CAT'S MEAT.
Ho, all you cats in all the street; Look out, it is the hour of meat:
The little barrow is crawling along, And the meat boy growling his fleshy song.
Hurry, Ginger! Hurry, White! Don't delay to court or fight.
Wandering Tabby, vagrant black, Yamble from adventure back!
Slip across the shining street, Meat! Meat! Meat! Meat!
Lift your tail and dip your feet; Find your penny - Meat! Meat!
Where's your mistress. Learn to purr; Pennies emanate from her.
Be to her, for she is Fate, Perfectly affectionate.
 (You domestic, Pinkie-nose,
Keep inside and warm your toes.)
Flurry, flurry in the street
Meat! Meat! Meat! Meat!
-HAROLD MONRO, in Nelson's "Reading for Action " Series. (Mrs. Monro, copyright- holder.)

MAPS.
Pam and John and Jennifer are home from the sea, White below the waistline to far above the knee,
Brown above the waistline and brown below the thigh,
Unless you count the colours left on John's black eye;
Unless you count the colour - a sort of pinky red
Of Pam's cut ankle (and, my goodness, how it bled!) ;
Unless you count the shingle; there's a lot left still
In Jen's scarred knee, and she says she hopes it will Stay there for ever
For ever and a day. Jen hopes it never
Will quite go away;
It helps her to remember The sea, you understand, And even in the winter
She'll show an inch of sand!
Now every night at bath-time Pam and Jen and John
Sing a song of sea-scars while taps are running on
"That was where the crab nipped! " and, "That was what I did
The day when we were climbing and the whole cliff slid."
"That's where I tumbled down right underneath the pier !" 
And, " That ought to stay there quite another year!"
Some may go exploring and mark maps to show
The spots they have been to, but other people know
Maps may be handy But scars can remind Of days wet and sand And shores left behind; They help them 
to remember The place where they would be, And even in mid-winter They'll conjure up the sea!
-From " Punch."

IF I HAD A BROOMSTICK.
I had a broomstick, and knew how to ride it,
I'd fly through the windows when Jane goes to tea;
And over the tops of the chimneys I'd guide it
To lands where no children are cripples like me;
I'd run on the rocks with the crabs and the sea,
Where soft red anemones close when you touch.
 If I had a bfoomstick, and knew how to ride it -  If I had a broomstick - instead of a crutch.
-PATRICK R. CHALMERS.

THE PIRATE.
I am a pirate, I am! Don't you know me by my swagger, Sword of steel, and trusty dagger? For one hand 
a useful
hook, Which alone makes people look.
I am a pirate, I am! See my hair, so long and black, And the fine coat on my back, With the ruffles 
of soft lace; Next
observe my pirate face.
I am a pirate, I am! Up and down my deck I'm strolling, To the edge of the world I'm rolling, 
rolling, Shouting,
blustering and zig-zagging, With windy sails in the breeze a-wagging!
I am a pirate, I am! Treasure-chests lie in my hold, And a captive girl with hair like gold; And 
every sailor on the sea
Trembles with terror at sight of me.

A HINDU BOY'S WISHES.
When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our lane,
Every day I meet the hawker crying, " Bangles, crystal bangles! "
There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must take, no place he must go to, no time when 
he must come
home.
I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road crying, "Bangles, crystal bangles!"
When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school,
I can see through the gate of that house the  gardener digging the ground.
He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he 
gets baked in the
sun or gets wet.
I wish I were a gardener, digging away at the  garden, with nobody to stop me from digging.
Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to bed,
I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and down.
The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in its head.
The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his side, and never once goes to bed in his life.
I wish I were a watchman walking the streets at night, chasing the shadows with my lantern.
-RABINDRANATH TAGORE.

MARY AND HER KITTEN.
The Kitten's in the Dairy! Where's our Mary?
She isn't in the Kitchen, She isn't at her Stitching, She isn't at the Weeding,
The Brewing, or the Kneading!
Mary's in the Garden, walking in a Dream,
Mary's got her Fancies, and the Kitten's got the cream.
-ELEANOR FARJEON.

THE HUMP.
The Camel's hump is an ugly lump Which well you may see at the Zoo; But uglier yet is the hump we 
get From
having too little to do.
We climb out of bed with a frouzly head, And a snarly-yarly voice. We shiver and scowl and we grunt and 
we growl At our
bath and our boots and our toys;
And there ought to be a corner for me (And I know there is one for you) When we get the hump - Cameelious 
hump - The
hump that is black and blue!
The cure for this ill is not to sit still, Or frowst with a book by the fire; But to take a large hoe 
and a shovel also, And
dig till you gently perspire;
And then you will find that the sun and the wind, And the Djinn of the Garden too, Have lifted the 
hump - The horrible hump – The hump that is black and blue!
I get it as well as you-oo-oo - If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo! We all get hump - Cameelious 
hump - Kiddies and grown-ups too!
-RUDYARD KIPLING, in "How the Camel Got his Hump." (Published in Hodder and Stoughton's "Sixty Poems by Rudyard 
Kipling.")

