MY PICTURES

 I wonder why it is that when

I pictures draw of boys and men,

And horses too, for my Mamma,

She doesn't quite know what they are.

Sometimes I draw a big brick house

Sometimes a cat and little mouse;

And then Mamma will say to me;

"Why, yes, this is a mouse, I see"

When really, what she's looking at

I'm sure she must know, is a cat.

And if I draw a butterfly,

That goes far up into the sky;

She thinks - I can't imagine how -

Perhaps it is the old red cow!

But when I draw, as best I can,

A Picture of a big tall man,

Then clap my hands and shout "Hurrah!"

She always knows it is Papa!

***   ***   ***

'The Superseded'

One or two things have happened recently which have made me feel my age, and be a little melancholy.    I seem to remember my own Grandma feeling the same at about my age and Thomas Hardy's little poem (1901) seems to sum it up ...

As newer comers crowd the fore,

We drop behind.

-We who have laboured long and sore

Times out of mind,

And keen are yet, must not regret

To drop behind.

Yet there are some of us who grieve

To go behind;

Staunch, strenuous souls who scarce believe

Their fires declined,

And know none spares, remembers, cares

Who go behind.

'Tis not that we have unforetold

The drop behind;

We feel the new must oust the old

In every kind;

But yet we think, must we, must we,

Too drop behind?

***   ***   ***   ***

'A KNITTED SCARF '

' .....  This scarf for outdoor sports, which comes to us from Sweden, is decidedly a novelty for its simplicity and general usefulness.  The fact that it is worn close-fitting and out of the way, while being merely a straight scarf in the making, is not the least of its charms.......  The scarf is made absolutely straight, in plain garter stitch.        To don the scarf, the centre of the length is placed around the waist in front, with the width well spread out and extending somewhat below the waistline.  Then the ends are carried under the arms and crossed at the centre of the back, brought over the shoulders and beneath the centre of the scarf in front; the whole pulled as closely to the figure as possible.  '   (1908)

(We are always looking for new ways of wearing our scarves nowadays ..... who will be the first to try this?)

"Flo's Letter"

A sweet little baby brother had come to live with Flo,
And she wanted it brought to the table that it might eat and grow;
'It must wait for a while' said Grandmama, in answer to her plea,
'For a little thing that hasn't teeth can't eat like you and me'.

'Why hasn't it teeth, dear gran'ma?' asked Flo in great surprisel
'Oh my! But isn't it funny? No teeth! But nose and eyes;
I guess the baby's toofies must have been forgot.
Can't we buy him some like grandpa's?  I'd like to know why not.'

That afternoon, to the corner, with papers, pen and ink,
Went Flo, saying 'Don't you talk - if you do you'll disturb my think.
I'm writing a letter gran'ma, to send to heaven tonight.
And 'cause its very important, I want to get it right.'

At last the letter was finished - a wonderful letter to see -
Directed up to heaven, and then Flo read it to me;
'Dear God, the baby you brought us was awfully nice and sweet,
But because you forgot his toofies, the poor little thing can't eat.'

'So that's why I'm writing this letter, on purpose to let you know
Please come and finish the baby - that's all, from little Flo.'

The Parent Prayer.

I bend above the little heads beyond the blanket's edge -
Wee polls of tangled gold-brown hair like wind-blown wisps of sedge
Then oh, the yearning that I know, compared with once when I
Longed but for my own pleasure in the time called by-and-by.
Yet now - what, as one's own begot, one's selfishness may cure?
'Lord keep my children happy, and my happiness is sure.'

And now I know (as once I could not dream or even care)
What as my parents bent o'er me at bedtime, was their prayer
The loyalty, all latent then, wells up intensified -
The pent up love of childhood and of riper years beside.
When I, their child, was tombed within the night's sweet sepulture,
They prayed, 'God make her happy, and our joy will be secure'.


('Girl's Own Annual' - Strickland W.Gillilan.)

'What to do with our Girls' - 1903.

                                                                           
There are no cooks in England, none.
A sad and weary sameness
Pervades our dining rooms with un-
Imaginative tameness.
The Jones's dinner which I eat
Tonight with pain and sorrow
I shall inevitably meet
At Robinson's tomorrow.

The skill which made the steak a dream
The bold imagination
Which made the common cutlet seem
A poet's inspiration.
The hand of cunning which could call
From simple fowl and bacon
Ambrosial savours - have they all
These rosy shores forsaken?

Up Woman, Up!  Behold thy sphere
The saucepan and the kettle
Provide a glorious career
For any girl of mettle.
Then wherefore ape the poet's part
By scribbling songs and ballads
More deep and subtle is the art
Of mayonnaising salads.

Ah do not seek to wring from men
The suffrage, I implore you
Nor aim at County Councils when
You've nobler aims before you.
Why study Conic Sections? Stop
For ever stewing Plato,
And learn instead to grill a chop,
And boil the new potato.