Robert Louis Stevenson

A Child's Garden of Verses
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[Illustration]




TO MY NAME-CHILD


I

    Some day soon this rhyming volume, if you learn with proper speed,
    Little Louis Sanchez, will be given you to read.
    Then shall you discover, that your name was printed down
    By the English printers, long before, in London town.

    In the great and busy city where the East and West are met,
    All the little letters did the English printer set;
    While you thought of nothing, and were still too young to play,
    Foreign people thought of you in places far away.

    Ay, and while you slept, a baby, over all the English lands,
    Other little children took the volume in their hands;
    Other children questioned, in their homes across the seas:
    Who was little Louis, won't you tell us, mother, please?


II

    Now that you have spelt your lesson, lay it down and go and play.
    Seeking shells and seaweed on the sands of Monterey,
    Watching all the mighty whalebones, lying buried by the breeze,
    Tiny sandy-pipers, and the huge Pacific seas.

    And remember in your playing, as the sea-fog rolls to you,
    Long ere you could read it, how I told you what to do;
    And that while you thought of no one, nearly half the world away
    Some one thought of Louis on the beach of Monterey!

[Illustration]




TO ANY READER


    As from the house your mother sees
    You playing round the garden trees,
    So you may see, if you will look
    Through the windows of this book,
    Another child, far, far away,
    And in another garden, play.
    But do not think you can at all,
    By knocking on the window, call
    That child to hear you. He intent
    Is all on his play-business bent,
    He does not hear; he will not look.
    Nor yet be lured out of this book.
    For, long ago, the truth to say,
    He has grown up and gone away,
    And it is but a child of air
    That lingers in the garden there.

[Illustration]


  Transcriber's note

  These last verses of HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS as found in some other
  editions of this book were not printed in this edition. They don't
  appear to be missing scans, as the page numbering remains sequential.

    There, then, awhile in chains we lay,
    In wintry dungeons, far from day;
    But ris'n at length, with might and main,
    Our iron fetters burst in twain.

    Then all the horns were blown in town;
    And to the ramparts clanging down,
    All the giants leaped to horse
    And charged behind us through the gorse.

    On we rode, the others and I,
    Over the mountains blue, and by
    The Silver River, the sounding sea,
    And the robber woods of Tartary.

    A thousand miles we galloped fast,
    And down the witches' lane we passed,
    And rode amain, with brandished sword,
    Up to the middle, through the ford.

    Last we drew rein--a weary three--
    Upon the lawn, in time for tea,
    And from our steeds alighted down
    Before the gates of Babylon.
                
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