OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 30 September 1933, Page 9 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

ROOT MOTHERS. (Sent by Kathleen Travers.) Primrose, stand still! Now don't be a fidget, Daffodil! Hand me a pin! Don’t wriggle, orl‘m sure to nm it in. Anemone Your frock's a trifle long it seems to me, What say you, "Mrs. Snowdrop, would it hurt To run a tiny tuck into your skirt? So, do you think ? Or even shorter still ? The faintest shade more pink Into the frill. Daffodil and Primrose Are dressed in petticoats and long green hose, And on the table, by the sewing machine, For every flower her new spring raiments fit, And each root, mother Brushes her daughter’s hair, And plies her wits To make her child fair. SMILE. (Sent by Lois Malcolm.) We cannot, of course, all be handsome, And it is hard for us all to be good; We are sure now and then to be lonely And we don’t always do as we should; To be patient is not always easy; To be cheerful is much harder still; But at least we can always be pleasant, If we make up our minds that we will. THE SECRET PLAYMATE. (Sent by Margai-et Stewart.) When everybody’s gone away, And left me by myself to play— Clarinda Brown (whom none can see) Comes in to have a game with me. Clarinda Brown was -ix last May. Her hair is gold, her eyes are gray, And when she smiles her dimples show—’ I've never seen her but I know. I’m always sure when she is there, Because she takes the wi’ker chair—it creaks. There’s no one you can see . . . But that’s Clarinda come to tea! OUR PUSS-CAT. (Sent by R. and A. Kemp.) Two furry eyes; Four furry toes; Two yellow eyes, And a pink nose; “Purr-rr!” —like this; “Mi-aouw!” -like that; After a mouse: That’s our Puss-Cat. SPRING, (Sent by Verona Gilmer.) I walked along the roadway in the shining time of Spring, When Spring the slender, Spring the sweet, Was calling blackbirds to her feet, And daffodils with golden voice Were trumpeting “Rejoice, rejoice !” And violets held silver hearts, And crocuses flamed golden darts, And all the world was one with Spring In revelry. THE MOON BOAT. (Sent by Dorothy Amess.) Tire Lady Moon up yonder Is like a silver boat Upon a dark blue ocean, All silently afloat. And when the fairies waken They’ll climb the moonbeams white, And far across the heavens Go sailing in the night. —Lucy Diamond. BINKY AND ME. (Sent by Margaret McKain.) Binky and Me in the twilight time, Creep up the stairs, Me with my gun And Binks with his growl—hunting bears. Just in the darkest comer of all A terrible big one lies; We hear him growling as we go by, See his eyes. But I am a man and Binky’s so brave, We track him right home to his lair, I shoot him dead and Binky he growls, We don’t care. When’ Dorothy came to Jtay with us once, She was as ’fraid as could be, Though why she should mind when I had my gun I can’t see. Oh! the loveliest time In the day for ’• me, Is when we two creep up the stairs, Me with my gun And Binks with his growl—hunting bears. VIOLETS. (Sent by Corallyn Neal.) I know blue modest violets, Sparkling like dew at dawn. I .know the place you came from, And the way that you were born. When God cut holes in heaven, The holes the stars peep through, The little scraps fell down to earth, And those little scraps were you. THE LAUGHING BROOK. (Sent by Doreen Topliss.) Why do you laugh, little brook, little bi-ook, And why so dimpled and gay ? And what did you hear as you came through the wood ? And what did you see on the way ? Such fun as I’ve had ! I saw in the wood The violets opening their eyes, The little fems straightening out their curls, And Ivan-in-the-pulpit, rise. The sunbeams in passing threw me a kiss, The breezes whispered to me; And the pebbles tickled me so, I couldn’t help laughing, you see.

HIGH-WAY AND BY-WAY. The High-road to the Village Is very white and wide, With smart and stony pavements Correct on either side. The high-road is the right road, And gets you on your way, But oh I We love the by-road, The creeping, winding by-road, We will not use the high-road, No matter what you gay! The folk upon the high-road All hurry straight along; They haven’t time to stop a bit, And hear the linnet’s song. Big black and shiny motors Roar by in dusty clouds; That’s why we love our by-road, The little, gently shy-road, The pretty baby by-road, That has no room for crowds. The houses on the high-road Are spick-and-spandy new; They’ve formal gardens out in front, With flowers prim and few. The houses on the by-road Belong to Sprites and Elves, Pink foxgloves line the by-road, Wild roses trim the by-road And oh! it’s yours and my road, We’ll keep it for ourselves I

