LITTLE RHYMES FOR LITTLE PEOPLE

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXXX, Issue 20165, 20 July 1935, Page 13

LITTLE RHYMES FOR LITTLE PEOPLE

FAIRY FEET

Nobody lives in the cottage now, But birds build under the thatch, And a trailing rose half hides the door And twines itself round the latch.

Nobody walks up the cobble path, Where the grass peeps in between, But fairy feet tread the cobble stones And keep them wonderfully clean.

Nobody knows that the raindrops bright Which fall on the grey old stones Are the feet of the fairies dancing for Joy On the path that nobody owns. WAITING TIME Now is the quiet waiting time. The rough, ploughed soil is still. There is no leaf yet on the branch, No harebell on the hill. There is no Winter, yet no Spring; The dark Earth holds her breath; It is as though all birds had died, All song lay low in death. Yet are the black arms of the trees The scaffolding for bowers When summer builds green walls again And floors of waking flowers. How often thus with hopeful joy We wait some well-loved guest, And wonder in c»jr beating hearts If waiting time is best. —By Marjorie Wilson in The Children’s Newspaper.

OPPORTUNITY

Inside a sculptor’s studio Stood groups of marble tall; And one just finished of a maid, , The fairest of them all. Her hair across her hidden face Was blown in wind-swept rings; A covered burden in her arms, And on her feet were wings. Around the room the sculptor’s child Was wandering to and fro; But longest stood before the maid In garments white as snow. “Dear father, who is she, And what is it she brings? I want to see her face so much, And why do her feet have wings?” “Dear child,” the sculptor gently said, "This maiden fair and tall, I call her Opportunity, She comes to one and all. Rarely do men see her face, Or know just what she brings. And if they question her too long They find her feet have wings. Upon some pathway of your life, Dear little one,” said he, ; You're sure to meet her face to face, Your Opportunity. Then ask not if she smiles or frowns ’ But take whate’er she brings, Or she may slip away from you, Because her feet have wings.” (Sent by Francis Miller, Rangitata Island.) POLLY Brown eyes, straight nose, Dirty pies, rumpled clothes; Tom books, spoil toys, Arch looks, unlike a boy’s. Like rages, obvious arts, Three her age Is, cakes, tarts, Falling down, oil chairs, Breaking crown, down stairs. Catching flies, on the pane, Deep sighs, cause not plain; Bribing you with kisses For a few farthing blisses. Wide awake as you hear, “Mercy’s sake! quiet dear.” New shoes, new frock; Vague views of what’s o’clock. When it’s time to go to bed, Scorn sublime for what is said. Folded hands saying prayers, Understands not, nor cares. Thinks it’s odd, smiles away, Yet may God her her pray. Bedgown white, kiss dolly, Good-night—that’s Polly. Fast asleep, as you see; Heaven keep my girl for me. (Sent by Patricia Scannell, Temuka.)