OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 17 August 1935, Page 18 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

MERRY LITTLE MEN. (Sent by Jack Murphy.) Down the grassy hollow, Live merry little men, On moonlight nights they frolic, but— They don't come out till ten. And I’m in bed by seven, And so I don’t know when, I’ll go and play with them, because— They don’t come out till ten. GARDEN SEEDS. (Sent by Dawn Clements.) Within a little wooden box There lies a wealth untold Summer’s flowers waiting Theii* beauty to unfold. Hollyhocks will waken, Fairy bells will sway, Canterbury bells will bring A message every day. Within a little wooden box, - Tho’ the wind blows cold, I see the bloom of summer Waiting to unfold. THE MANTLEPIECE. , (Sent by Joyce Mitchell.) On Grannie’s mantelpiece there stands A golden clock with golden hands. Its face is very white and neat, And it has little golden feet. And there are lots of china things; A little boy with feathery wings, A prickly sheep, a dog with spots, A funny house with chimney-pots, And in a frilly, flowery dress, A very smiling shepherdess. And at the end of all the rest Are vases (which I like the best), All hung with crystal bars and balls, Making bright places on the walls. MY DEAREST DOLL. (Sent by Joan Brock.) I have a doll, the dearest doll, I never let her fall; I call her “Little Darling,” For I love her best of all. She has a box of lovely clothes, A brush and comb and muff, A cloak and hat, two pairs of shoes, All made of lovely stuff. My sister has a dollie too, But oh, it makes me frown! She takes no care of it at all, But holds it upside down! THE TWO WARRIORS. (Sent by “Jungle Struggler.”) • Like some dark chieftain comes the night, . With starry cloak and helmet bright, Creeping his way the whole world round, Without a whisper or a sound. But like a fighter brave and bold, The day comes with his shield of gold, And hounds the night from plain to plain, , , , And drives him from the land again. BETTY AND THE BROOM. (Sent by Adrinne McKain.) The gardener has gone away, And left his broom behind, Which Betty, who is tired of play, Is very pleased to find. Into a heap, leaves large and small, She sweeps with all her might; Till some, which were prepared to fall Resolve to stick on tight. And Winnie, who is two years old, Would like to do the same, Although by Betty she is told ’Tis work, and not a game. But though to lazy folks it may Appear a trifle strange. Yet work, when you are tired of play May be a pleasant change. THE BEETLE. (Sent - by Gwen Taylor.) Dulcibella went a-hunting, Hunting in the flower bed; For she knew that there were fairies Hiding somewhere near, she said.

Soon she found a tiny beetle, > Small arid round and rather fat: “That won’t do,” said Dulcibella, “Fairies never look like that.” "Are you sure?” the beetle chuckled, “Well, I may be small and black, But I’m not so blind as you, For there’s a fairy on my back!” REMEMBER. (Sent by Napier and Clifton Willison.) Remember every kindness done, To you whate’er the measure; Remember praise by others won, And pass it on with pleasure. Remember every promise made And keep it to the letter; Remember those who lend you aid, And be a grateful debtor. Remember all the happiness That comes your way in living; Forget each worry and distress Be hopeful and forgiving. Remember good, remember truth, Remember heaven’s above you, And you will find through age and youth, True joy, and hearts to love you . DEDICATION. (For the front page of a book.) (Sent by Cynthia Turner.) Come about me, little children, In the sunshine, warm and sweet, Where the apple blooms are lying On the grass beneath our feet— Come about me, little children, I can tell you many tales I have gathered as I journeyed ’Midst the woods and hills and dales. For I sleep in fragrant meadows ’Neath the starlight, soft and clear, Where I listen to the voices That I know you cannot hear. But I love you, little children, So I gather as I go Scores of gay and pretty fancies That I think you’ll like to know. There are some, perhaps, my darlings, That you will not understand Till you leave behind the valleys Of your childhood’s fairyland— But I know their simple meanings Will come home to you one day When the happy hours have vanished That my stories whiled away. PICTURES IN THE FIRE. (Sent by Tom Magon.) When Rough and I are tired, we sit Upon the hearthrug for a bit; While at the glowing fire we stare To find what pictures may be there. I always hope that Roughy sees The sort of things a dog to please, Like other’ dogs to fight and race, And bones to hide, and cats to chase. MY POCKET. (Sent by Joy Kemp.) I have something in my pocket, ' And I want you all to guess What it is that’s in the pocket Of my beautiful new dress. Freddie said it was an apple, Clara guessed a painted doll; Mabel shook her head and said, “There’s nothing there at all!” But there ig something in my pocket— Can’t you guess? Well, I will have to tell you, then, But don’t you tell a soul. Now listen, everyone of you, It’s nothing but a hole!