A BEDTIME STORY. THE MAGIC THREAD. (Sent by Betty Archbold.) Once upon a time, while getting some fresh heath to mend her broom, an old witch was caught in the brambles. She twisted and turned and pulled, trying to get away, and at last managed it, but her old red cloak was so very torn that she sat down after mending her broom, and wondered whatever she was going to do. No witches with tom cloaks were allowed to ride up to the moon, any more than they were allowed to travel up on an unmended broom. Now she had mended her broom, but her cloak was torn—and what was worse, all her mending thread was used up. “Oh, dear, oh, dear!” she cried; “what a miserable old witch I am—” “Not more miserable than I,” called a sorrowful voice, “for I am shut up in a snider’s great larder, and he’s coming back to eat me very soon.” The witch looked at the huge festoons of spider’s webs, hung between gorse and bracken. Up in the corner of one was what seemed to be a lovely blue butterfly. The witch crooked her skinny finger and swept the butterfly into her other hand. It fluttered to the ground and then jumped up in the form of a fairy.’ “Thank you, kind witch, she said. “Now tell me what I can do for you. I was changed into a butterfly in order to go on a message and when I was caught in there I thought I should never get away. One good turn deserves another.” “Just look what the brambles have done to my cloak,” said the witch. She held it up and showed the daylight streaming through. “I know the magic thread,” cried the fairs’', “it will mend that up so beautifully that no one will ever know there's been a hole —” “But where is the magic thread?” said the witch. “I can’t see it anywhere." “Why, there are pieces of it flying all over the grass now. It’s the morning cobwebs. Any that have been left are so full of magic— see—l’ll show you!” She rolled up a little bunch of them in her fingers and rubbed it over a hole in the cloak. To the witch’s surprise the hole closed up. The witch grabbed up some of the waving lines of cobwebs herself and rubbed them over a hole, but the hole remained. “Why can’t I do it like you ?” asked the witch. “There’s a different kind of magic, in my fingers, I expect,” said the fairy. “But it will be quicker if you collect the cob-webs.” In a very short time the cloak was mended and the witch slipped it on. “Splendid,” she said; “now I have a mended cloak and a mended broom and I will be off to the moon to-night—-whiroo !’•

A STORY. FACES IN A MIRROR. (Sent by Merle Druce.) Amongst the quaint stories told to children of other lands is this story of ancient Japan. _ _ Many years ago there lived in the little Japanese village of Yowcuski a man called Kiki-Tsum and his wife Lili-Tsee. Now there were no such things as mirrors in this little village, and Kiki-Tsum and Lili-Tsee had never seen the reflection of their own faces. One day, however, Kiki-Tsum picked up a little mirror which had been dropped by a passing traveller. He was astonished at the face Ije saw pictured there. . “Why,” he exclaimed, “it is a picture of my father, I wonder what the finding of this portrait means.” He thereupon hurried home and hid his treasure in a vase in his house, away from his wife’s watchful eyes. Lili-Tsee noticed that her husband used frequently to visit a certain room in the house, and she wondered more and more what was causing his interest in this room. One day, entering suddenly, she saw her husband hastily replace a vase on the shelf. When he had gone she sprang upon a chair and took down the ornament and inside she found the mirror. As she gazed her eyes filled with anger, for she saw the portrait of a woman, not Imo wing that it was in reality herself. When Kiki-Tsum came home, Lili-Tsee was very angry with him; and flung his mirror at him, saying, “Here, take this horrid picture, what do you mean by having that picture of an ugly woman in our house ?” “Why,” said Kiki-Tsum, “this is a portrait of my father; how can you say such things?” “Nothing of the kind,” replied LiliTsee, “every time I look at it I see the face of a woman, so it cannot be your 13*t6 fattier/* So they argued together, quite unable to agree on the subject, until at last the sound of their voices attracted the notice of a Japanese priest who was passing. The priest entered the house, and inquired the cause of their dispute. “Give me the portrait,” said the priest. They handed him the mirror. “You are both wrong,” he remarked, “for the face I see here is that of a venerable priest with a most holy expression.” The priest then blessed them and departed, taking with him the minor, the cause of all their trouble, which he placed amongst the sacred relics in the temple. LONDON “CALM AND ORDERLY.” WELL-GOVERNED CAPITAL. What is tire most characteristic thing about London life ? What would make the most striking impression on a stranger from Haiti, for instance ? Most people would reply, the noise, the hurry, the crowds. And they would be wrong. A journalist lias been interviewing various members of the World Economic Conference, and the thing that impressed them most was the calm and orderly way in which London gets things done. M. Constantin Mayard from Haiti added: “You seem to have cultivated the very best things in collective life. It seems to me that in London you have a perfect blend of liberty and authority.” “London,” said Dr. Fuad Aslani from Albania, “is a city in which everything is carried out smoothly, and with a minimum of trouble.” Several spoke with admiration of the quiet way in which everyone goes about his business, and they praised the absence of fuss. JOKES AND RIDDLES. Formed Jong ago, yet made to-day; Employed while others sleep; What none would like to give away, Nor ,any wish to keep. A bed. What tree is used in school to keep order ?—Why, the birch. Why would you expect swans to grow smaller as they. get older ’-Because they grow “down.” Who always finds things dull.?—A knife-grinder. (Sent by Verona Gilmer.) Why is a red-headed person never in need of a biscuit’—Because he always has a ginger-nut. (Sent by Irene Bosley.) When is a cow not a cow?—When it is a Jersey. 1 (Sent by Dennis Wright.)

