boy next door!
Sometimes he waves his hand to me
And beckons me—like this:
And I just climb up on my chair
And blow him back a kiss.
He loves to watch the sunbeams dance,
Or great big raindrops pour;
And every tiny birdie knows
The little boy next door!
But yesterday—I can't forget—
I stood up in my chair
To beckon to the little boy;
But, oh! he wasn't there.
And Nursie said he'd gone away—
She wouldn't tell me more—
I wonder if he thinks of me—
The little boy next door!
I'm tired of being tidy,
And having to "take care";
I wish I hadn't collars,
I wish I hadn't hair.
I'd rather be a tiger,
An elephant, or bear,
A Hottentot or Zulu,
Or lion in his lair.
I'd rather have an island,
Away just anywhere,
Than go on being tidy—
So there!
I'm tired of being tidy,
And having clothes to wear;
They always lose their buttons,
Or split themselves and tear.
I'd rather be an eagle
And soar up in the air;
I'd rather be a leopard
With yellow eyes that stare;
I'd rather be a cowboy
(If I could only dare!)
Than go on being tidy—
So there!
I have two little dollies, they both belong to me,
And though they both are dollies they're different as can be.
About my little dollies I'll tell you all I can,
One's called Belinda Bella and one Eliza Ann.
Belinda's hair is golden, her eyes a lovely blue,
Her dress is soft and frilly, and tied with ribbon too,
She has a pretty bonnet, and shoes and gloves and fan,
For she's Belinda Bella and not Eliza Ann.
Eliza's hair is browny, one eye has gone away,
She has a flannel nighty and wears it all the day,
Her face is scratched and battered, just like our wat'ring-can;
She's not Belinda Bella, but just Eliza Ann.
I know Belinda Bella is beautiful to see,
And when I go out walking Belinda comes with me;
But when in bed I cuddle as closely as I can
I do not have Belinda, but dear Eliza Ann.
I do not mind the scratches upon Eliza's face,
I'd rather have her nighty than yards of frilly lace.
Just come and I will whisper as softly as I can—
I like Belinda Bella, but I LOVE Eliza Ann!
Four black legs and four white paws,
Pinky pads and curving claws,
Making marks on people's doors,
That's Tibby.
Little shirt-front, snowy-white,
Two green eyes so round and bright,
Velvet body strong and light,
That's Tibby.
Pinky tongue that washes fur,
Every part except his purr,
Sometimes much too bored to stir,
That's Tibby.
Walking so he won't be heard,
Hiding 'neath the ferns preferred,
Watching for a dicky-bird,
Oh, Tibby!
Stretching on the kitchen mat,
Long and lovely, sleek and fat,
Quite a yard of pussy-cat,
My Tibby!
Take what pretty things you see—
Take the cake I've made for tea—
Take my doll, but leave to me
My Tibby!
He walked upon our garden wall,
He hadn't got a home at all,
The thin cat, the thin cat,
The little homeless thin cat!
I don't believe he ever purr'd,
He never knew a loving word,
The thin cat, the thin cat,
The little homeless thin cat!
But Mother said, "Go, bring him in,
I cannot bear to see him thin,"
The thin cat, the thin cat,
The little homeless thin cat!
So now he purrs upon the mat,
His coat is soft—he's warm and fat,
The fat cat, the fat cat,
The little cared-for fat cat!
Only one word has Tabby,
Only one word has she,
For breakfast and dinner and supper,
And in between dinner and tea.
"Me-ow" stands for milk and for pudding,
"Me-ow" stands for fish and for meat,
"Me-ow" as she waits on the carpet,
And pats with her two little feet.
"Me-ow" for the mouse in the cupboard,
"Me-ow" for the sparrow outside,
"Me-ow" for the bed warm and cosy,
And everything comfy beside.
Only one word has Tabby,
Think, little children, of that.
You'd never be bothered with grammar
If you were a nice little cat!
Estella is as good as gold—
She always does as she is told—
Her pinafore is always clean,
Her shoes the shiniest I've seen.
