A Book of Poems for Boys and Girls COMPILED AND EDITED BY SUSAN THOMPSON SPAULDING AND FRANCIS TROW SPAULDING HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO The Riverside Press Cambridge MVR 5457 COPYRIGHT, 1924 BY SUSAN THOMPSON SPAULDING AND FRANCIS TROW SPAULDING ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE. MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. What is it to hate poetry? It is to have no little dreams and fan cies, no holy memories of golden days, to be unmoved by serene midsummer evenings or dawn over wild lands, singing or sunshine, little tales told by the fire a long while since, glow-worms and briar rose; for of all these things and more is poetry made. It is to be cut off forever from the fellowship of great men that are gone; to see men and women without their halos and the world without its glory; to miss the meaning lurking behind the common things, like elves hiding in flowers; it is to beat one's hands all day against the gates of Fairyland and to find that they are shut and the country empty and its kings gone hence. LORD DUNSANY THE GATES THE boy thrust his hands into his pockets and stood looking dubiously at the high gates, while the girl attempted to reach the heavy knocker. Through the iron railings they caught glimpses of books passing to and fro, some with light, skipping jumps, some with long, striding steps, and some so fat that they could barely manage to waddle heavily along; all kinds of books thin books, thick books, new books; old, decrepit books; smiling books, sour books. "That's a queer country!" ruminated the boy aloud. "What's that?" said a sharp voice from beyond the Gates. The children turned to confront the angry visage of a dark brown book, whose manner warned them that they had to deal with an important person. "Easy to see you've never been here!" the book went on scoffingly. "We have!" retorted the boy. "Then," said the book, "I suppose you are willing to prove it by giving references? We can't have strangers loitering about the Gates, you know." "References?" the boy repeated, in a puzzled tone. "Yes, yes! Whom do you know in here?" "Oh!" The boy sought frantically in his mind; but for his very life he could remember only one inhabitant of the place. "Mother Goose," he almost whispered. "Aw-haw-haw!" roared the brown book. "She wouldn't know you now. She knows no one but little children. Surely you wouldn't expect her to testify as to your present character!" |