Riddles

Waikato Times, Volume 123, Issue 20693, 31 December 1938, Page 19 (Supplement)

Riddles

What fruit grows on telegraph poles'?—Electric currents. In what month docs everybodv tab • < ie least?—Tn Febrsury, because it ; the shortest month. Where does every boy and girl g< on their eighth birthday?—lnto thei ninth year.

When is a fish out of its element?—When it rises and takes a fly. What are the worst bookmarkers?— Dirty fingers. Why is boot polish like the sun? -Because it shines like the sun. Why are pianos very noble?—Because they are grand and upright. Why is a river like a coward?—Be-

THE SNAIL 1 like the whale, I love the quail, I can’t abide the garden snail. He hides in stuffy holes or crawls With nasty streaks along the walls, j Or over beds where seedlings spro-ut, i And quite completely wipes them out. | The tender shoots on leafy stem i He climbs to, and he nibbles them, ! And so I do not grieve or groan I When thrushes crack him on a stone; His shell is but a weak defence — ! ’Hie walnut lias a deal more sense: But from his face it's pretty plain He isn’t over-blessed with brain. I love lo meet a whale or quail— I pity, but avoid the snail. E. S. Thomas. PAN Round and about the sordid street With grimy face and dusty feet, Tattered jacket, ragged vest, And flaunting p£per plume for crest, Laughing lips and shining eyes— Forget-me-nots from paradise— And upturned nose impertinent, With all the tawdry world content— Pan, at his woodland haunts beguiled, Is come again, a gutter child, That lightly trips on twinkling toes, And through a comb and paper blows Fantastic music as he goes. E. Hamilton Moore. THE KINGFISHER It was the Rainbow gave thee birth. And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother’s name was Tears, So runs it in thy blood to choose For haunts the lonely pools, and keep In company with trees that weep. Go you and, with such glorious hues. Live with proud Peacocks in green parks; On lawns as smooth as shining glass, Let every feather show its mark; Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings Before the windows of proud kings. Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain; Thou hast no proud ambitious mind; I also love a quiet place That’s green, away from all mankind; A lonely pool, and let a tree Sigh with her bosom over me. William H. Davies. A LITTLE WORK A little work, a little play To keep us going—and so, good-day 1 A little warmth, a little light Of love’s bestowing—and so, goodnight ! A little fun, to match the sorrow Of each day’s growing—and so, goodmorrow ! A little trust that when we die W reap our sowing! And so—goodbye ! George Du Maurier. WINTER’S NIGHT How clear the sky upon this winter night! No drifting cloud, no wandering vapour mars The cold, still splendour of the silent stars — Austere, pale outposts of the infinite; No wind stirs: no, nor any lightest breeze That like a little child’s untimely gay Discourse among grave elders, might dismay The suppliant branches of the priestlike trees: Slowly the starlight wanes, the sky goes grey: And now a breath, as of a babe that wakes. Sighs through the woodland bare: then suddenly, As when a hunter that has track’d his prey Through weary miles, at last from cover breaks. The spear of dawn thrusts upwards from the sea. Patrick Ford.