Silver Pennies by Blanche Jennings Thompson

Some One
Watched the Fairies
The Little Elf
Fairies
Never a Penny
 Child Next Door
the Dormouse
North Wind's
Mockery
 the Griffin Be
Evening Song
 The Sleepy Song
Baby Seed Song
 Queen Anne's Lace
The Hens
 Strange Tree
Water Noises
The Rivals
 Faithless
Little Folks
Parliament
Fog
Plaint of the Camel
Potatoes' Dance
Animal Crackers
Bunch of Roses
Check
Tiny Thing
Vinegar Man
Portrait
Saw a Moor
Song of Life
 Cloths of Heaven
Grace for Light
 Wandering Aengus
Lone Dog
Work
Souls


The Child Next Door

Did you ever know a little girl like '"the child next door"?  Don't you feel very sorry for her? I think that we would rather play with Mary. Be sure to pronounce the name of the little girl correctly.  
Joan is spoken all in one syllable — to rhyme with "own."  

    THE child next door has a wreath on her hat;  
     Her afternoon frock sticks out like that, 
    All soft and frilly;  
    She doesn't believe in fairies at all  
    (She told me over the garden wall) 
     She thinks they're silly. 
    The child next door has a watch of her own;  
    She has shiny hair and her name is Joan; 
    (Mine's only Mary).  
    But doesn't it seem very sad to you  
    To think that she never her whole life through  
    Has seen a fairy? 

Rose Fyleman

  

The Elf and the Dormouse

Did you ever wonder who first thought of making umbrellas?  
Well, this is the story. 

UNDER a toadstool crept a wee Elf, 
Out of the rain to shelter himself.
Under the toadstool, sound asleep, 
Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.
Trembled the wee Elf, frightened, and yet 
Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.
To the next shelter — maybe a mile! 
Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile,
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two. 
Holding it over him, gaily he flew.
Soon he was safe home, dry as could be. 
Soon woke the Dormouse — " Good gracious me!
"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented. 
And that's how umbrellas first were invented.
Oliver Herford

The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky 
(What the Little Girl Said)

When does the moon look like a cooky with a big bite out of it?  
I wonder who eats the moon-scraps. 

THE Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day, 
Until there's but a rim of scraps 
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker. 
He kneads clouds in his den, 
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy 
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!
Vachel Lindsay
Mockery

Here is a poem that is easy to learn. It sounds just like a song, doesn't it? Have you ever noticed that the flowers smell sweeter at night? Did the noon ever play a joke like this on you? 
    HAPPENED that the moon was up before I  went to bed, 
    Poking through the bramble-trees her round, gold head. 
    I didn't stop for stocking, 
    I didn't stop for shoe, 
    But went running out to meet her 
     oh, the night was blue! 
    Barefoot down the hill road, dust beneath my toes; 
    Barefoot in the pasture smelling sweet of fern and rose! 
    Oh, night was running with me, Tame folk were all in bed 
     And the moon was just showing her wild gold head. 
    But before I reached the hilltop where the bramble-trees are tall, 
    I looked to see my lady moon — she wasn't there at all! — 
    Not sitting on the hilltop, Nor slipping through the air, 
    Nor hanging in the brambles by her bright gold hair! 
    I walked slowly down the pasture and slowly up the hill, 
    Wondering and wondering, and very, very still. 
    I wouldn't look behind me, 
    I went at once to bed — 
    And poking through the window was her bold gold head! 
Katherine Dixon Riggs

Yet Gentle Will the Griffin Be 
(What Grandpa Told the Children)

A Griffin is a strange creature that we read about in fairy tales. Can you imagine one drinking milk out of the Milky Way? 

The moon? It is a griffin's egg,
    Hatching to-morrow night. 
And how the little boys will watch 
With shouting and delight 
To see him break the shell and stretch 
And creep across the sky. 
The boys will laugh. The little girls, I fear, may hide and cry. 
Yet gentle will the griffin be, 
Most decorous and fat, 
And walk up to the Milky Way 
And lap it like a cat. 
Vachel Lindsay
  
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Pages Updated On: July 1, 2004
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