VERSES.

Waikato Times, Volume 105, Issue 17750, 29 June 1929, Page 16 (Supplement)

VERSES.

THE SKY CHILD.

(Sent by Lilian Davis, Te Uku.)

He had the moon to play with— A silver, shining ball; And all the world was stretched Beyond his garden wall. He counted stars by hundreds, And threaded them on strings; And every night he flew On little feathered wings. The sun passed by his garden, He watched its golden rim, The lari; came up from earth To sing sweet songs for him; And yet the child was lonely, And ever longed to go To leave his shining garden For daisy fields below.

THE LITTLE GREY MOUSE.

(Written by Mick Banks, Matamata.)

At night, when I have gone to bed, And am Just about asleep, I hear a gentle rustle And a tiny little squeak.

It Is my friend, the little mouse, Who likes to come inside our house, When all is quiet and it is safe To have a roam about our place.

There’s such a feast for a fellow small Who really does no harm at all— A few cake crumbs or a scrap of nut That he have forgotten to quite sweep up.

Mother thinks we should set a trap, And has bought a thing with a horrible

snap; But I couldn’t have him squeezed and

cut, So shall put a little signboard up. Because I’m his friend I shall tell him

that „ “We haven’t a cat, but beware of the trap.”

THE SEA’B LOBB. (Sent by Renee Duck, Rotokaurl.) I miss at sea The friendly little things Fleet-footed, sure, and some on questing wings, The warm, brown earth and windtossed, whisp’ring grassea, And wistful flowers sleeping, Waiting for Dawn’s red birth.

And, 0, at sea I miss the old-world gardens, Gay In their amber, amethyst and

gold, The pleasant place of drowsy dreamings after rain, And eerie trees whose wanton

branches Strive to trip the young and slender moon.

THE APPLE TART.

(Sent by Ronald Eales, Frankton)

We do love apple tart. With lots and lots of cream; But Nanna always says to us, “You’ll go to bed and dream.”

Now, Stephen did not care. He’d heard that said before; Declared he’d rather like to dream, So boldly asked for more.

Alasl It was too true— Poor Stephen went to bed; “This child’s had too much apple tart," That’s what the doctor said.

IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

(Sent by Hazel Nisbet, Hamilton.)

The yachts that sail the Round Pond Heel over as they go, With all their white sails gleeming When summer breezes blow. And as they breast the billows, And bravely pitch and toss, I sometimes fancy fairies Must be steering them across.