JOAN RUNDALL


                AUDREY TEAGO












When I've been bad the whole day ]ong,

                Nurse savs she'll wash her hands of me,

But Mummy takes me on her lap and

                cuddles me so cosily,

That all the badness flies away, right

                through my hair, out of my head,

Yet Mummy hardly ever scolds, but sings

                me little songs instead.

Sometimes I sing to Mummy, too, about the

                things I've seen and done,

Of how I'd like to thread the stars and fit a

                soup plate on the sun,

Of how I hate the wind, although Nurse

                says it's healthy just like bread

That's good for me—but oh! so dull,

                I wish she'd butter cake instead!

So here are all the little songs

                We've made on days when I've been bad.

Perhaps they'll help to keep you good

                Or make you happy if you're sad.





My Pussy went to market

                In the middle of the night,

And brought me home a present

                All cuddly, soft and white,

Hidden inside her basket—

                Three kitties—oh ! so wee !

My Pussy went to market

                And brought them home to me.





Where did you find your golden hair,

                Dear little girl in green ?

Did you weave it out of the buttercups

                Or a golden celandine?

Did you gather the king-cups by the lake,

                Under the moon one night,

And weave them into a shining crown

                Of golden hair so bright?


Perhaps it is really a fairy cloak,

                And you are a fairy queen,

Wandered away from Fairyland,

                Dear little girl in green.




Before I came to Mummy, I lived in Heaven,

                you know,

One day I pushed a star; it fell right down

                to earth below

And left a hole in the big sky.  So I looked

                through to see

Which one of all the Mummies was the nicest

                one for me.

I chose this one because she looked right up

                into my face,

And saw it shining where the star had

                tumbled from his place.

She seemed to think it funny for she laughed

                and waved to me;

So I jumped through that little hole and sat

                upon her knee.





Little brown mouse, little brown mouse,

                Where is your hole in the wall?

May I follow you down to your dark little house

                With a candle alight lest I fall?

Do you live by the fire where it's cosy and warm

                And rich with the odour of cheese?

Where you sit in the shadow, safe hidden from harm,

                Oh, show me your hole, if you please.

What ? You're only a nice little girl, dressed in white,

                And live in your own Mummy's house?

But your hair is so brown and your eyes are so bright

                That I'm sure you are really a mouse.





What's the time?  Oh, what's the time?

Any time you like, you know,

By a Dandelion Clock, for you blow, blow, blow

And away on the wind the minutes go,

Till it's half-past three, or time for tea,

Or strawberry time, or Xmas time,

But never bedtime—oh dear, no!

Is it lesson time?  Then blow, blow, blow

And away on the wind the hours will go—

For all the day it's time for play

By a Dandelion Clock when you blow, blow, blow.





Ragged Robin, Ragged Robin, did you lie

too late in bed

That your petals look so draggled-hanging

sadly round your head?

Did you fall into the water, as I fell, myself,

last night,

And spoil your clothes for ever?  You're a

most unseemly sight.

Ragged Robin, Ragged Robin, you're a most

untidy fellow,

See the Iris and the King Cups how they all

stand up so yellow,

With rushes tumbling tidily like lances laid

to rest;

You're the scoundrel of the meadow but I

love you for the best.

For my name, you know, is Robin, and I'm

often ragged too,

And I'm always getting scolded as I think

the wind scolds vou.





If I could be a fairy upon the moon I'd


And chase the baby stars about across the

sky so wide.

I'd shake the apple blossom down to make

enchanted rain,

And no one would be angry for I'd put it

back again.

I'd sail the farmer's slimy pond in the old

broken boat

And if the bottom boards came out, upon my

wand I'd float.

I'd live on sweets and lemonade or straw-

berries and cream,

Each day would be a birthday nicer than

any dream.

I'd have two silver wings, of course, and a

crown upon my head,

And it always would be morning for I'd never

go to bed.





Anne Priscilla, Anne Priscilla, did you steal

the yellow corn

Where the scarlet poppies are a-bobbing and

a-blowing ?

Did you pull the shining ears early on a sunny


And fix them round your little head and set

them all a-growing?

Anne Priscilla, Anne Priscilla, you're a solemn

little girl—

Not a laugh in either eye nor smile your

mouth to wrinkle,

Not one smooth hair out of place, not a single

kink or curl;

But, now, you can't help laughing and your

eyes begin to twinkle,

For I'm sure you went a-hunting all among

the yellow corn

Where the scarlet poppies stand like gallant

soldiers bowing.

I'm sure you stole the shining ears early on a

summer morn

And brushed them smoothly round your head

and set them there a-growing.





I found a poor lame pigeon in the road


He'd broken his dear lovelv wing and couldn't

fly away.

I caught him and I took him home.  I tried

to mend his wing

With glue, like Daddy mends my toys, then

tied it up with string.

But oh! somehow it wouldn't work, the glue

all stuck to me,

And I stuck to the pigeon.  He pecked most


Then Mummy came and pulled him off and

washed away the glue,

And set the wing and made things nice, as

Mummies always do.

The pigeon's going to be my own and always

live with me,

My Daddy's building him a house up in the

big beech tree.





When from the roses petals fall

And scatter on the grass,

'I'he fairies come and gather them

In baskets as they pass;

They could not let them lie and fade—all

scattered in the grass.


They take them home to Fairyland,

And give them wee bright eyes,

With white and gold and purple wings

Or deep blue like the skies,

Then send them fluttering through the

flowers and call them butterflies.





I have an aunt I do not like, she never knows

my name,

But always calls me just "The Child," and

thinks I am to blame

When vases fall, because I'm near, and break

upon the floor,

Or when I leave a room and don't quite shut

the silly door.

She's very tidy and she says I should be tidy


I just hate tidy people—if you knew Aunt so

would you.

If I grew up and she grew down—quite young

and me quite old—

I'd make her have a dirty face and clothes

that would not fold,

I'd make her walk with muddy boots across

the drawing-room floor,

She'd be far nicer than she is and happier

too I'm sure.