Part 2

And yet with all these jolly chalks, The artist seems in pain; Perhaps because his pictures get Rubbed out by showers of rain.

But what I cannot understand Is why each paving-stone Has not a drawing on its face, Why such a few are done.

Our walks would be much pleasanter, If all the dullest streets Were illustrated like a book And gay as flags or sweets.

Of course a lot would get all smudged By careless people's tracks, But some would tread as I do now Only upon the cracks.

MY nurse declares that sweeps are kind, Without the slightest inclination To steal away a well-dressed child Except by nurse's invitation.

Nurse says that children do not climb The tall black chimneys any more; She even says (this must be wrong) Sweeps enter by the area door.

But I have seen a chimney-sweep Go whooping up and down our street; And on his back he had a sack-- I bet with something good to eat.

GREENGROCERS, greengrocers, In your green shops, With cabbages and cauliflowers And tough turnip-tops.

Mother buys daffodils, And apples for me: But nurse she buys radishes To eat with her tea.

NOVEMBER fogs, November fogs, A month to Christmas day. The world is cold and dirty, But the muffin man is gay.

He rings his bell, he rings his bell All through the afternoon: He rings his bell to let us know That Christmas will come soon.

THE Punch and Judy man's in sight, He's coming down our street, He's stopping just before our house-- Shut up! I bagged that seat.

I say, the Colonel opposite[J] Is sending him away, Because he says his wife is ill And can't bear noise to-day.

[J] He bagged our ball the other day

AFTER a winter walk, it's nice To see the baked-potato man Poking his stove and picking out The best potatoes from his pan.

A baked potato on a spike Is very like a pirate's head; I always think of them again Long after when I've gone to bed.

I bought one coming home from school, And as I turned into our street, The lamp-posts in the yellow fog Sailed like a wicked pirate fleet.

And all the people in the fog Were sailor-men upon a quay; The pavement smelt of tar and salt: I thought I heard quite close the sea.

I heard a whisper as I went, 'The Jolly Roger's at the peak'; A bullfinch in a lighted room Was a parrot in a far-off creek.

The parlour-maid at Twenty-two Was black-eyed Susan, and beyond, The plane-tree was a cocoa-palm; The crossing-sweeper was marooned.

And as I got close to our house, I was an English midshipman; My satchel was an old sea-chest, My copy-book a treasure-plan.

And then a wondrous thing occurred, The strangest thing I ever knew: I found a shining sixpence, though I don't suppose you'll think it true.

I hardly dared to look at it, Afraid that it would only prove A bit of tin, a Bovril coin, And not a proper treasure-trove.

I told my brother and he thought We'd better hide it out of sight, In case the pirates should attack Our bedroom on that foggy night.

The baked potato in my coat Was just exactly Captain Kidd; So both of us declared at once That there the sixpence must be hid.

We took our sister's sailor-doll And put his clothes upon a stick, And spent the evening doing this Instead of my arithmetic.

We made a glorious cocked-hat Of paper-painted Prussian blue, We put the pirate on the stick, And stuck the sixpence first with glue.

Deep in my mother's window-box Next day we buried Captain Kidd; My sister never could find out Where all her sailor-clothes were hid.

We made a map to show the place And wrote directions in red ink; But when we dug the treasure up, I dropped it down the kitchen sink.

AUNT JANE with whom I sometimes stay Has a very curious house, As quiet as Aunt Jane herself, As quiet as a mouse.

It's always Autumn when I go And raining every day: The garden's full of shrubs and paths I'm sent out there to play.

The paths are green and full of moss, The shrubs are wet and dark: It's like a secret corner in A sort of nightmare park.

I walk about the paths alone And look at roots and leaves, And once behind a laurel bush I saw a Pierrot's[K] sleeves.

I thought of him that night in bed, I was afraid he'd climb And peep against the window-pane And say a horrid rhyme.

And when I heard the rain outside Dripping upon the sill, I thought I heard his footsteps too, And oh, I did lie still.

[K] Like one in my Aunt's French picture-book

I saw his shadow dance about Like a shadow on a sheet; I saw his eyes, like currants black, And his white velvet feet.

My aunt's house is a quiet house, The servants never speak: She goes to sleep each afternoon: I stay there for a week.

The rooms have got a woolly smell, They're full of little things-- Tall clocks and fat blue china bowls And birds with coloured wings.