THESE THINGS SHALL BE.
These things shall be! A loftier race
Than e'er the world hath known shall rise With flame of freedom in their souls,
And light of knowledge in their eyes.
Nation with nation, land with land,
Unarmed shall live as comrades free; In every heart and brain shall throb
The pulse of one fraternity.
New arts shall bloom of loftier mould,
And mightier music thrill the skies, And every life shall be a song
When all the earth is Paradise.
-JOHN A. SYMONDS.

THE FLOWER-SELLER.
The Flower-seller's fat, and she wears a big shawl; She sits on the kerb with her basket and all; The 
wares that she
sells us are not very dear And are always the loveliest things of the year.
Daffodils in April, Purple flags in May, Sweet peas like butterflies Upon a summer day. Brown leaves 
in autumn,
Green leaves in spring, And berries in the winter When the carol singers sing.
The Flower-seller sits with her hands in her lap, When she's not crying Roses, she's taking a nap; 
Her bonnet is
queer, and she calls you My Dear And sells you the loveliest things of the year.
-ELEANOR FARJEON, in " "Nursery Rhymes of London Town." (Duckworth.)

THE WITCH'S SONG.
" Hoity-toity! Hop-o'-my-thumb! Tweedledee and Tweedledum! All hopgoblins come to me, Over the 
mountains, over
the sea., Come in a hurry, come in a crowd, Flying, chattering, shrieking loud; I and my broomstick 
fidget and call -
Come, hopgoblins, we want you all!
"I have a pot of mischievous brew; You must do what I tell you to: Blow through the keyholes, hang to 
the eaves,
Litter the garden with dead brown leaves; Into the houses hustle and run, Here is mischief and here 
is fun! Break the
china and slam the doors, Crack the windows and scratch the floors, Let in the cockroaches, mice and 
rats, Sit on
the family's Sunday hats; Riding and stealing everything little, Smashing everything thin and 
brittle; Teasing the
children, tickling their heels - Look at them jumping! Hark to their squeals! Pinch their elbows and 
pull their hair, Then
out again to the gusty air!
Flutter the birds in their sheltered nests,
Pluck the down from the ducklings' breasts, Steal the eggs from the clucking hen,
Ride the pigs round and round the pen! Here is mischief to spare for all
Hoity-toity, come at my call!
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Come at my summons - come to me!
Thus said a witch on a windy night,
Then sailed on her broomstick out of sight.
-RUTH BEDFORD, in "Fairies and Fancies." (A. and C. Black.)

FROLIC.
The children were shouting together,
And racing along the sands,
A glimmer of dancing shadows,
A dovelike flutter of hands.
The stars were shouting in heaven,
The sun was chasing the moon:
The game was the same as the children's,
They danced to the self-same tune.
The whole of the world was merry,
One joy from the vale to the height,
Where the blue woods of twilight encircled
The lovely lawns of the light.
-A.E. (Messrs. Macmillan and Co.'s Copyright.)

FAIRY CLOTHES-LINES.
Golden lines that swing and sway Right across each winding way In the 
garden where we play. Soft they brush
against our faces As we run through leafy places; Then they part , and 
leave no traces.
Golden lines that glint and sway, Stretched across 'twixt spray and spray; 
Only cobwebs, do you say? Cobwebs in
the autumn sun, By the busy spiders spun; Shaking, breaking as we run?
No! These strings that sway so light Are the fairies' clothes-lines bright! 
Fairies put them up last night - When the moon
was in the sky, And no mortal's curious eye Saw the clothes hung out to dry - 
Petticoats, all airs and graces, Nightgowns, frilled with filmy laces, 
Handkerchiefs and pillow-cases - Linen of that
silver sheen On a daisy's petals seen, Fitting for the Fairy Queen.
Fairies, tripping blithe and gay, Took them in at dawn of day; Left the 
empty lines a-sway, Where they softly touch
our faces As to-day we run our races Through the leafy garden-places!
- QUEENIE SCOTT-HOPPER, in "Pull the Bobbin." (Harrap.)

