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At evening when the lamp is lit, Around the fire my parents sit; They sit at home and talk and sing, And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl All in the dark along the wall, And follow round the forest track Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy, All in my hunter's camp I lie, And play at books that I have read Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods, These are my starry solitudes; And there the river by whose brink The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away As if in firelit camp they lay, And I, like to an Indian scout, Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me, Home I return across the sea, And go to bed with backward looks At my dear land of Story-books.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
THE GARDENER
The gardener does not love to talk, He makes me keep the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key.
Away behind the currant row Where no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big.
He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to.
He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play.
Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down.
Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden days O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me!
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
FOREIGN LANDS
Up into the cherry tree Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands And looked abroad on foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie, Adorned with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places more That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pa.s.s And be the sky's blue looking-gla.s.s; The dusty roads go up and down With people tramping in to town.
If I could find a higher tree, Farther and farther I should see, To where the grown-up river slips Into the sea among the s.h.i.+ps;
To where the roads on either hand Lead onward into fairy land, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings come alive.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
MY BED IS A BOAT
My bed is like a little boat; Nurse helps me in when I embark; She girds me in my sailor's coat And starts me in the dark.
At night, I go on board and say Good night to all my friends on sh.o.r.e; I shut my eyes and sail away And see and hear no more.
And sometimes things to bed I take, As prudent sailors have to do; Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, Perhaps a toy or two.
All night across the dark we steer; But when the day returns at last, Safe in my room, beside the pier, I find my vessel fast.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]
THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN
I wish I lived in a caravan, With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man!
Where he comes from n.o.body knows, Or where he goes to, but on he goes!
His caravan has windows two, And a chimney of tin, that the smoke comes through; He has a wife, with a baby brown, And they go riding from town to town.
Chairs to mend, and delf to sell!
He clashes the basins like a bell; Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, Plates, with alphabets round the border!
The roads are brown, and the sea is green, But his house is like a bathing-machine; The world is round, and he can ride, Rumble and slash, to the other side!
With the peddler-man I should like to roam, And write a book when I came home; All the people would read my book, Just like the Travels of Captain Cook!
William Brighty Rands [1823-1882]
MR. COGGS
A watch will tell the time of day, Or tell it nearly, any way, Excepting when it's overwound, Or when you drop it on the ground.
If any of our watches stop, We haste to Mr. Coggs's shop; For though to scold us he pretends, He's quite among our special friends.
He fits a dice-box in his eye, And takes a long and thoughtful spy, And prods the wheels, and says, "Dear, dear!
More carelessness, I greatly fear."
And then he lays the dice-box down And frowns a most prodigious frown; But if we ask him what's the time, He'll make his gold repeater chime.
Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-
