NOT NAUGHTY NOW

POEMS BY

JOAN RUNDALL

PICTURES BY

AUDREY TEAGO

LONDON

H. F. W. DEANE AND SONS

THE YEAR BOOK PRESS LTD

31 MUSEUM STREET, W.C.1

WHEN I'VE BEEN BAD

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.

PUSSY'S PRESENT

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.

DEAR LITTLE GIRL IN GREEN

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.

MY MUMMY

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.

THE MOUSE GIRL

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.

DANDELION CLOCKS

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, 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

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

ride,

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, 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

morn

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.

MY PIGEON

I found a poor lame pigeon in the road

yesterday,

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

dreadfully.

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.

BUTTERFLIES

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.

MY AUNT

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

too,

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.