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The Witch in the Glass

149

THE BLIND BOY

O SAY what is that thing called Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy;
What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he,
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy:
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

Colley Cibber [1671-1757]

THE WITCH IN THE GLASS

"My mother says I must not pass

Too near that glass;

She is afraid that I will see

A little witch that looks like me,
With a red, red mouth, to whisper low
The very thing I should not know!"

Alack for all your mother's care!

A bird of the air,

A wistful wind, or (I suppose

Sent by some hapless boy) a rose,

With breath too sweet, will whisper low
The very thing you should not know!

Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836

MY SHADOW

I HAVE a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to growNot at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to
me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

WHEN I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

The Land of Story-books

151

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894]

THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS

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]

MR. NOBODY

I KNOW a funny little man,

As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

In everybody's house!

The Peddler's Caravan

153

There's no one ever sees his face,

And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked
By Mr. Nobody.

'Tis he who always tears our books,
Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
And scatters pins afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak
For, prithee, don't you see,

We leave the oiling to be done
By Mr. Nobody.

He puts damp wood upon the fire,
That kettles cannot boil;

His are the feet that bring in mud,
And all the carpets soil.

The papers always are mislaid,

Who had them last but he?

There's no one tosses them about
But Mr. Nobody,

The finger-marks upon the door

By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,

To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill, the boots

That lying round you see

Are not our boots; they all belong

To Mr. Nobody.

Unknown

THE PEDDLER'S CARAVAN

I WISH I lived in a caravan,

With a horse to drive, like a peddler-man!
Where he comes from nobody knows,

Or where he goes to, but on he goes!

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