The Witch in the Glass 149 THE BLIND BOY O SAY what is that thing called Light, You talk of wondrous things you see, My day or night myself I make With heavy sighs I often hear Then let not what I cannot have 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, 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 Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836 MY SHADOW I HAVE a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 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, One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE WHEN I was sick and lay a-bed, The Land of Story-books 151 And sometimes for an hour or so And sometimes sent my ships in fleets I was the giant great and still Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894] THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS AT evening when the lamp is lit, They sit at home and talk and sing, Now, with my little gun, I crawl 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 So, when my nurse comes in for me, Robert Louis Stevenson [1850-1894] THE GARDENER THE gardener does not love to talk, Away behind the currant row Old and serious, brown and big. He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, 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 'Tis he who always tears our books, He pulls the buttons from our shirts, That squeaking door will always squeak We leave the oiling to be done He puts damp wood upon the fire, His are the feet that bring in mud, The papers always are mislaid, Who had them last but he? There's no one tosses them about The finger-marks upon the door By none of us are made; 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! Or where he goes to, but on he goes! |