LITTLE RHYMES FOR LITTLE PEOPLE

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIII, Issue 20930, 8 January 1938, Page 15

LITTLE RHYMES FOR LITTLE PEOPLE

LITTLE BILLIE FUMSUP Little Billie Fumsup Disappeared one day, 'Cause the little fairies Took him right away. Found him in a meadow, $ Caught him in a net, Little Billie Fumsup Hasn’t come back yet. THE GARDENER There was a little gardener Who spent the summer days Planting rows of buttons To see what he could raise. ’lf vines come up I’ll get.” said he, . "Some button-hooks for poles.” But digging down he found instead A crop of button-holes. A STRANGER Somebody is coming, Calls the shivering breeze; >■ Somebody is coming, Grumble forth the trees. Somebody is coming, Whispers every flower; And he comes—a timid Little summer shower. MY GARDEN 1 have a little garden. With rockery all round. I dig and weed, And sow some seed, And water well the ground. When sum 'er comes I hope to find Heaps and 1 eaps of flowers: I’d give you some If yon would come: ’Twould cheer me up for hours. TO A FRIEND Friend, when you stray Or sit and take your ease On moor, or fell, Or under spreading trees, Pray leave no traces Of your wayside meal: No paper bag. No scattered orange peel, No daily journal, Littered on the grass, •est others view these Vith distaste, and pass. ,et no one say. id say it to your sh: ■ all was beauty here • "j came.

THE LOST CHILD It was a clear, cold winter night, The heavens were brightly starred, When on St. Bernard’s snowy height The good monks kept their guard. And round the hearth that night they told To one, who shelter craved, How the brave dog they thought so old Full forty lives had saved. When suddenly, with kindling eye, Up sprang the old dog there, As from afar a child’s shrill cry Rang through the frosty air. In haste the monks unbarred the door, Rugs round the mastiff threw, And as he bounded forth once more. Cried, "Blessings be on you.” The dogs raced headlong down the hill, Past many a snow-wreath wild, Until the older dog stood still Beside a sleeping child. He licked the little icy hand With his rough, kindly tongue. With his warm breath he gently fanned The tresses fair and long. The child looked up with eyes of blue, As if the whole he guessed; His arms around the dog he threw, And sank again to rest. Once more he woke and wrapped him fast In the warm covering sent; The dogs then with their charge at last Up the steep mountain went. The fire glowed bright with heaped-up logs, Each monk brought forth a light. “Good dogs!” they cried, “Good dogs! Whom bring ye here to-night?” In with a joyous bound they came— The boy awoke and smiled. “Ah, me!" the stranger said, “some have Mourned long for thee, fair child." With the morning light the monks and boy Sought where the village lay. I dare not try to paint the joy Their coming gave that day. “They say he killed his wife with a golf-club when they were on holiday.” “In how many strokes?”