Poems Every Child Should Know: The What-Every-Child-Should-Know-Library | Page 7

the very minute I go to my bed
Pussy runs out in the yard.
And there she stays till the morning light;
So I know it is only pretend;

But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,
And he is my Firstest
Friend!

RUDYARD KIPLING.
(In "The Just So Stories.")
MY SHADOW.
"My Shadow," by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-94), is one of the
most popular short poems extant. I have taught it to a great many very
young boys, and not one has ever tried to evade learning it. Older
pupils like it equally well.
I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,
And what can be
the use of him is more than I can see.
He is very, very like me from
the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me, when I jump
into my bed.
The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all
like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes
shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so
little that there's none of him at all.
He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,
And can only
make a fool of me in every sort of way.
He stays so close beside me,
he's a coward, you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that
shadow sticks to me!
One morning, very early, before the sun was up,
I rose and found the
shining dew on every buttercup;
But my lazy little shadow, like an
arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast
asleep in bed.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
LITTLE WHITE LILY.
This poem (George Macdonald, 1828-) finds a place in this volume
because, as a child, I loved it. It completely filled my heart, and has

made every member of the lily family dear to me. George Macdonald's
charming book, "At the Back of the North Wind," also was my wonder
and delight.
Little White Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and waiting
Till the
sun shone.
Little White Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little White Lily

Is lifting her head.
Little White Lily
Said: "It is good
Little White Lily's
Clothing
and food."
Little White Lily
Dressed like a bride!
Shining with
whiteness,
And crownèd beside!
Little White Lily
Drooping with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For
the wet rain.
Little White Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast
falling
And filling it up.
Little White Lily
Said: "Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have
the nice rain.
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;
Heat cannot
burn me,
My veins are so full."
Little White Lily
Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,
Rain
at her feet.
Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain,
Little
White Lily
Is happy again.
GEORGE MACDONALD.
HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN.
"How the Leaves Came Down," by Susan Coolidge (1845-), appeals to
children because it helps to reconcile them to going to bed. "I go to bed
by day" is one of the crosses of childhood.
"I'll tell you how the leaves came down,"
The great Tree to his children said:
"You're getting sleepy, Yellow
and Brown,

Yes, very sleepy, little Red.
It is quite time to go to bed."
"Ah!" begged each silly, pouting leaf,
"Let us a little longer stay;

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief!
'Tis such a very pleasant day,

We do not want to go away."
So, for just one more merry day
To the great Tree the leaflets clung,

Frolicked and danced, and had their way,
Upon the autumn breezes
swung,
Whispering all their sports among--
"Perhaps the great Tree will forget,
And let us stay until the spring,
If we all beg, and coax, and fret."

But the great Tree did no such thing;
He smiled to hear their
whispering.
"Come, children, all to bed," he cried;
And ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
He shook his head, and far
and wide,
Fluttering and rustling everywhere,
Down sped the
leaflets through the air.
I saw them; on the ground they lay,
Golden and red, a huddled swarm,

Waiting till one from far away,
White bedclothes heaped upon her
arm,
Should come to wrap them safe and warm.
The great bare Tree looked down and smiled.
"Good-night, dear little
leaves," he said.
And from below each sleepy child
Replied,
"Good-night," and murmured,
"It is so nice to go to bed!"
SUSAN COOLIDGE.
WILLIE WINKIE.
"Wee Willie Winkie," by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this
volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from

among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied
and recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year.
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up-stairs and doon-stairs,
in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
"Are the
weans in their bed?--for it's now ten o'clock."
Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben?
The cat's singin' gay thrums
to the sleepin' hen,
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a
cheep; But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep.
Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like