OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 16 November 1935, Page 18 (Supplement)

OUR POETRY

THE HOUSE AND ROAD. (Sent by Kathleen Bilski.) Tire little road says, Go, The little house says, Stay: And ho, it’s bonny here at home, But I must go away. The little Road, like me, Would seek and turn and know; And forth I must, to learn the things The little Road would show! And go I must, my dears, And journey while I may, Though heart be sore for the little house That had no word but Stay. Maybe, no other way, s Your child could ever know Why a little house would have you stay When a little road says, Go. A WISH. (Sent by Kathleen Copeman.) * I often sit and wish that I , Could be a kite up in the sky, And ride upon the breeze and go Whatever way it chanced to blow. Then I could look beyond the town And see the river winding down. MY MOTHER. (Sent by Jessie Putt.) My mother always seems to know Just what is best for me,. And when she says a thing is so, It’s always sure to be. She knows about my work and play, And cares for me at night; She safely guides me through the day In ways of truth and right. And when I ask, "How do you know?” She says it is God’s way; He teaches mothers and they show Their children, day by day. THE LUCKY CAT. (Sent by Betty Lewes.) Oh, happy little pussy-cat, In stripey coat of fur, Please will you teach me how to climb And tell me how to purr? I envy you your whiskers, puss, So sweeping, long and white; I envy you your lovely eyes That shine like fire at night I envy you because you lie A-dozing all day long, Whilst I do horrid adding sums, And stay in when they’re wrong! But, after all, dear pussy-cat, With little paws of sifk, I shouldn’t like to find for lunch , A saucerful of milk! BUTTON HEAD. (Sent by Patricia Cook.) There’s a Brownie upstairs Asleep in my bed. I peeped in and saw him; Little round head . . As green as green,' And pointed ears I don’t think he’ll waken for years and years. What shall I do? He asleep in my bed, With his orangy whiskers And buttony head. OLD SNOWBALL. (Sent by Betty Ashton.) Old Snowball was a horse who would, Always be most wise and good And little Jean and little Jack, Felt ’very safe upon his back. They thought it was a jolly thing To go a horse-back ride and bring The carrots, cabbages, and such That they for dinner liked so much. So here they’re jogging up and down, On Snowball, getting back from town. High on his back they’re safe from 1 harm With baskets filled at uncle’s farm. Old Snowball wonders what will be His special treat to-night for tea For trotting gently all the way A juicy carrot, I dare say! THE MOON BABY. (Sent by Irene Pepperell.) There’s a beautiful golden cradle That rocks in a rose-red sky. I have seen it there in the evening air Where the bats and beetles fly; With little white clouds for curtains, And pillows of fleecy wool, And a dear little bed for the moonbaby’s head So tiny and beautiful. A-HUNTING. (Sent by Marie Frisk.) The Queen has gone a-hunting In the royal wood. At hunting little animals She is not very good. She will riot catch the things she

hunts, She doesn’t think it right, But in her scarlet hunting robes She’s such a pretty sight. Heigh ho! Derry, Derry, In the woods so green. That’s how I’d go hunting If I were a queen. The king has gone a-hunting In the palace pond. Of catching little tadpoles He is very fond. His robes are as wet as anything His crown is all awry, He takes off his shoes and socks And hangs them out to dry. Fee-foe! fiddle, faddle, Let him have his fling. That’s how I’d go hunting If I were a king. PAN. (Sent by Jean Nelson.) Round and about the sordid street, With grimy face and dusty feet, Tattered jacket, ragged vest, And flaunting paper plume for crest, Laughing lips and shining eyes, For-get-me-nots from paradise And upturned nose impertinent, With all his tawdry world content. Pan, of his woodland haunts beguiled Will come again, a gutter child That lightly trips on twinkling toes And through a comb and paper blows Fantastic music as he goes. YELLOW ROSES. (Sent by Muriel Hodson.) Yellow roses on the shelf, Mother put you there herself, Plucked you from your garden tree To lend our parlour gaiety. Yellow roses, sweetly fair, Mother plucked and put you there; Where your breath of warm perfume, Can fill our little darkened room. Yellow roses when you die There will be no breeze to sigh— There will be no clouds to weep— No earth—thy nutriment to keep. I Yellow roses, who will mourn When thy petals reft and torn, Have fallen to the parlour floor, And yellow roses are no more? Yellow roses, wet with dew, Would that she who gathered you Could give thee back thy garden tree, Where death can never come to thee.

THE HEDGEHOG. (Sent by Molly Sattler.) A hedgehog went a-walking, As bold as bold can be, Right into a farmyard, Looking for his tea. The pigs began a-squealihg The donkey brayed with fright The hedgehog looked astonished As well, indeed, he might. The turkey said, “Good gracious.” The hens said, “Cluck-a-cluck!” The cows all started mooing, And “Quack!” said every duck. “I’m only just a hedgehog With a prickly back, you see, I’m really very harmless; Don’t be afraid of me.” A RAIN SONG. (Sent by Kathleen Nelson.) The silver raindrops patter Upon the earth to-day: Tap! Tap! Their knock is gentle And this is what they say: “Oh! little flowers awaken And open wide your door; Come out in pretty dresses For Spring 'is here once more.”