The Bay and Padie Book | Page 2

bust
Be awful to be dead!
Oh what a log, log day it is!
Ibe tired of blocks ad books;
I've
cowted all the ceilig lides,
I've thought of sheep ad chooks.
I've drawd a bad's face with a bo,
I've drawed a pipe to sboke;
Just
wed I thought I was asleep
I wedt ad thought I woke!
Wot's the good of sudlight dow,
Ad wot's the good of raid?
Ad
wot's the good of eddythig
Wed all your head's a paid?
Raid, raid go away,
Ad dote cub back udtil I say,
Ad that wote be
for beddy a day.

WHOM THE GODS LOVE
He's so chubby and happy and wonderful,
Dainty and perfectly made,

That when he kicks at the sunbeams there,
Out on the grass in his
cradle chair,
Somehow I feel afraid.
We ought to hide him away, I think,
Real beauty was always a bane,

If the gods get to know of his baby wiles,
Of his firm round limbs,
or his magic smiles,
They'll want him back again.
LITTLE BOYS
The roads go out to Macedon, the roads go out to Rome,
Some die in
snowy Buffaloes and some turn home;
I've done the Alps and
Apennines, and Naples to the moon, For fancies cover splendid ground
in a Summer afternoon. And then I come to gloryland, and whom do I
see there
But little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair?
Little Imps of Gloryland with great big eyes
Follow me with
questionings and laughter and surprise;
Little cheeky pixie boys
whom nothing can suppress,
Whose pandects, codes and institutes are
bound in mother's "Yes."
When Uncle comes in Sunday clothes they clamour to be kissed,
Black-currants sticking to each face and pancakes in each fist. Four
fists that is, all over jam, and four black sticky lips Just come from
playing motor-chairs and sailing sofa-ships. And if you wander on the
lawn untended in the dark
With tricycles and wheelbarrows your
shins will lose some bark!
For what's your talk of tidiness and putting things "right there" To little
Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair?
I'm picking up the channel or I'm trucking up the slope, I'm hauling on
the shear-head with a length of yellow rope; No matter where I'm
wandering, in dreaming or in fact,
Wool-loaded down the blacksoil

plains or past the desert tract, About the city clamorous with many
brakes and bells,
It takes no sweep of wizard wand nor moonlit fairy
spells To bring me back to kitchen land, and whom do I see there But
little Boyo Browneyes and Billy Wirehair!
PEEP SONG
Oh, Friday night's the laundry night,
Down the street in the dark--

And Saturday night's the picture night,
When bands play in the park.
But Sunday morning is the time
We do the pillow-peep,
To see
what things the fairies brought
While two boys were asleep.
NATURE STUDY
A mouse jumped into the watering-can
And peeped out of the spout,

And said: "If it wasn't for that young man
I'm sure I could get out!"
But Sufi sprang from an unknown spot,
And the two boys wondered,
afraid,
When he carried the mouse to a garden plot
And played, and
played, and played.
THE SKY IN THE POOL
Down by the glassy pool
Sand and water meet,
There's a little
wooden stool,
Marks of little feet.
When the broth was in the bowl,
Mother called to-day;
Mother
called and no one came,
Someone was away.
Then there came a little boy,
Whose broth was very cool,
Stuttering
in wonderment,
"The sky is in the pool!"
And mother wept, because the clear
Depths of all pool-skies,
The
soul's wonder, the heart's fear,
NEELY LORST

There's women and there's men as well and little baby things, And
some haves only dresses on and some of 'em haves wings, They nibble
dandelions for meat, they drink the bubble frorf, They never spill their
cocoa-milk all down the table-clorf, They never cry because it hurts,
they always eat their brorf.
Last night we heard a trumpet in the tea-tree down the street, And Padie
left the table that was full of things to eat, He galloped for the music
that seemed not so far away,
And neely found the fairies where the
trumpet used to play!
Our mother went and catched him and he neely wasn't found, He neely
fell into the creek through looking round and round. A naughty
sea-shell cutted him, he had a bleedy toe,
He lorst one Sunday sandal
and he didn't seem to know;
He only stood and wondered why all
fairies live in moons, And go home in the twilight with their trumpets
blowing tunes.
A WHISPER SONG
When you're coming in the door,
Please come gently, very gently!

Micky might be on the floor!
Fact, he might be anywhere!
Near the
hallstand, by the stair!
Hush! step gently, very gently!
When you're
coming in the door.
Tip-toe, tip-toe, hush the noise,
There's a wide-eye-whisper tune!

Micky's making songs for boys
Sleepy after the afternoon.
Anyone seen Micky here?
Him that lives above the ceiling?

Sometimes far and sometimes near
Boys have heard his little
squealing.
Hush you! Hush! I heard a patter
On