OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 11 May 1935, Page 21 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

BOBBY BLUE. (Sent by Elsie Anderson). Sometimes I have to cross the road When someone isn’t there Except a man in uniform Who takes a lot of care; I do not call him officer As other people do, I thank him most politely, A.nd call him Bobby Blue. . He’s very big, and every one Does everything he tells, The motor-cars with hooters And the bicycles with bells; And even when I cross the road With other people too, I always say as I go by, “Good morning, Bobby Bluer STARS. (Sent by Eunice Poulsen). The nursery window is open wide, And me and Dickie Dog peep outside . . . Out in the night there are stars alight Twinkling up in the sky. “Dickie Dog, look at the stars,” I said “Not on the ground—up high!” Dickie Dog will look downwards, though— He’s seen a cat in the lane below. “There’s the Great Bear on the rightup there; That is the Milky Way, Dickie Dog, look at the stars, my dear, Listen to what I say.” But Dickie Dog’s seen a dog he hates Go lolloping past the garden gates. “What can I do with a dog like .you? Dickie Dog, won’t you see? What is the good of stars at all Shining for you and me?” But Dickie Dog doesn’t wait for more— He’s heard the postman outside the door 1 . STELLA IN THE RAIN. (Sent by, Joan Brock), Our little , Stella Went- out walking, Met a little friend . And they got talking. Down came the rain, “Oh dear!” said Stella, “I've forgotten My big umbrella. “I can’t stay talking Out in the rain!” , . So our t little Stella Ran home again. MONEY. ' (Sent by Margaret Keller). Mummy has a shilling, Daddy has a pound; And I have a penny, All the year round. Mummy buys the dinner, Daddy pays the rent, ■And I can spend my penny To my heart’s content. One pound one and one pence, It comes to altogether, Which is quite enough for All kinds of weather. THE FEAST OF THE DOLL. (Sent by Tinker Bell.) In flow’ry Japan, the home of the fan, The land of the parasol, Each month has its feast, from greatest to least, And March is the Feast of the Doll-doll-doll, And March is the Feast of the Doll. The wee slippered maid in gown of brocade, The baby with shaven poll, The little brown lad in embroidery clad. All troop to the Feast of the Doll-doll-doU, All troop to the Feast of the Doll. ’ How pleasant ’twould be, ’neath an almond-tree, In sunshine and perfume to 1011, Forget our own spring, with its wind and its sting, And sing to the praise of the Doll-doll-doll, And sing to the praise of the Doll. Come, sweet Tippytoes, as pink as a rose, And white as a cotton-boll; Let us follow the plan of the folk in *• Japan, And dance for your Feast, little Doll-doll-doll, And dance for your Feast, little Doll. —Nora Archibald Smith. AUTUMN WEATHER. (Sent by Rosemary Sheddan). Dead heat and windless air, And silence over pll; Never a leaf astir, But the ripe apples fall; Plums are purple red, ' Pears amber and brown; Thud! in the garden-bed Ripe; apples fall down. TOSS AND THE KITTENS. (Sent by Joan Henderson). Two kittens run around a pail; . There’s a head, now a tail. Toss, the collie, wants some fun; Off he goes to join their run. Kittens don’t like great big paws, Or collie’s smiling open jaws. Though Toss is only out for play, “Hiss, hiss,” is all they say. Mother Puss is wandering near, “Hiss, hiss,” she can hear, Bounds like tiger, fur on end, Ready any foe to rend. Toss gets sad and sore surprise, Darts away with bitter cries, Though he is only out for play, He has to rim away. THE BIRTHDAY CAKE. (Sent by Phyllis Poulsen). To-morrow is my birthday; To-morrow we shall fix Six candles on my birthday cake Because I shall be six. Six candles on one birthday cake! How brightly they Will shine! But what a blaze my cake would be If it were sixty-riine! THE HOUSE COMING DOWN. (Sent by Elaine Kennedy.) They’re pulling' down the house At the corner of the square, The floors and the ceilings Are out in the. air. The fireplaces so rusty, The staircases .so dusty The wallpapers so musty Are all laid bare. It looks like a dolls’ house With the dolls put away, And the furniture laid by Against another day. No bed to lie in, No pan to fry in, Or dish to make a pie in, And nobody to play. That was the parlour With the cream and yellow scroll; That was the bed-room With the roses up the wall. There’s a dark red lining In the room they used for dining And a brown one, rather shining, Gnas all uu tha hall.