OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 20 July 1935, Page 6 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

WHAT WERE THE LOADS? (Sent by Thelma Hatcher.) As I was walking along the road I met three carts with their precious loads. The first was as white as white could be; The second black as ebony; The third as yellow as beaten gold; All were going to town to be sold. What could be whiter than flour wellmilled? What could be blacker than coal bags filled? What more golden then yellow straw? These loads I saw the horses draw. THE CHRISTENING. (Sent by Jack Coleman.) What shall I call My dear little dormouse? His eyes are small But his tail is e-nor-mouse! I sometimes call him Terrible John 'Cos his tail goes on and on and on; And I sometimes call him Terrible Jack ’Cos his tail grows on to the end of his back; And I sometimes call him Terrible James ’Cos he says he likes me calling him names-“ But I think I shall call him Jim ’Cos I am so fond of him. BUNNY BRIGHT-EYES. (Sent by Desmond Hill.) Bunny, Bunny Bright Eyes Sat beneath a tree. He looked to right, he looked to left To see what he could see. He saw a little fairy With wings of shining gold, Bunny said, “Good evening, dear!" And felt extremely bold. The fairy said, “Good evening, And may I have a ride?” But Bunny bounded to his hole And hid away inside. THE YOUNG GARDENER. 4 (Sent by John Kerrisk.) 1 saw a shop with lots of bulbs, So big and brown and round; I counted up my halfpennies, And said, “I’d like a pound.” I took thorn to my garden plot, And planted them with care, I thought, “I’ll have some daffodils, And tulips growing there!” At last they poked up tiny shoots, I wap so glad they’d grown, So I took daddy out to show What I could do alone. “Brave-o,” he cried, “That’s fine of you, I do like onions in my stew.” MR WIND! (Original, by Christine McEwen.) If Mr. Wind’s yriur special friend, He’ll blow you to your journey’s end; If Mr. Wind’s your special foe, Right in your face, the snow he’ll blow. He’ll make you chase your hat along And make you tired, for he is stfoiig. Now Mr. Wind’s a friend of mine, I’m blown to school at five to nine— At ten, he Shouts to come and play, But does not blow my hat away; At two, he blows away the rain, At three he takes me home again. A BAD BOY; (Sent by Doreen Coutts.) I’m in the comer, I’ve been bad; It just popped in my head I wouldn’t put my toys away Before I went to bed. Do I feel sorry? No, I don’t! Will I be good now? No, I won’t! I’m in the comer, I’ve been cross; The corner’s getting dark, But I don’t care, I wouldn’t put The an’mals in the ark. I never cryNo, I don’t, Won’t say I will, Will say I won’t! GIVE ME A HILL TO CLIMB. (Sent by Frank Larking.) Give me a stony road And strength for wayfaring; Give me a storm to defe And joy in the daring; Give me a battle to win And the courage to fight; Give me a hill to climb And strength to gain the height; And when I reach its summit, One thing I’ll ask of Thee, Give me a hill beyond Calling aloud to me. ENGLAND’S STORES. (Sent by Audrey Priest.) We send our wool to England, Our butter and our meat, Gold goes from Australia, An'd fruit that’s good to eat. India sends, with cotton, Jute and tea and rice, While from Malaya tin is sent, And from West Indies spice. South Africa has diamonds And fruit and com and wine, Canada gives wheat and fur With products of the pine. On all the seas are sailing Great ships by night and day, Leaving goods at Britain’s doors From countries far away. THE LITTLE LOST FAIRIES. (Sent by Margaret Meyer.) When I was in the garden Early in the spring Beside the orchard gate I saw A very funny thing— Five and twenty fairies— Sitting in a ring. Where they could have come from Is more than I can say, For elves come out in moonlight And go to bed by day. I wondered if the moonlight Had made them lose their way. ■ A SWARM OF USEFUL BEES. (Sent by Alma Heal.) Be good, be diligent, be brave, Be steadfast, and be true; Be loving, dear, and never fear But love will follow you. Be pitiful, be courteous, Be prayerful, be sincere; Be always kind, and you will find That happiness is near. PUSSY WILLOW. (Sent by Patsy Dudding.) I love the pussy willow It sounds so sweet to me, Just fancy furry kittens Growing on a tree. I pretend they’re really living, I close my eyes and dream That every little pussy Has a saucer full of cream. They come meow-ing down the branches . nd play a game with me, A hundred little pussies From the pussy willow tree. It’s only just pretending; They cannot play a game; They are not really pussies But J love their purry name.