Her nose is straight, so is her hair,
She's not untidy anywhere,
And if she knocks against me, she
Bows low and whispers, "Pardon me."
Her lessons they are always done
Before she has her play and fun;
And everything is put away—
Estella says it's part of play.
She hates to play and make a noise:
She says that we are girls, not boys.
She will not even ride a bike—
You see, it's so unladylike.
And when she comes to Sunday tea
She never eats as much as me;
She says it is an ugly sight
To see a vulgar appetite.
Estella says, "I want to grow
As noble as Mamma, you know,"
And Mother says to me, "My dear,
I'm glad to have Estella here."
The very thought gives me a fright,
It is a nightmare in the night.
However can I go and tell her
I simply hate and loathe Estella?
In Nursery Land when lights are low,
And shadows hurry to and fro,
The Dream Man comes when day is done
And gives a dream to every one!
One dream will make you float in air
Instead of climbing up the stair,
Another gives you spreading wings
Instead of legs and other things!
And one will make you seem so small
You cannot feel yourself at all,
Another, you may walk a mile
By stepping only once a while!
Another makes you, oh, so high,
You very nearly touch the sky;
You turn and give a monster jump,
And wake in time to miss the bump!
STORIES
Come, my little darling, and shut the oaken door,
This is the time when Pixie-folk are peeking on the moor;
They're very naughty Pixie-folk, and up to awful tricks,
So shut the door, my darling, for the clock is striking six.
They steal the milk from Cushy-cow, they suck the bantam's eggs,
They harry all the mother sheep, and run them off their legs;
They sip the cream from out the pans, and leave it thin and poor,
So 'ware the naughty Pixie-folk that peek upon the moor.
They sit upon the handle when Nanette is at the churn,
And, lo, when she has worked for hours the butter will not 'turn';
And once when she was in the field they came along to stare,
They pulled her apron-strings undone, and left her standing there.
They steal the new-born lambs, they do, and lure the foals away,
They play their tricks in mowing-fields, and trample new-mown hay;
They worry girls on market-day, as cheeky as can be,
And once they mixed a pound of rice in Aunt Eliza's tea.
And once there was a traveller upon the lonesome wild,
He left his horse because he heard the crying of a child;
He found he was mistaken, and then, alack-a-day,
He saw the Pixies on his horse a-galloping away.
And once there was a naughty girl who stole her mother's jam,
She said she didn't do it, and she blamed it on to Sam;
The Pixie-folk were passing, on their journey to the South,
They tied her hands behind her back and plastered up her mouth.
And once again a cruel boy was breaking up a nest,
He turned the baby robins out and wouldn't let them rest;
The Pixies came and chased him far, and left him in a bog,
They splashed the mud upon his face and wrapped him in a fog.
So when I come to think of it, the Pixies aren't all bad,
And if they punish naughty folk, why, then I'm very glad,
But I am still afraid of them and all their funny tricks,
So shut the door, my darling, for the clock is striking six.
The True Story of a Little Boy who Ran Away
Jerry was sick of school and play,
So Jerry determined to run away;
He made a pack from an ancient sack,
And fastened it on to his strong young back.
A frying-pan and a kettle of tin,
A boot-box to keep his rations in.
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.
Jerry's face was a great big smile
When he found himself at the second mile;
But he couldn't hurry the way he ought,
For the road was long and Jerry was short.
And the awkward pack was loose and slack,
And bobbed and rattled across his back;
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.
The dust of the road was upon his face
When Jerry came to his camping-place;
A bush of gorse and a hawthorn-tree,
A glimpse of the far-off restless sea,
A broken boulder, and there, oh, joy!
A cave the size of a little boy.
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.
The cave was found to be dark and damp,
So Jerry arranged for an outside camp;
He lit a fire and made him tea,
And drank it under the hawthorn-tree.
True it was queer and made him choke
(One part water and three parts smoke).
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
There's none so brave in the world as Jerry.
The day drew in as the night came by,
And thousands of stars shone in the sky.
"Squeak" went the bat and "Hoot" the owl,
And a farmhouse dog gave a long-drawn howl.
Jerry sat up and shivered and shook,
And peeped in the cave with a terrified look.
