Kensington Rhymes Part 3

In winter when it's dark at eight, The jolly German band Drives all unpleasant thoughts away Just like a fairy-wand.

In summer when it's light at eight, The German band still plays; It makes me think of pleasant things And seaside holidays.

I've heard that it plays out of tune, And upsets talking, and I've heard it called a nuisance, but I love the German band.

[H] This is beastly difficult, and almost so decent as _Rosalie the Prairie Flower_.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DECEITFUL RAT-TAT]

THE postman has given a loud rat-tat, Perhaps it's a parcel for me: Elizabeth does go slowly To open the door and see.

Oh dear, it's only a telegram, To wait on the stand in the hall Till Father comes home in the evening Or Mother comes back from a call.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CAGE IN THE PILLAR-BOX]

I WONDER if an animal Lives in the pillar-box, For when the postman opens it You see a cage with locks.

And surely letters do not want A cage with bars and clamps; They have no wings, they could not fly, They're held by sticky stamps.

Perhaps the postman keeps a pet, A savage beast of prey; For lions, seals and diving-birds Are fed three times a day.

And all those figures on the plate Are meant perhaps for you To learn what time the beast is fed Like others at the Zoo.

And now I come to think of it, The postman's coat and hat Is not unlike a keeper's who Feeds animals with fat.

Besides, he always shuts the door With a tremendous bang, As if he feared to see stick out An irritable fang.

But then again I never heard The faintest roar or squeak, I never saw a sniffing nose Or spied a hooky beak.

So after all perhaps there's not A bird, a beast or snake.

And yet to-morrow I shall post A slice of cherry-cake.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FORTUNATE COALMEN]

IT is a pleasant thing to watch The coalmen at their work; They do not seem to mind the dark Where many dangers lurk.

The braver of them goes below Into the cellar black, And calls out in a cheerful voice To bring another sack.

The other grunts and groans a lot Beneath his load of coal, And down the ladder goes with care Until he gains the hole.

He turns his burden upside down, The inside rattles out, And a delicious smell of coal Gets everywhere about.

The braver one takes up his spade And shovels it away; The other wipes his shiny face, And asks the time of day.

But it is very strange to me That neither seems to want To put the ladder down the hole And climb down where I can't.

A man, they say, once broke his leg By falling down a grating, And nearly died for want of food, Because they kept him waiting

A week before they pulled him out And took him to his home, From which he never more went forth The London streets to roam.

But coalmen do not run these risks, They have no nurse to frown, So they might spend the whole long day In climbing up and down.[I]

[I] They are silly not to.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PAVEMENT ARTIST]

I THINK that I should like to be A pavement artist best, For he has every kind of chalk Spread in a cosy nest.

I have ten pieces in a box, Black, yellow, white and blue, Pink, red, brown, orange, grey and green, But these are far too few.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE PAVEMENT ARTIST]

He has a hundred different shades, And most uncommon sorts; He can draw salmon, queens and chops, Wrecks, mutinies and forts.

His cannon have enormous puffs Of the most curly smoke, Because he has so many 'greys,'

Far more than other folk.

His girls are a delicious pink, And mine are rather pale; But then I have to be more strict For fear my pink should fail.

His fields have got a splendid green; They're full of flowers bright; But mine are covered up with snow Because my paper's white.

And yet with all these jolly chalks, The artist seems in pain; Perhaps because his pictures get Rubbed out by showers of rain.

But what I cannot understand Is why each paving-stone Has not a drawing on its face, Why such a few are done.

Our walks would be much pleasanter, If all the dullest streets Were ill.u.s.trated like a book And gay as flags or sweets.

Of course a lot would get all smudged By careless people's tracks, But some would tread as I do now Only upon the cracks.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SWEEPS]

MY nurse declares that sweeps are kind, Without the slightest inclination To steal away a well-dressed child Except by nurse's invitation.

Nurse says that children do not climb The tall black chimneys any more; She even says (this must be wrong) Sweeps enter by the area door.

But I have seen a chimney-sweep Go whooping up and down our street; And on his back he had a sack-- I bet with something good to eat.

[Ill.u.s.tration: GREENGROCERS]

GREENGROCERS, greengrocers, In your green shops, With cabbages and cauliflowers And tough turnip-tops.

Mother buys daffodils, And apples for me: But nurse she buys radishes To eat with her tea.

[Ill.u.s.tration: CHRISTMAS NOT FAR OFF]

NOVEMBER fogs, November fogs, A month to Christmas day.

The world is cold and dirty, But the m.u.f.fin man is gay.