OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 2 September 1933, Page 19 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

PERCY POTTINGTON. (Sent by Vivienne Fallows.) ' Little Percy Pottington I Lived in little Dottington, i In a quiet little village, ( With the houses built in rows. ( And if you want to call on Percy , With his cottage neat and trim ] He’s living next the people ; That are living next to him. ' E SUMMER TEARS. , (Sent by Kathleen Travers.) * Two little clouds one summer’s day f Went flying through .the sky; v They went so fast, I They bumped their heads, E And both began to cry. I Old father sun looked out and said, 5 "Oh, never mind, my dears, s I’ll send my little fairy folk To dry your falling tears.” . i One fairy came in violet and one in £ indigo, • f And in blue, green, yellow, orange and jred, I They made a pretty row; They wiped the cloud tears all away, c And then, from out the sky, ( Upon a line the sunbeams made, t They hung their gowns to dry. i c SKATING. | (Sent by Joyce Mitchell.) ® One day it chanced Miss Maud did meet The poet’s little son; "I’m going skating, sir,” she said; "And so am I,” said John. If you can skate, and I can skate, • Why, let me skate with you, We’ll go the whole world round and round, And skate the whole year through. s They skated left, they skated right, ' Miss Maud and little John, • : < That is, as long as there was ice For them to skate upon. * VISITORS. ( . i (Sent by Tinker Bell.) ; When I was very ill in bed . ' The fairies came to visit me; i < They danced and played ground my i head ‘ Tho’ other people couldn’t see. 1 Across the end a railing goes j With bars and balls and twisted rings,, j And there they jiggled on their toes And did the wonderfullest things. j They balanced on the golden balls,, , They jumped about from bar to bar, ; ■And then they fluttered to the walls ] Where coloured birds and flowers are,: j I watched them darting in and out, ; ' I watched them gaily climb and' cling,, ■ While all the flowers moved about ' And all the birds began to sing. ! ' And when 'it was no longer light ; . I felt them up my pillows creep; j-i And there they sat and sang all night-' , I heard them singing in my sleep. —Rose Fyleman. : FAIRIES AND CHIMNEYS. Z (Sent by Baby Margaret) 1 You know the smoke from chimneys—, ' It often isn’t smoke, It’s nothing but the fairies, Having such a joke. Round they fly and round about, Higher still and higher—“Dearie me,” the people say, “A chimney on fire ■!” ! You know the' noise the wind makes At night-time, now and then— It’s just those naughty fairies At their tricks again— Sitting in the chimney Round and round in rows, Singing all together And warming up their toes. —Rose Fyleman. THE TWO SWEEPS. (Sent- by Joe Thomas.) See, how they’re scolding little Jack; Whatever has he done ? He . has made his nice new suit all black, And thought it jolly fun! It puzzles Jackie’s sooty head, He really cannot see Why no one scolds the sweep instead, Who’s far more black than he! SPRUNG. (A poem composed by Dulcie Williams.) We are always ready to welcome the spring, ■x. When flowers are in bloom and little birds sing; Fairies come from their hiding-places, And we see children’s happy faces, Peeping merrily among the trees, Listening to the birds and the softly whispering breeze. BATH-TIME STORIES. (Sent by Josephine Green.) , Sometimes I wonder (And Jimmy does, too,) When it’s bath-time for grown-ups, Just what do they do ? Do they climb in quite slowly, Then flop down with a rush? Do they ever sit down on The bristly nail-brush ? And then at the end, Do they pull out the plug Just to hear all the water Go gurgly-glug ? We’re awfully curious, And' some day we hope To hear what they say When they tread on the soap I WASHING DAY. (Sent by Joyce Priest.) On the fragrant lavendar The tiny “hankies” spread 1 Where the butterflies and bees Seek the pansy-bed. Lay the snowy pillow-slips Where the cloyer gleams; Fairies, shining-winged will flit Through your happy dreams. Baby breeze flies from the sea With a scented puff. Oh, how sweet the clothes will be When they’re dry enough. Dry enough to fold and press, Sort and put away. Who cares if to-morrow is A very rainy day ? PORRIDGE. (Sent by Charlie John.) I don’t like porridge, skinny and brown, Waiting for my breakfast When I come down; ( Whatever happens, however late, Porridge is always sure' to wait. Nobody steals it, they clear the dish Of eggs and bacon or cheese or. fish; They eat the butter and take the tea And all the good things meant for me; But whatever happens, however late, Porridge is always sure to wait. BABY TIM. ' . (Sent by Dora Wood.) . When mother dear rocks Baby Tim I like to sit near-by, Her eyes grow soft and. dreamy when She sings his lullaby: She looks down on his curly head As if she loves him so; And cuddles his wee hand in hers—. I think, p'rhaps, long- ago, When Jesus was a little babe, His mother smiled at Him With just the same sweet, loving look That mother gives to Tim.

PRIZE-WINNING STORY.

BEFORE THE MAORIS. A long long time ago, New Zealand was inhabited by fairies and elves. There were no human beings to disturb them or frighten them away from their' playgrounds. They used to dance round their Queen and throw garlands of flowers around her. They called her Queen Pohutukawa. She .was decked with gay crimson flowers and pale green leaves and had a cushion of soft moss at her feet. Behind her rose the tall and stately bush-giant kauri and rimu, dwelling there as kings of the forest. The most beautiful of all the fairies was Fain.' Clematis, with her long trails of starry, white flowers. She thought it fun to have climbing races up the giants with her cousin, Supple-jack, whose bright red berries made a pretty picture among the green leaves. The modest little musk fairy, in her yellow dress, was content to stay on the ground, shedding sweet perfumes all about .hen There were many little Fem Fames in their green frond-suits and curly shoes They ran in and out from the forest to the shore. Fairy Toi-Toi waved her graceful fronds in unison with green F Whilst the other fairies were dancing on the seashore, one day, little Gobli Gigi who had been gazing far out across the water, suddenly spied a canoe coming towards the shore. "A canoe! A canoe” he cried, and the Queen bade her fairies make ready to welcome these strangers who were coming to take possession of their land. —Marjorie Borland. SECOND PRIZE STORY. “WHAT MAKES ME THINK THAT SPRING IS COMING?” What a wonderful gift of nature spring is-! When we go into the garden we see the beautiful, white snowdrops dancing amongst their green spearlike leaves. -Two of the sweetest smelling flowers (the violet and the primrose) are signs of spring,- too. Peeping up from the grass-the. tiny blue fprget-me-not with its golden eye, greets .you as you. pass. ' . -.- High up in the sky we hear the lark once again singing its sweet is a true herald of spring. Flitting, about'in the h’edgegrows are the tiny finches seeking'hidden places ,in which to build their nests. The tm and the bellbird also come in with their golden notes. As I was-going through the bush one morning, I noticed that -the trees were covered with cloaks -of' pretty green leaf and flower buds which give promise_of lovely sheltered places- itr summer. - -The pussy-willow also 'says'"Spring is coming'” with her fluffy buds. Even the farm takes a different appearance to spring. -If -we go into the paddocks, we will hear the woolly lambs bleating to their mothers who-have .wandered off to some sheltered spot. We see the farme r busy-with-his bucket, feeding the little mischievous, velvety calves. They caper round but do not take a .thought of: the poor farmer who has to caper round after them! * .. , The last but not least lovely sign or spring is the dainty star-like clematis, peeping out from' the green foliage of some bush or tree. Above these humble signs God sends, the extra warmth of the sun, so that we may all- enjoy the spring. ' ' ■ ■ —Merle. Druce. THIRD PRIZE STORY. “WHAT ' MAKES ME THINK THAT SPRING IS COMING?” Why, Wendy, there’s lots of things to make me think spring is coming ! In fact, there are so many that I almost think she is here but not very wideawake as yet. We have been favoured with some of her firfet smiles in the shape of beautiful sunshiny days. The daffodils are masses of golden beauty,- ana the shy violets make splashes of delicate colour in the fresh grass. A sweet scent haunts the air and the first Py im * roses are hailed with delight. The M ac “ bush and pussy-willow have buds about to burst, and I can imagine the masses of yellow fluffiness and bunches Of mauve that will soon be here. The vegetable gardens are being tidied and neat rows of small lettuces, broad beans, and radishes, are appearing. Then there are the little calves— lovely things of soft silkiness and dark velvety eyes. Black calves, jersey calvescalves of all descriptions are seen in groups, frolicing in the paddocks or tied up in the back, garden. And the tiny lambs— although I haven t seen many yet, as this is mostly a dairying district. I remember' once, while spending a holiday at Inglewood, walking down the road and slipping into a neighbour’s paddock to watch the lambs. It was lovely. I was looking down into a deep valley with a creek at the bottom, and small rolling hills for some distance before it eventually ended in another steep hill. There were about SOO lambs and their mothers there, and I did enjoy watching their antics, I was so delighted that I stayed there nearly an hour and .was scolded for being late for dinner. Soon, Wendy, there will be new and neat, wall-made nests adorning the trees, and then our songsters will be happier than ever and will sing us more songs of happiness for the spring. —Bernice Hunt.

YVHY THEY STOPPED THE CLOCKS. HOW POLITICIANS DO THINGS. According to law the French Budget for the year has to be passed by the Chamber of Deputies and the Senate before the end of May. On the last evening of May this year it was still being, debated. It passed the Chamber and went to the Senate; the Senate altered it and sent it back to the Chamber; the Chamber altered it again; and it went once more to the Senate; and so on, to and fro, to and fro. AH this is known in Paris as the Shuttle, and is a weftrisome business, apparently • without-end. ' • As midnight approached in this critical situation an appearance of legality had to be -preserved, and ■ then something ; happened which is characteristic of the unreal world of politics. At the crucial moment "a discreet hand,” as the French papers say, stopped the clocks at both the Palais Bourbon (the Chamber) and the Palais du Luxembourg (the Senate). . , „ . The Senators and the Deputies solemnly pretended that it was still the month of May, and kept up the pretence until nine; o’clock in the morning, w hen they came to an agreement. - This js, as far as we know, an event without .precedent in history. PEACE IN A LORRY. Some time ago a Frenchman, anxious to' help the peace movement in his country thought of a splendid way of getting ideas straight- to the people. He would start a circulating exhibition. The idea has proved wonderfully successful. His- lorry, containing six stands and numerous striking illustrations to display on them, has travelled 16,000 miles, has stopped in nearly 200 towns and villages, and has attracted about a. million visitors. , ' • ' By. forceful pictures and statistics, shown’in .-a, popular way, this man and his lorry must have left behind them in the hearts of a -great multitude a conviction that war is futile and wasteful and that only peace is constructive.

LONG AGO STORIES.

WALTER, THE ANGEL. Walter was twelve years - old—-and he had a face like an angel! In his white breeches and silver-paper wings, he looked beautiful when he acted as a fairy in Will Shakespeare's plays. And he was quite determined to make a fortune out of his face. "I can go on playing the fairy till I’m an old man if I don't grow fat,” he thought, “but precious little I'll get for it, except my food and a few pence. If I had a robe of flowing velvet, and allowed my golden hair to grow' long, I could play ‘Juliet’ and the goddesses of ancient Greece as well as any young man. But where can I get the money to set myself up ?” Suddenly his angel face puckered up and he grinned. ® One evening when he left the theatre he took his stage clothes with him, although this was forbidden. And that night a strange thing happened in a

certain tavern down by the Thames. . It was a very dark old tavern leaning against a warehouse. There were holes in the wall, the only light came from bundles of rags soaked in grease burning on slabs of stone, and the place was full of smoke. Sailors and merchants were drinking ale in the tavern when they saw an angel with silver wings appear in the hole in the wall, holding out his white hands in supplication, and bowing his beautiful head. While, many fled in terror, some ventured towards tne hole —but Walter dropped down into the old warehouse and hid. Two nights later the “angel” appeared -again. Then a priest was called, and after consultation with the monks who lived - nearby, he said the angel had come to plead for some poor soul who could not find peace. He advised the • people to put money in the hole for the poor soul, and . so a sum was collected. A few nights later the “angel appeared again—and took the money away with him. . . . The tavern keeper hoped this would be the end of the matter. But the “angel” appeared a week later, weeping and wringing ■ his white hands, so they collected more money. But when great people came from all over don, hoping to see this beautiful. angel, Walter thought it best to stop his visits. Years later, when Walter was a celebrated actor, the gallants invited him out to supper, and took him to a famous old tavern by the river. Here, they assured him, an angel had once appeared and begged alms for a poor soul. “Perhaps he is here to-night, said Walter gravely. \ He looked at the hole in the wall, and decided that the alms had been well spent in giving London an actor who played the Woman so well. POET WHO SANG OF ROLAND. BANDIT APPRECIATES POETRY. Italy is celebrating the fourth centenary of the death of one of her most famous sons,. Ludovico Ariosto, whose Orlando Furioso, an epic dealing .witn the story of Roland and Charlemagne, is one of the most famous poems in literature. ' By every railway m Italy pilgrims will be taken at half-rates to Ferrara, where the poet spent his last years and died in 1533 (says the Childrens Newspaper), and there they will gaze on the humble home of which he was so proud, inscribing in Latin on its entrance the folowing words;

Small yet fit for me and offensive to none; not mean, it is a home built by my own money.

Ariosto, in spite of his genius, lived and died a> poor man, broken away from the yoke of his first patron, Cardinal Ippolyto D’Este, whose sole comment when the. Orlando was dedicated to him was “Where did you find so many stories, Master Ludovic . POETRY AND THE LAW. Ludovico Ariosto was bom in 1474 at Reggio, where his father was m command of the’ citadel. He loved P oetl -y as a lad, but his father com P el J e 4 d .^ ul i„? study the law for five years. At the end of this time he returned to his kterary studies, reading the Latin poets und one of the greatest masters of his age. When his father died, Ariosto had to take charge of nine brothers and sisters, one of them a cripple. Still he found time to write some lyrics and_ prose comedies which were shown to the cardinal, who gave the young im an appointment in his household at a salary of 75 crowns a year. The duties of envoy to other Court | did not please the poet,,and el cardinal' commanded him to visit Hun glry with him in 1518 Ariosto pleaded his love of study and -the care of his aged mother as an excuse for not going. The cardinal refused to fhe and the -poet declared that he was no cardinals slave-and that he would forgo his- paltry pension. - Alnhonso, Duke of. Ferrara - and brother of the cardinal, and Lucrezia Borgia, the famous duchess, took compasrion on him, for .his travels; service of the - cardinal had affected his health; they gave him small pension and later, made him Governor of a bandit-ridden pmvmce m the Apennines, a duty he performed well. adventure with bandits. The story runs that on one occasion he was captured by the bandits and taken before their chief, who, as soon as he learned that his captive was the author of the Orlando, offered him his apologies for not having treated him as the author of that great work deserved. . Ariosto then retired to his humble home, polishing his great epic and enlarging it to 46 cantos, writing satires and plays, and superintending the building of a theatre.. , His writings show him as a lover ot liberty and personal independence, a man of quiet dignity, with an intense feeling for beauty' in' character. Before the Orlando all the romances which flooded Italy in the 15th and 16th centuries pale, none having’ the moving pathoS or toe vivid realism which his subtle imagination has impressed on his masterpiece. He was at work on i from 1503 until its completion a year before he died. , T". . .