A CHILD IN LONDON. THE country's best, some people find,
And woods and streams are to their mind, Or meadow land and leafy trees ; And London town has none of these.
Down in the country for a bit, I have a splendid time of it ; But woodland walks and grassy ways Are merely meant for holidays.
In summer we pack up and go Where lilies, pinks, and roses grow, And yellow sunflowers, hollyhocks, And lavender, and scented stocks.
But, when the spring comes round again, Inside the railings by Park Lane, Are nice trim beds a gardener fills With hyacinths and daffodils.
I'm sure, when I go right away That London's best for every day; And, in the quiet country nights, I think of London sounds and sights.
I like the noise, and all the fuss, Of tram, and cab, and omnibus ; And there's no place that can be found That's nicer than the Underground.
The tunnel looks as black as night, Until the engine comes in sight,— A black man rushing out of space, With "Inner Circle" on his face !
And London streets are bright and gay; There are new posters every day, Such lovely ladies dressed in silk, And cats who live on Nestle's milk.
Or nurse may let you stay till dark, To see the sun set in Hyde Park : Behind black boughs, he steals away, All orange, while the grass is grey: And that's the nicest sight of all, Better than posters on the wall, Or flower-girls, or paper-boys, Or men with trays of penny toys.
But London has its bothers, too. You always have your nurse with you, And in the streets you mustn't sing, Or romp, or play at anything.
London is stiff, and grandly dressed ; Yet London town is much the best.
Though in the country I run wild, I know I'm born a London child.
MABEL DEARMER.
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