PATSY ROBERTS.
Patsy Roberts, my white cat, She isn't thin, she isn't fat; She isn't big, she isn't small, She's 
nothing definite at all.
But if you see a shadow pass,  It's Patsy stealing through the grass; And if you hear a field-mouse 
cry,  It's Patsy
creeping softly by; And oh, the tailless sparrow! That
Is Patsy Roberts, my white cat.
Patsy Roberts, there she sits. She never purrs, she never spits; She doesn't move, she doesn't call, 
She might not be
alive at all.
But if you hear a snarl at night,  It's Patsy going out to fight; And if you hear a mew by day,  It's 
Patsy slinking off to
play; And oh, the empty milk-jug! That
Is Patsy Roberts, my white cat.
- OLIVE DEHN, in " The New Merry-go-Round."

THE PLOUGHMAN.
On winter mornings, when the air is still,
The ploughman's cries come floating down the hill,
 
 Ge-e-e-e Up! Ge-e-e-e Whoa!
The selfsame sharp and throaty cries are they 
That teamsters used in Julius Caesar's day 
 Ge-e-e-e UP! Ge-e-e-e Whoa!
Nothing is changed Since tillage
first began
The same brown earth has Yielded food to man.
Nothing is changed - save ploughman, team, and share:
Ten thousand furrows have been made just there.
And every time, with cautious, sidelong looks,
Have followed close behind the greedy rooks.
And every time the team was kept in hand
By those two potent phrases of command - Ge-e-e-e Up! Ge-e-e-e Whoa!
Which every horse on earth can understand
From Christiania to Van Diemen's Land, Ge-e-e-e Up! Ge-e-e-e Whoa!
-E. V. LUCAS

A MAORI LULLABY.
Hark! the bittern calls her children From the willow-weed and marsh-logs, 
And the lonely little swamp-bird Wades no
more about the black bogs. See the kelpies of the starshine, Peeping each 
one through a blue bough, Hearken to the
voice of Rangi Singing as I sing to thee now. Sleep, my bright-eyed 
little weka, Sleep, my huia-bird of twilight, Sleep,
my brown moth of the branches; Ate! Ate! Ate! Ate!
Hush-oh hush! my little wild one, Hear the stirring in the hollow, With 
thy restless little crying Thou wilt wake the
small sea-swallow. Dearer than the bread of raupo, Dearer than the sweet 
konini, Dearer than the dead to Tane, Yea,
so dear art thou unto me. Sleep my bud of koromiko, Sleep, my wild karaka 
berry, Sleep, my red-lipped rata-blossom; Ate! Ate! Ate! Ate!
-EILEEN DUGGAN, in "New Zealand Poems." (Allen and Unwin.)

CAPTAIN JOSEPH JOHNSON.
Captain Joseph Johnson is the nicest man I know:
He was captain of a clipper ship a long time ago.
He lives past the coastguard, in a little white house,
With a flagstaff and a figurehead from a wrecked ship's bows.
Captain Joseph Johnson has the jolliest kind of things
Whale's teeth and flying-fish, and a big shell that sings,
And a ship inside a bottle-if you tried to ever so,
You couldn't guess till Christmas, how it got there - but I know!
Captain Joseph Johnson has been everywhere almost
Trinidad and Timor and the Cochin China Coast,
Rio and the Nicobars, Para and Peru
And as soon as I'm old enough, I'm going too !
Captain Joseph Johnson tells the finest kind of tales,
About typhoons and hurricanes and Cape Horn gales,
And running down the tropics in a whole-sail breeze,
And fighting pigtailed pirates in the China Seas.
Captain Joseph Johnson is my very special chum;
He's always glad to see me whenever I can come,
And I go up to his house as often as I can,
For Captain Joseph Johnson is a very nice man.
-	C. FOX SMITH

THE SANDPIPER.
Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I, And fast I gather, bit by bit,
The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit
One little sandpiper and I.
Above our heads the sullen clouds
Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds
Stand out the white lighthouses high. Almost as far as eye can reach
I see the close-reefed vessels fly,  As fast we flit along the beach
One little sandpiper and I.
I watch him as he skims along,
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry. He starts not at my fitful song,
Nor flash of fluttering drapery. He has no thought of any wrong;
He scans me with a fearless eye: Staunch friends are we, well tried and strong,
The little sandpiper and I.
Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth
The tempest rushes through the sky: For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?
-CELIA THAXTER. (Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, and Co.'s copyright.)

THE SPIDER.
The spider weaves his silver wire Between the cherry and the brier. He runs along and sees the 
thread Well fastened
on each hawser-head. And then within his wheel he dozes Hung on a thorny stem of roses, While fairies 
ride the
silver ferry Between the rose-bud and the cherry.
-WILFRID THORLEY.

