5 FEBRUARY 1927, Page 14

Poetry

The Nursery on a Wet Day

IN remembering his boyhood, full oft the poet sighs For fields and streams and coppices and cloudless so noue skies,

Or perhaps he dreams of snowballs and of frost upun pane, But the nursery on a wet day, is what I'd see again.

When Nanny in her apron, sits sewing by the fire, With busy, nimble fingers, that never seem to tire ; Outside the wind is howling with the echoes of the storm, But you inside the nursery are cosy, safe and warm.

And all the afternoon is yours, to do with what you wd You can play at schools with teddy-bears, upon the wind' ! sill,

Or tidy up the doll's house, or battle on the floor With two lead armies stretching from the fireplace to ! door.

At half-past four comes Nellie, she's not a moment late. She brings the shining table-cloth, your special mug plate ;

And sometimes, if for half an hour you've been as good gold

The little three-pronged toasting-fork you are allowed hold.

And Nanny tells you stories of the children she has knoll Whom once she nursed as babies and now are fully gT°" But the nicest of her stories is the one that's really true. The things she did when she was just a little girl like you.

You curl up on the hearth-rug, your head against her kn And the fire is full of pictures just made for you to see-. And there's golden syrup coining to console you for the rail Oh ! the nursery on a wet day is where I'd be again.

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