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Page 15
"Don't you go to school?"
"The boys do. I don't learn any Greeks and Latins yet. I dig, and read
to mamma, and make poetrys for her."
"Couldn't you make some for me? I'm very fond of poetrys," proposed
Miss Celia, seeing that this prattle amused the children.
"I guess I couldn't make any now; I made some coming along. I will say
it to you."
And, crossing his short legs, the inspired babe half said, half sung
the following poem:[B]
"Sweet are the flowers of life,
Swept o'er my happy days at home;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When I was a little child.
"Sweet are the flowers of life
That I spent with my father at home;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When children played about the house.
"Sweet are the flowers of life
When the lamps are lighted at night;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When the flowers of summer bloomed.
"Sweet are the flowers of life
Dead with the snows of winter;
Sweet are the flowers of life
When the days of spring come on.
[Footnote B: These lines were actually composed by a six-year-old child.]
"That's all of that one. I made another one when I digged after the
turtle. I will say that. It is a very pretty one," observed the poet
with charming candor, and, taking a long breath, he tuned his little
lyre afresh:
"Sweet, sweet days are passing
O'er my happy home,
Passing on swift wings through the valley of life.
Cold are the days when winter comes again.
When my sweet days were passing at my happy home,
Sweet were the days on the rivulet's green brink;
Sweet were the days when I read my father's books;
Sweet were the winter days when bright fires are blazing."
"Bless the baby! where did he get all that?" exclaimed Miss Celia,
amazed, while the children giggled as Tennyson, Jr., took a bite at the
turtle instead of the half-eaten cake, and then, to prevent further
mistakes, crammed the unhappy creature into a diminutive pocket in the
most business-like way imaginable.
"It comes out of my head. I make lots of them," began the imperturbable
one, yielding more and more to the social influences of the hour.
"Here are the peacocks coming to be fed," interrupted Bab, as the
handsome birds appeared with their splendid plumage glittering in the
sun.
Young Barlow rose to admire, but his thirst for knowledge was not yet
quenched, and he was about to request a song from Juno and Jupiter,
when old Jack, pining for society, put his head over the garden wall
with a tremendous bray.
This unexpected sound startled the inquiring stranger half out of his
wits; for a moment the stout legs staggered and the solemn countenance
lost its composure, as he whispered, with an astonished air:
"Is that the way peacocks scream?"
The children were in fits of laughter, and Miss Celia could hardly make
herself heard as she answered, merrily:
"No, dear; that is the donkey asking you to come and see him. Will you
go?"
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