OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 19 January 1935, Page 17 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

THE SAVING IN THE ORCHARD. (Sent by Nola Brown). I love it—’twas one of the best of my , friends, That funny old swing in the orchard! It sings a quaint song as the appletree bends, Does that funny old swing in the ; orchard! I used to soar upwards and upwards so high, : I fancied my toes might perhaps touch . the sky, , I seemed like the lark or the eagle to ; fly . . On that little brown swing m the orchard! I told it my troubles; I said, “I don’t care,” To that funny old swing in the orchard On days when “so naughty” I stole i away there To my funny old swing in the orchard; i But while I was swinging my temper would die, (I’d maybe, just finish by having a cry), ' And then I would hug it, and whisper, I “good-bye!” To my funny old swing in the orchard! ■ MISTER POSTMAN. J (Sent by Vivienne Fallows). Any letter for me Mister Postman? Have you brought me a letter to-day? I’m expecting a letter from Daddy; He always writes when he’s away. Not a letter? Perhaps there’s a parcel — ' 1 There’s bound to be something to-day; Daddy wouldn’t forget me, I’m certain; He never does when he's away. Is there nothing at all, Mister Post- , man? Not even a card did you say? ; Why! there’s Daddy himself at the corner; i He’s brought his own letter to-day. A BIRTHDAY PRESENT. (Sent by Audrey Mitchell). “Let me buy you a dear little kitten, Or perhaps a nice puppy would do!” But I didn’t want kittens or pup- ' pies, I wanted a kangaroo. What do you think Auntie gave me? Why, she never went near to the Zoo; . She just bought me a pair of red mittens, And I wanted a kangaroo! THE PROBLEM. (Sent by Una Linklater). When I grow up I think I’ll be A jolly tar and sail the sea, And yet I'd like to drive .a train From place to place, then home again. They say a soldier’s life is fun, I’d dearly love to fire a gun, Yet through the sky I want to sail Carrying passengers and some mail. A policeman’s life is herd to beat Guiding the traffic in the street, And very smart his coat of blue— Dear me! what am I going to do? FLAME PICTURES. (Sent by Muriel Manning). I love to sit beside the fire, Like little Polly Flinders, And watch the pictures that I see Within the glowing cinders, Brave knights in armour riding by, Princesses tall and fair, With golden crowns upon their heads And yards of lovely hair. At times I see dark winding caves With smugglers cruel and bold, And sometimes giants, like those who lived In far-off days of old; Great forests, too, with hungry beasts— Their eyes look all alive, And when they roar 1 run away!— You see, I’m only five! —Mabel M. Stevenson. TO LET. (Sent by Joyce Karalus). Two little beaks went tap! tap! tap! Two littl? shells went crack! crack! crack! Two fluffy chicks peeped out, and oh, They liked the look of the big world go That they left their houses without a fret, And two little shells are now To Let. THREE DOGS. (Sent by Edna Riddick), I know a dog called Isaac, Who begs for cake and tea, He’s fat and white and most polite. And he belongs to Timothy, I know a dog who carrtes His master’s walking-stick; He’s old and slow, and his name is Joe, And he belongs to Dick. I know a dog called Jacob, The best of all the three, Sedate and wise, with nice brown eyes, And, he belongs to Me. WHEN WE ARE MEN. (Sent by Joe Thomas). Jim says a sailor man He means to be, He’ll sail a splendid ship Out on the sea. Dick wants to buz a farm When he’s a man; He’ll get some cows and sheep Soon as he can. Jack wants an aeroplane, And says he’ll fly— Far, far above our heads— About the sky. Tom says he’ll keep a shop; Nice things to eat, Two windows full of cakes, Down in the street. I’ve thought Of something else— When I’m a man I’ll buy a trotting horse And caravan. EVENING. (Sent by Dawn Hills). At first at night the clouds go red, And all tlte sky is bright. But the tired sun soon goes to bed And takes away the light. Then a star shines out afar Up in the dark blue sky. And slow and still above the hill The moon goes floating by. THE MAN IN THE MOON. (Sent by Margaret Hunt). The man in the moon so I’ve been told, Was not up there in the days of old; For he used to be down here below To gather sticks to burn, you know. But it’s sad to say that one day he Broke some sticks off a magic tree. And each stick became a funny bird, Which flew awaj with him, I’ve heard. And they took him up till prettty soon They landed him apon the moon; And now in the moon, both day and night He gathers sticks to make the light