LONG AGO STORIES. THE DARING OF SOPHIA. Sophia was fifteen, and the daughter of a country gentleman who was killed in battle in the reign of James I. When her father’s estates were claimed by his brother, Sophia and her mother became nothing more than servants in the house of this man. He took them to his London house, where Sophia’s mother sewed all day long, and Sophia, like Cinderella, waited upon her two cousins. She curled their hair, brought them their breakfast of bread, meat, and ale in the morning, and, as they were very gay young ladies, she had to wait up for them at night and put them to bed. Sophia was not very happy, but she heard her cousins talking of many strange things which she would never have heard of in the country, and the strangest of all was that a poet called Ben Jonson had written a masque—a kind of play—in which the Queen and her ladies were acting. Sophia gasped as she brushed her cousin’s hair. She

heard that, in taking the part of a Greek goddess, the Queen had got stuck in the doorway because her skirts were so enormous, and that the common people who crowded round the palace were horrified to hear that women were playacting just like men. “T’is a strange thing that it is no sin for a boy to dress as a maiden and play the women,” said Sophia, “yet wicked for a maiden to play on a stage.” . “There is a great difference between acting on a stage where common people pay to see you, and impersonating the Greek nymphs for the pleasure of your guests” replied her cousin. Sophia thought the matter over very carefully, but could not see a great deal of difference. Then she did an amazing, and greatly daring, thing. She went alone to a theatre and told the actors that she would play the part of a maiden for money. The actors could hardly believe that a well-spoken maid would dare such a thing, and, as they could not find girls willing to play on their stage, they said Sophia might try for a week. When Sophia told her mother what she had done, the good lady burst into tears, and without more ado Sophia’s uncle turned her out into the ; street because such behaviour was Unpardonable. . ' », “I am but a servant in your house! cried Sophia. “And my cousins play-act with the Queen, so where is the difference ?” With her head high she went to the theatre, and that afternoon she walked boldly on to the stage and tried to say a poem. Hissing and rotten fruit greeted her, and she was obliged to walk off. “But I will make them listen,” she said angrily to the grinning actors. “Now I am forced to earn a living, disgraceful as that is for a maiden of gentle birth, for I have nowhere to go.” The washerwoman who lived next to the theatre gave Sophia a bed, and for three weeks the girl was pelted with rubbish when she acted with the men, but at last the people be .ame accustomed to her, and then they liked her. Nobles, merchants, and their ladies came to the theatre to see a maiden play, and it was a very great day for Sophia when the King commanded her to play a part at his palace. Her cousins wondered what the world was coming to ! PAUL COMES INTO HIS OWN. 500 YEARS AGO AND NOW. Right for ever on the scaffold, Wrong for ever on the throne. So it seemed on a summer day in 1433 when a crowd gathered in St. Andrews market-place to watch the burning of Paul Crawar. He was a doctor of medicine, a philosopher, and a Bohemian diplomat His crime was that he believed in the teachings of John Huss, whose crime was that he believed in the teachings of John Wycliffe. To us (says the Children’s Newspaper) it seems . as if Wycliffe’s crime was that he believed in the teachings of Jesus. Wycliffe died before they could bum him alive, so they burned his body and scattered the ashes. They lured Huss from safety with a promise that he should return freely, and then said that the King of the Romans was “not bound to keep faith with a heretic." So he had the choice of denying what he held to be true or burning to death, and the “thin, pale man” of 46 chose the alternative of death. As the faggots were being piled he was offered a last chance, but he said: In the truth of that Gospel which hitherto I have, written, taught, and preached, I now joyfully die. Huss was burned and his ashes scattered in 1415. Crawar was burned in 1433. . But, in spite of all this burning and scattering of ashes, the faith in freedom grew, and there came Martin Luther and the birth of a new Church. The other day another great crowd gathered at the place where Crawar was burned. There were present distinguished men from his native country, who were proud of his memory, and many Scotsmen and Englishmen who are grateful to him for the liberty of thought which he helped to buy with his life, A commemoration service was held in the university. Who could have dreamed, 500 years ago, when. Crawar was executed that the crowd of cruel and careless sightseers would one day be replaced by this great gathering of hero-worshippers ? The executioners thought they were seeing the end of Paul Crawar; but a great thought cannot be killed. A ROMAN LAMP. A Roman lamp has been found among the remains of the building which stood on the site of All Hallows by the Tower 1600 years ago. It is in this church that the Toe H Lamp of Maintenance is kept burning day and night as a symbol of that splendid movement. In Christian Art the lamp has been a symbol of good works ever since the days of the catacombs, where lamps similar to that found at All Hallows were used. The lamp was a symbol in earlier days still, Our Lord using it in His parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins.