When children are playing alone on the green,

In comes the playmate that never was seen.

When children are happy and lonely and good,

The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him, and nobody saw,

His is a picture you never could draw,

But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,

When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,

He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;

Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,

The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big,

'T is he that inhabits the caves that you dig;

'T is he when you play with your soldiers of tin

That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

'T is he, when at night you go off to your bed,

Bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head;

For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,

'T is he will take care of your playthings himself!

O it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship,

Of a ship that goes a sailing on the pond;

And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about;

But when I'm a little older, I shall find the secret out

How to send my vessel sailing on beyond.

For I mean to grow a little as the dolly at the helm,

And the dolly I intend to come alive;

And with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing I shall go,

It's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow

And the vessel goes a dive-dive-dive.

O it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds,

And you'll hear the water singing at the prow;

For beside the dolly sailor, I'm to voyage and explore,

To land upon the island where no dolly was before,

And to fire the penny cannon in the bow.

Down by a shining water well

I found a very little dell,

No higher than my head.

The heather and the gorse about

In summer bloom were coming out,

Some yellow and some red.

I called the little pool a sea;

The little hills were big to me;

For I am very small.

I made a boat, I made a town,

I searched the caverns up and down,

And named them one and all.

And all about was mine, I said,

The little sparrows overhead,

The little minnows too.

This was the world and I was king;

For me the bees came by to sing,

For me the swallows flew.

I played there were no deeper seas,

Nor any wider plains than these,

Nor other kings than me.

At last I heard my mother call

Out from the house at evenfall,

To call me home to tea.

And I must rise and leave my dell,

And leave my dimpled water well,

And leave my heather blooms.

Alas! and as my home I neared,

How very big my nurse appeared.

How great and cool the rooms!

Summer fading, winter comes--

Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,

Window robins, winter rooks,

And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone

Nurse and I can walk upon;

Still we find the flowing brooks

In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by,

Wait upon the children's eye,

Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,

In the picture story-books.

We may see how all things are

Seas and cities, near and far,

And the flying fairies' looks,

In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise,

Happy chimney-corner days,

Sitting safe in nursery nooks,

Reading picture story-books?

These nuts, that I keep in the back of the nest,

Where all my tin soldiers are lying at rest,

Were gathered in Autumn by nursie and me

In a wood with a well by the side of the sea.

This whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!)

By the side of a field at the end of the grounds.

Of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own,

It was nursie who made it, and nursie alone!

The stone, with the white and the yellow and grey,

We discovered I cannot tell HOW far away;

And I carried it back although weary and cold,

For though father denies it, I'm sure it is gold.

But of all my treasures the last is the king,

For there's very few children possess such a thing;

And that is a chisel, both handle and blade,

Which a man who was really a carpenter made.

What are you able to build with your blocks?

Castles and palaces, temples and docks.

Rain may keep raining, and others go roam,

But I can be happy and building at home.

Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea,

There I'll establish a city for me:

A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,

And a harbour as well where my vessels may ride.

Great is the palace with pillar and wall,

A sort of a tower on the top of it all,

And steps coming down in an orderly way

To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.

This one is sailing and that one is moored:

Hark to the song of the sailors aboard!

And see, on the steps of my palace, the kings

Coming and going with presents and things!

Yet as I saw it, I see it again,

The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men,

And as long as I live and where'er I may be,

I'll always remember my town by the sea.

At evening when the lamp is lit,

Around the fire my parents sit;

They sit at home and talk and sing,

And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl

All in the dark along the wall,

And follow round the forest track

Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,

All in my hunter's camp I lie,

And play at books that I have read

Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,

These are my starry solitudes;

And there the river by whose brink

The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away

As if in firelit camp they lay,

And I, like to an Indian scout,

Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me,

Home I return across the sea,

And go to bed with backward looks

At my dear land of Story-books.

The lamps now glitter down the street;

Faintly sound the falling feet;

And the blue even slowly falls

About the garden trees and walls.

Now in the falling of the gloom

The red fire paints the empty room:

And warmly on the roof it looks,

And flickers on the back of books.

Armies march by tower and spire

Of cities blazing, in the fire;--

Till as I gaze with staring eyes,

The armies fall, the lustre dies.

Then once again the glow returns;

Again the phantom city burns;

And down the red-hot valley, lo!

The phantom armies marching go!

Blinking embers, tell me true

Where are those armies marching to,

And what the burning city is

That crumbles in your furnaces!

When at home alone I sit

And am very tired of it,

I have just to shut my eyes

To go sailing through the skies--

To go sailing far away

To the pleasant Land of Play;

To the fairy land afar

Where the Little People are;

Where the clover-tops are trees,

And the rain-pools are the seas,

And the leaves, like little ships,

Sail about on tiny trips;

And above the Daisy tree

Through the grasses,

High o'erhead the Bumble Bee

Hums and passes.