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
But there's none so scared in the world as Jerry.
What cared Jerry for camping-grounds
When night was giving her awful sounds?
What cared Jerry for kettle and pan?
Jerry took to his heels and ran,
Swift as an arrow from the bow,
Swift as a runner of long ago.
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
There's none so scared in the world as Jerry.
In at the little well-worn gate,
Just as the clock was striking eight.
Jerry who ran away, it's plain,
Was Jerry who ran right home again!
And Mother, who knew a thing or two,
Knew how to keep a secret true.
Sing ho! for adventure, bold and merry,
There's none so glad in the world as Jerry.
The toys in the cupboard were terribly angry,
The toys in the cupboard were mad as could be,
For Patty had jumbled them roughly together,
And left them from breakfast till afternoon tea.
Said Doll, "It's disgraceful, I shall not endure it,
I've lain on the engine along with the top."
Said Duck, "It's prepost'rous, I'll send a complaint in,
I lay on the ball and the rubber went pop."
Said Horse, "Here's a pickle, I sat on Eliza,
Her face is all scratched and her eye is pushed in."
Said Lamb, "Here's a muddle, my tail's in the tea-pot,
I can't get it out, and it pricks like a pin."
Said Cow, "It is shocking, my horn's in the trumpet,
And Sambo is squashed underneath me, I know."
Said Book, "I am lying all twisted and crumpled,
A drum is on top and the ink-pot below."
When Patty came in she was terribly frightened,
The cupboard was moving about, she was sure,
She heard angry voices, "It's perfectly awful,
It's simply disgraceful—I cannot endure."
She straightened the cupboard, put toys in their places,
She brushed out the Doll's hair, and smoothed down the Horse,
She took the soft tail of the Lamb from the teapot,
And tenderly cared for the others, of course.
The toys in the cupboard were pleased and contented,
No longer they grumbled, no longer they wept,
For Patty had learned a most wonderful lesson,
And now the toy cupboard is splendidly kept.
I am a little pencil, and my name is H and B,
I lie upon the mantelpiece for every one to see;
I'm handled forty times a day, it is a weary life,
And when my wits are rather dull I'm sharpened with a knife!
I scrawl when Tommy has me, and I draw all sorts of things,
From submarines and aeroplanes to cabbages and kings;
I write a lovely letter when Miss Phyllis is about,
And if by chance I make mistakes Miss Phyllis rubs them out.
And if I slip and tumble down I'm certain to be missed,
For Mother wants me badly when she does the washing-list,
And Father makes me keep the score when he begins to play—
I'm just a little pencil, but I have a busy day.
I really never am allowed to grow up as I ought,
I'm getting shorter every day (it's awful to be short),
And when the knife begins on me I ache in every joint,
I put it in that way because you're sure to see the point.
I'm very glad I'm useful, though my speech is always dark,
But every time they handle me I always make my mark!
But sorrow seems to follow me in spite of many a friend,
For when I'm meditating I am bitten at the end.
I am a little pencil, and my name is H and B,
I lie upon the mantelpiece for every one to see;
I'm getting shorter every day, and every day I'm older,
And when my last few hours have come they'll put me in a holder!
The Old Year sat in his armchair warm,
And his eyes were fixed on the floor,
When suddenly out of the winter storm
Came a little tap-tap at the door.
The wind went tearing around and about
All with a terrible din;
The blind blew in as the lamp blew out,
And the little New Year walked in.
He lit the lamp and he closed the door
As the Old Year slipped away,
Then he opened his treasure upon the floor
And took out another day!
He walks the streets of London Town,
A little Brother dressed in brown.
Up Ludgate Hill he goes and calls
The pigeons flying round St Paul's.
He walks across Trafalgar Square,
Because he knows the pigeons there.
And sitting 'neath the Temple trees
The starlings flutter to his knees.
His sandall'd feet tread softly on
The garden-ways of Kensington,
And furry brethren understand
The pressure of his gentle hand.
Our little Brother—gentle—free—
Benedice ... Domine![1]
[1] This means "Bless, O Lord."