Part 36 (2/2)

And then the Bouncing Bets don't bounce--I tried them yesterday, I picked a big pink bunch down in the meadow where they stay, I took a piece of string I had and tied them in a ball, And threw them down as hard as hard--they never bounced at all!

And tiger-lilies may look fierce, to meet them all alone, All tall and black and yellowy and nodding by a stone, But they're no more like tigers than the dogwood's like a dog, Or bulrushes are like a bull or toadwort like a frog!

I like the flowers very much--they're pleasant as can be For bunches on the table, and to pick and wear and see, But still it doesn't seem quite fair--it does seem very queer-- They don't do what they're named for--not at any time of year!

MARGARET WIDDEMER

THE FLOWER-SCHOOL

When storm clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down,

The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.

Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from n.o.body knows where, and dance upon the gra.s.s in wild glee.

Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.

They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.

When the rains come down they have their holidays.

Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.

Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.

Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?

Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as I have my own.

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

IRIS FLOWERS

My mother let me go with her, (I had been good all day), To see the iris flowers that bloom In gardens far away.

We walked and walked through hedges green, Through rice-fields empty still, To where we saw a garden gate Beneath the farthest hill.

She pointed out the rows of ”flowers”;-- I saw no planted things, But white and purple b.u.t.terflies Tied down with silken strings.

They strained and fluttered in the breeze, So eager to be free; I begged the man to let them go, But mother laughed at me.

She said that they could never rise, Like birds, to heaven so blue.

But even mothers do not know Some things that children do.

That night, the flowers untied themselves And softly stole away, To fly in suns.h.i.+ne round my dreams Until the break of day.

MARY MCNEIL FENOLLOSA

IF I WERE A FAIRY

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