In that forest to and fro

I can wander, I can go;

See the spider and the fly,

And the ants go marching by,

Carrying parcels with their feet

Down the green and grassy street.

I can in the sorrel sit

Where the ladybird alit.

I can climb the jointed grass

And on high

See the greater swallows pass

In the sky,

And the round sun rolling by

Heeding no such things as I.

Through that forest I can pass

Till, as in a looking-glass,

Humming fly and daisy tree

And my tiny self I see,

Painted very clear and neat

On the rain-pool at my feet.

Should a leaflet come to land

Drifting near to where I stand,

Straight I'll board that tiny boat

Round the rain-pool sea to float.

Little thoughtful creatures sit

On the grassy coasts of it;

Little things with lovely eyes

See me sailing with surprise.

Some are clad in armour green--

(These have sure to battle been!)--

Some are pied with ev'ry hue,

Black and crimson, gold and blue;

Some have wings and swift are gone;--

But they all look kindly on.

When my eyes I once again

Open, and see all things plain:

High bare walls, great bare floor;

Great big knobs on drawer and door;

Great big people perched on chairs,

Stitching tucks and mending tears,

Each a hill that I could climb,

And talking nonsense all the time--

O dear me,

That I could be

A sailor on a the rain-pool sea,

A climber in the clover tree,

And just come back a sleepy-head,

Late at night to go to bed.

When the golden day is done,

Through the closing portal,

Child and garden, Flower and sun,

Vanish all things mortal.

As the blinding shadows fall

As the rays diminish,

Under evening's cloak they all

Roll away and vanish.

Garden darkened, daisy shut,

Child in bed, they slumber--

Glow-worm in the hallway rut,

Mice among the lumber.

In the darkness houses shine,

Parents move the candles;

Till on all the night divine

Turns the bedroom handles.

Till at last the day begins

In the east a-breaking,

In the hedges and the whins

Sleeping birds a-waking.

In the darkness shapes of things,

Houses, trees and hedges,

Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings

Beat on window ledges.

These shall wake the yawning maid;

She the door shall open--

Finding dew on garden glade

And the morning broken.

There my garden grows again

Green and rosy painted,

As at eve behind the pane

From my eyes it fainted.

Just as it was shut away,

Toy-like, in the even,

Here I see it glow with day

Under glowing heaven.

Every path and every plot,

Every blush of roses,

Every blue forget-me-not

Where the dew reposes,

"Up!" they cry, "the day is come

On the smiling valleys:

We have beat the morning drum;

Playmate, join your allies!"

Birds all the summer day

Flutter and quarrel

Here in the arbour-like

Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork

The brown nest is seated;

For little blue eggs

The mother keeps heated.

While we stand watching her

Staring like gabies,

Safe in each egg are the

Bird's little babies.

Soon the frail eggs they shall

Chip, and upspringing

Make all the April woods

Merry with singing.

Younger than we are,

O children, and frailer,

Soon in the blue air they'll be,

Singer and sailor.

We, so much older,

Taller and stronger,

We shall look down on the

Birdies no longer.

They shall go flying

With musical speeches

High overhead in the

Tops of the beeches.

In spite of our wisdom

And sensible talking,

We on our feet must go

Plodding and walking.

All the names I know from nurse:

Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,

Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,

And the Lady Hollyhock.

Fairy places, fairy things,

Fairy woods where the wild bee wings,

Tiny trees for tiny dames--

These must all be fairy names!

Tiny woods below whose boughs

Shady fairies weave a house;

Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme,

Where the braver fairies climb!

Fair are grown-up people's trees,

But the fairest woods are these;

Where, if I were not so tall,

I should live for good and all.

Great is the sun, and wide he goes

Through empty heaven with repose;

And in the blue and glowing days

More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull

To keep the shady parlour cool,

Yet he will find a chink or two

To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad

He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;

And through the broken edge of tiles

Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around

He bares to all the garden ground,

And sheds a warm and glittering look

Among the ivy's inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,

Round the bright air with footing true,

To please the child, to paint the rose,

The gardener of the World, he goes.

When the grass was closely mown,

Walking on the lawn alone,

In the turf a hole I found,

And hid a soldier underground.

Spring and daisies came apace;

Grasses hid my hiding place;

Grasses run like a green sea

O'er the lawn up to my knee.

Under grass alone he lies,

Looking up with leaden eyes,

Scarlet coat and pointed gun,

To the stars and to the sun.

When the grass is ripe like grain,

When the scythe is stoned again,

When the lawn is shaven clear,

The my hole shall reappear.

I shall find him, never fear,

I shall find my grenadier;

But for all that's gone and come,

I shall find my soldier dumb.

He has lived, a little thing,

In the grassy woods of spring;

Done, if he could tell me true,

Just as I should like to do.