A FROSTY DAY.
Grass afield wears silver thatch,
Palings all are edged with rime;
Frost-flowers pattern round the latch;
Cloud nor breeze dissolve the clime;
When the waves are solid floor,
And the clods are iron-bound,
And the boughs are crystalled hoar,
And the red leaf nailed aground;
When the fieldfare's flight is slow,
And the rosy vapour rim,
Now the sun is small and low, Belts along the region dim;
When the rusty blackbird strips,
Bunch by bunch, the coral thorn,
And the pale day-crescent dips,
New to heaven, a slender horn.
-LORD DE TABLEY.

HIAWATHA'S CHILDHOOD.
By the shores of Gitche Gumee By the shining Big Sea-Water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of 
the Moon, Nokomis. Dark behind it stood the forest, Rose the black and gloomy pine
trees, Rose the firs with cones upon them; Bright before it beat the water, Beat the shining Big 
Sea-Water.
Thus the wrinkled, old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha, Rocked him in his linden cradle, Bedded 
soft in moss and rushes. Safely bound with reindeer sinews; Stilled his fretful wail by saying, "Hush; the naked bear will get 
thee!" Lulled him into slumber, singing, "Ewa-yea! my little owlet! Who 
is this that lights the wigwam? With his great eyes lights the wigwam? Ewa-yea! my little
owlet! "
At the door on summer evenings Sat the little Hiawatha; Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, Heard 
the lapping of the water, Sounds of music, words of wonder; " Minne-wawa! " said the pine
trees, " Mudway-aushka! " said the water.
 Saw the firefly, Wah-wah-taysee, Flitting through the dusk of evening, With the twinkle of his 
candle, Lighting up the brakes and bushes, And he sang the song of children, Sang the song
Nokomis taught him; "Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly,
Little, flitting white-fire insect, Little, dancing, white-fire creature, Light me with your little 
candle, Ere upon my bed I lay me, Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!"
When he heard the owls at midnight,
Hooting, laughing in the forest, "What is that? " he cried in terror, "What is that," he said, "Nokomis?" And the good Nokomis 
answered: "That is but the owl and owlet,
Talking in their native language, Talking, scolding at each other."
- H. W. LONGFELLOW.

A WISH.
If I had a wish - Well, what would I wish! For a Crimson Cat, Or a Purple Fish, Or a Green Top-hat, 
Or Scarlet Butter,
Or something like that! You'll say what utter Waste of a perfectly splendid wish! Because you're 
content with the
same sort of dish Day after day, and would wish, I guess, For a little more Pudding, or one more 
Dress. But I mean
to say, If a wish by strange Chance came my way, I'd have a change; And for real delight I'd see it 
was spent On
something quite, Quite different!
-ELEANOR FARJEON, in "Joan's Door." (Collins.)

QUEER QUERIES.
What an apple-tree thinks of its first blossom gown;
What a baby chick thinks in its gold coat of down;
What a butterfly thinks when if rises on wings;
What a young blackbird thinks of the first song he sings;
What the lark tells the sky in his song without words;
If the wind talks to trees and if trees talk to birds;
If the thoughts of a lake are as serene as it looks;
What the rain tells the hills and the hills tell the brooks;
If the brooks' thoughts are lost on the way to the sea;
And if everything's true that the old sea tells me.
- HILDA I. RESTRON a " The Novel Magazine." (Pearson.)
 
WRITING.
Once long ago, so I've been told, When the world was only a few years old, They didn't have any 
A.B.C. Like the one that was planned for you and me. There weren't any pens
to nibble and bite, And nobody knew the way to write. Nobody learned their capital G's, Nobody 
learned to cross their t's, And whether you dotted an i or not Didn't really
matter a jot. Nobody's nib got bent or crossed, Nobody's copy book got lost, Ink pots didn't get 
spilt and cracked, And thumbs and fingers never got blacked. They wrote
things down in a prettier way, For whatever it was they had to say They said it in pictures crudely 
drawn -  A cat, or a crow, or a unicorn - Scratched on stone with a rusty
nail, And every picture told a tale. What should we think of ourselves to-day If you and I were to 
write this way? Just think of Father's surprise and sorrow If he got a letter
like this to-morrow!
- H.C_ in "The Merry-go-round," 1928. (Blackwell.)

SPRING MORNING.
The gay green world of spring Is all about me, Cherry and thrush to sing, Bluebell and beech tree. 
Violet, blue and white, Strawberry blossom too; Primrose's pallid light Starring the wood
through. Hush, for the sound is sweet High in the oak tree, Where thrush and thrush do meet Singing 
songs for me.
- J. G., in " The Observer."