I tinkle all the candlesticks Upon the mantelpiece: They wave long after I have gone, And never seem to cease.

The drawing-room is full of shawls, With footstools everywhere, And prickly cushions stuck upright Upon each bristly chair.

I'm glad when I go home again Into the shining lamps And comfortable sound of streets, And see my book of stamps.

THE clock is striking four o'clock, It is not time for tea. Although the night is marching up And I can hardly see.

I'm reading in the library In a most enormous chair; The fire is just the very kind That makes you want to stare.

I'm looking at the largest book That ever yet was seen; They say I shall not understand This tale till I'm fourteen.

Don Quixote is the name of it With pictures on each page; The way that he was treated puts Me in a fearful rage.

Don Quixote was a tall thin man Whose thoughts were just like mine, He saw queer things, he heard queer sounds Though he was more than nine.

He used to lie in bed and watch The hilly counterpane. And see strange little knights-at-arms Go riding down a plain.

His room was simply crowded with Enchanters, dwarfs and elves, And dragons used to go to sleep Upon the darkest shelves.

He used to think that common things Were really very strange, Like me who saw a goblin once Upon our kitchen-range.

He saw big giants in the clouds Marching and fighting there: He used to listen to the leaves And think it was a bear.

He found some armour that belonged To people long ago, And rode away to fight and save Princesses from the foe.

But every one behaved to him As if they were his nurse: They said he was old-fashioned and They said he was a curse.

He used to play at 'let's pretend' And charge a flock of sheep; He used to read in bed at night Instead of going to sleep.

There was not anything of which He could not make a game; He must have been a jolly chap-- Don Quixote was his name.

He had adventures every day, He simply made them come; But all his family shook their heads And said that he was rum.

They burnt his books, they shut him up, They threw enormous stones. Some beastly fellows beat him too And almost broke his bones.

It makes me simply furious, It _nearly_ makes me cry To see him lying in the road-- I hope he will not die.

He did not mean to misbehave, He wanted just to play; Some people think my games are bad-- They did the other day.

A cousin came to stay with us To see the Lord Mayor's Show, And we were playing 'Ancient Greeks,' A game you all must know.

Andromeda we gave to her, Perseus was given to me; My kiddy brother was the beast, The nursery floor the sea.

We tied her to the rock with string, The rock was Nurse's bed, Medusa's head was Nurse's hat-- We ruined it, she said.

And as the floor was rather dry, We got the water-jug, And slooshed it all about the room And simply sopped the rug.

My kiddy brother was the beast, I killed him with the poker; My kiddy cousin screamed and yelled As if we _meant_ to soak her.

So we were punished just because We played at 'let's pretend.' Don Quixote would have understood, He would have been our friend.

Hullo! there goes the bell for tea; They've lighted up the hall, And I must go and wash my hands And fetch Miss Perkins' shawl.

THE wettest days in London Are quite a jolly spree: Our house is like an island, The wet street like a sea.

The rain beats on our windows And splashes on the sill; But the dining-room's a jungle, The staircase is a hill.

Our camping-ground's the nursery, The hall's a coral-reef; My sister's cot's a schooner, And Nurse an Indian chief.

Miss Perkins is a pirate, The maids are cannibals; They have orgies in the pantry Unless a person calls.

We've guns and swords and pistols, We've several sorts of flags; By shooting on the hillside We've got some splendid bags.

We found a grand volcano Close to the servants' room, It really was the cistern, But it made a fearful boom.

In all our expeditions My brother is the crew, I'm midshipman and captain-- Of course it's rather few,

But then my kiddie sister Has _got_ to be the beasts Which we go out a-hunting In order to have feasts.

Our feasts are bread and butter, And sometimes bread and jam-- That is, if when we're shooting No doors are made to slam.

The wettest days in London Are quite a jolly spree; And sometimes, though not often, Our friends come in to tea.

IF, Percy, you have money in your pocket, For Algernon I hope you'll buy this book, But when you've bought it, do let Algy read it, And let your kiddy sister have a look.

This good advice applies to you, young Godfrey, To Wilfred and to Michael and to Claude, To James, Guy, Basil, Archibald and Eustace, And also to Diana, Joan and Maud.

Philip, to you the last must be spoken; Tell people of this book round Kensington; Mention with kind encouragement the Author, And get the money from your Uncle John.

THE END