He has seen the starry hours

And the springing of the flowers;

And the fairy things that pass

In the forests of the grass.

In the silence he has heard

Talking bee and ladybird,

And the butterfly has flown

O'er him as he lay alone.

Not a word will he disclose,

Not a word of all he knows.

I must lay him on the shelf,

And make up the tale myself.

In the other gardens

And all up the vale,

From the autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over

And all the summer flowers,

The red fire blazes,

The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

The gardener does not love to talk.

He makes me keep the gravel walk;

And when he puts his tools away,

He locks the door and takes the key.

Away behind the currant row,

Where no one else but cook may go,

Far in the plots, I see him dig,

Old and serious, brown and big.

He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue,

Nor wishes to be spoken to.

He digs the flowers and cuts the hay,

And never seems to want to play.

Silly gardener! summer goes,

And winter comes with pinching toes,

When in the garden bare and brown

You must lay your barrow down.

Well now, and while the summer stays,

To profit by these garden days

O how much wiser you would be

To play at Indian wars with me!

Dear Uncle Jim. this garden ground

That now you smoke your pipe around,

has seen immortal actions done

And valiant battles lost and won.

Here we had best on tip-toe tread,

While I for safety march ahead,

For this is that enchanted ground

Where all who loiter slumber sound.

Here is the sea, here is the sand,

Here is the simple Shepherd's Land,

Here are the fairy hollyhocks,

And there are Ali Baba's rocks.

But yonder, see! apart and high,

Frozen Siberia lies; where I,

With Robert Bruce William Tell,

Was bound by an enchanter's spell.

If two may read aright

These rhymes of old delight

And house and garden play,

You too, my cousins, and you only, may.

You in a garden green

With me were king and queen,

Were hunter, soldier, tar,

And all the thousand things that children are.

Now in the elders' seat

We rest with quiet feet,

And from the window-bay

We watch the children, our successors, play.

"Time was," the golden head

Irrevocably said;

But time which one can bind,

While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.

You too, my mother, read my rhymes

For love of unforgotten times,

And you may chance to hear once more

The little feet along the floor.

"Chief of our aunts"--not only I,

But all your dozen of nurselings cry--

"What did the other children do?

And what were childhood, wanting you?"

The red room with the giant bed

Where none but elders laid their head;

The little room where you and I

Did for awhile together lie

And, simple, suitor, I your hand

In decent marriage did demand;

The great day nursery, best of all,

With pictures pasted on the wall

And leaves upon the blind--

A pleasant room wherein to wake

And hear the leafy garden shake

And rustle in the wind--

And pleasant there to lie in bed

And see the pictures overhead--

The wars about Sebastopol,

The grinning guns along the wall,

The daring escalade,

The plunging ships, the bleating sheep,

The happy children ankle-deep

And laughing as they wade:

All these are vanished clean away,

And the old manse is changed to-day;

It wears an altered face

And shields a stranger race.

The river, on from mill to mill,

Flows past our childhood's garden still;

But ah! we children never more

Shall watch it from the water-door!

Below the yew--it still is there--

Our phantom voices haunt the air

As we were still at play,

And I can hear them call and say:

"How far is it to Babylon?"

Ah, far enough, my dear,

Far, far enough from here--

Smiling and kind, you grace a shelf

Too high for me to reach myself.

Reach down a hand, my dear, and take

These rhymes for old acquaintance' sake!

Yet you have farther gone!

"Can I get there by candlelight?"

So goes the old refrain.

I do not know--perchance you might--

But only, children, hear it right,

Ah, never to return again!

The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt,

Shall break on hill and plain,

And put all stars and candles out

Ere we be young again.

To you in distant India, these

I send across the seas,

Nor count it far across.

For which of us forget

The Indian cabinets,

The bones of antelope, the wings of albatross,

The pied and painted birds and beans,

The junks and bangles, beads and screens,

The gods and sacred bells,

And the load-humming, twisted shells!

The level of the parlour floor

Was honest, homely, Scottish shore;

But when we climbed upon a chair,

Behold the gorgeous East was there!

Be this a fable; and behold

Me in the parlour as of old,

And Minnie just above me set

In the quaint Indian cabinet!

1

Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,

Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.

Then you shall discover, that your name was printed down

By the English printers, long before, in London town.

In the great and busy city where the East and West are met,

All the little letters did the English printer set;

While you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play,

Foreign people thought of you in places far away.

Ay, and when you slept, a baby, over all the English lands

Other little children took the volume in their hands;

Other children questioned, in their homes across the seas:

Who was little Louis, won't you tell us, mother, please?

2

Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play,

Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey,

Watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze,

Tiny sandpipers, and the huge Pacific seas.

And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you,

Long ere you could read it, how I told you what to do;

And that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world away

Some one thought of Louis on the beach of Monterey!

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear, he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

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