THE BLACKBIRD.
There's a careless, lazy   beggar  Who sings outside my door; I fed him all the winter, For he was 
very poor; But
now he lacks for nothing - His wife and family Are fitly housed and happy, And so he sings to me.
I know him for a rascal, I know him for a thief; I've caught him stealing cherries And currants to my 
grief; He's
quarrelsome and noisy, And, when the days are long,
He chuckles in the garden And never lifts a song.
But when the pussy-willows Are golden near the mill, And spring winds blow soft kisses To every 
daffodil; Oh, then I
bless my singer And praise his sleek black coat, For all the heart-break joy of spring Finds music in 
his throat.
- W.M.L. in "Punch."

A DOG TO HIS MASTER.
He's pulling on his boots! He's going out again - Out to the world of roots, The whipping wind and rain 
The stinging sun that tells On bristles and in blood. Out to the place of
smells, And things that move, and mud Out where, to run a race, Is not to hit a wall; Out to the time of 
chase! Will he whistle and call? He's looking for his stick, He's - Hark! his
glorious shout! I'm coming quick-quick-quick! We're going out! We're out!
-ELEANOR FARJEON, in "Sing for Your Supper." (Michael Joseph.)

THE SEED SHOP.
Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,
Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand, Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry - 
Meadows and gardens running through my hand.
In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams,
A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust That will drink deeply of a century's streams;
These lilies shall make summer on my dust.
Here in their safe and simple house of death,
Sealed in their shells a million roses leap; Here I can blow a garden with my breath,
And in my hand a forest lies asleep.
-MURIEL STUART.

MR. FRAZER'S.
I know a very ship-shape shop Where you can buy a map, a mop,
A hay-fork or a hunting crop,
A rapier, rope, or razor; Soft soap, or soup, a razor-strop - Steps, stoppers (if you've things to 
stop), Cheap choppers for a chap to chop It's kept by Frederick Frazer.
I asked him in his shop one day: " Have you got any powder, pray?" It was not what I meant to say But 
I was feeling flustered. I felt more so when, in a trice, He answered in a voice of ice With
eyes like mousers' mousing mice,  "Face, insect, gun, or custard ?"
-E. S. THOMAS, in " The Merry-go-Round."

I HEAR LEAVES DRINKING RAIN.
I hear leaves drinking rain,  I hear rich leaves on top Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop.
'Tis a sweet noise to hear
These green leaves drinking near.
And when the sun comes out  After this rain shall stop, A wondrous light will fill
Each dark round drop.
I hope the sun shines bright
'Twill be a lovely sight.
-W. H. DAVIES.

FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE.
Faster than fairies, faster than witches, Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; And charging along 
like troops in a
battle, All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain 
Fly as thick as driving
rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, All by himself and gathering brambles; Here is a tramp 
who stands and
gazes; And there is the green for stringing the daisies! Here is a cart run away in the road Lumping 
along with man
and load; .And here is a mill and there is a river: Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
-R. L. STEVENSON, in "A Child's Garden of Verse.'  (Longmans, Green, and Co.)

THE BOY THAT KNEW TOO MUCH.
Anthony, though not unkind, Had a disbelieving mind. At a pantomime or play Anthony would yawn and 
say, " Let's go home - for I perceive This is merely make-believe."
Christmas-time came round once more. See him sitting on the floor At a party, after he Had enjoyed a 
sumptuous tea. Solemnly the Conjurer stands Spreading out his empty
hands; Then from nose and ears he hauls Half-a-dozen billiard-balls, Shows them with a smile and then 
Makes them disappear again. Children clap him with a will: Only
Anthony sits still, Saying loudly, " I believe That he's got them up his sleeve." The Conjurer, who 
must have heard, Looked at him, but said no word. Coins he found in Susan's
hair That she didn't know were there; Handkerchiefs of every hue
He would draw from Edward's shoe, And produce, as pat as pat, Rabbits from an empty hat. All the 
other girls and boys Laughed and clapped with merry noise: But Anthony said, " I believe He
had the whole lot up his sleeve." The Conjurer politely smiled At the infuriating child, And said, "Come close, my little man, 
And learn my secrets if you can." Young Anthony marched up with
glee, Remarking, "Huh! You can't catch me!"
 "Now," said the great man, " one-two- three! " And Anthony - ah, where was he? His mother wildly 
glanced around; The boy was nowhere to be found But in the Conjurer's top-hat A third and extra
rabbit sat. . . . Children, when you go to parties Never talk like little smarties; Even if you don't 
believe, Keep your knowledge up your sleeve.


