Robert Louis Stevenson – The Complete Collection

Chapter 3

XXXVIII

Winter-Time

Late lies the wintry sun a-bed ,

A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;

Blinks but an hour or two; and then,

A blood-red orange, sets again.

Before the stars have left the skies ,

At morning in the dark I rise;

And shivering in my nakedness,

By the cold candle, bathe and dress.

Close by the jolly fire I sit

To warm my frozen bones a bit ;

Or with a reindeer-sled, explore

The colder countries round the door.

When to go out, my nurse doth wrap

Me in my comforter and cap;

The cold wind burns my face, and blows

Its frosty pepper up my nose.

Black are my steps on silver sod ;

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

And tree and house, and hill and lake,

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

XXXIX

The Hayloft

Through all the pleasant meadow-side

The grass grew shoulder-high ,

Till the shining scythes went far and wide

And cut it down to dry.

Those green and sweetly smelling crops

They led in waggons home ;

And they piled them here in mountain tops

For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,

Mount Eagle and Mount High;--

The mice that in these mountains dwell,

No happier are than I!

Oh, what a joy to clamber there,

Oh, what a place for play ,

With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,

The happy hills of hay!

XL

Farewell to the Farm

The coach is at the door at last ;

The eager children, mounting fast

And kissing hands, in chorus sing:

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

To house and garden, field and lawn ,

The meadow-gates we swang upon,

To pump and stable, tree and swing,

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

And fare you well for evermore ,

O ladder at the hayloft door,

O hayloft where the cobwebs cling,

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

Crack goes the whip, and off we go ;

The trees and houses smaller grow;

Last, round the woody turn we sing:

Good-bye, good-bye, to everything!

XLI

North-West Passage

1. Good-Night

When the bright lamp is carried in ,

The sunless hours again begin;

O'er all without, in field and lane,

The haunted night returns again.

Now we behold the embers flee

About the firelit hearth; and see

Our faces painted as we pass ,

Like pictures, on the window glass.

Must we to bed indeed? Well then ,

Let us arise and go like men,

And face with an undaunted tread

The long black passage up to bed.

Farewell, O brother, sister, sire!

O pleasant party round the fire!

The songs you sing, the tales you tell ,

Till far to-morrow, fare you well!

2. Shadow March

All around the house is the jet-black night;

It stares through the window-pane ;

It crawls in the corners, hiding from the light,

And it moves with the moving flame.

Now my little heart goes a beating like a drum,

With the breath of the Bogies in my hair ;

And all around the candle the crooked shadows come,

And go marching along up the stair.

The shadow of the balusters, the shadow of the lamp,

The shadow of the child that goes to bed--

All the wicked shadows coming tramp, tramp, tramp,

With the black night overhead.

3. In Port

Last, to the chamber where I lie

My fearful footsteps patter nigh ,

And come out from the cold and gloom

Into my warm and cheerful room.

There, safe arrived, we turn about

To keep the coming shadows out ,

And close the happy door at last

On all the perils that we past.

Then, when mamma goes by to bed ,

She shall come in with tip-toe tread,

And see me lying warm and fast

And in the land of Nod at last.

THE CHILD ALONE

I

The Unseen Playmate

When children are playing alone on the green ,

In comes the playmate that never was seen.

When children are happy and lonely and good ,

The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him, and nobody saw ,

His is a picture you never could draw,

But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,

When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass ,

He sings when you tinkle the musical glass;

Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,

The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big,

'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;

'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin

That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed,

Bids you go to sleep and not trouble your head;

For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,

'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself!

II

My Ship and I

O it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship,

Of a ship that goes a sailing on the pond ;

And my ship it keeps a-turning all around and all about;

But when I'm a little older, I shall find the secret out

How to send my vessel sailing on beyond.

For I mean to grow as little as the dolly at the helm,

And the dolly I intend to come alive ;

And with him beside to help me, it's a-sailing I shall go,

It's a-sailing on the water, when the jolly breezes blow

And the vessel goes a divie - divie -dive.

O it's then you'll see me sailing through the rushes and the reeds,

And you'll hear the water singing at the prow ;

For beside the dolly sailor, I'm to voyage and explore,

To land upon the island where no dolly was before,

And to fire the penny cannon in the bow.

III

My Kingdom

Down by a shining water well

I found a very little dell,

No higher than my head.

The heather and the gorse about

In summer bloom were coming out,

Some yellow and some red.

I called the little pool a sea ;

The little hills were big to me;

For I am very small.

I made a boat, I made a town ,

I searched the caverns up and down,

And named them one and all.

And all about was mine, I said ,

The little sparrows overhead,

The little minnows too.

This was the world and I was king ;

For me the bees came by to sing,

For me the swallows flew.

I played there were no deeper seas ,

Nor any wider plains than these,

Nor other kings than me.

At last I heard my mother call

Out from the house at evenfall,

To call me home to tea.

And I must rise and leave my dell ,

And leave my dimpled water well,

And leave my heather blooms.

Alas! and as my home I neared,

How very big my nurse appeared.

How great and cool the rooms!

IV

Picture-Books in Winter

Summer fading, winter comes--

Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs ,

Window robins, winter rooks,

And the picture story-books.

Water now is turned to stone

Nurse and I can walk upon ;

Still we find the flowing brooks

In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by ,

Wait upon the children's eye,

Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,

In the picture story-books.

We may see how all things are

Seas and cities, near and far ,

And the flying fairies' looks,

In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise ,

Happy chimney-corner days,

Sitting safe in nursery nooks,

Reading picture story-books?

V

My Treasures

These nuts, that I keep in the back of the nest ,

Where all my tin soldiers are lying at rest,

Were gathered in Autumn by nursie and me

In a wood with a well by the side of the sea.

This whistle we made (and how clearly it sounds!)

By the side of a field at the end of the grounds.

Of a branch of a plane, with a knife of my own ,

It was nursie who made it, and nursie alone!

The stone, with the white and the yellow and grey,

We discovered I cannot tell HOW far away;

And I carried it back although weary and cold,

For though father denies it, I'm sure it is gold.

But of all my treasures the last is the king ,

For there's very few children possess such a thing;

And that is a chisel, both handle and blade,

Which a man who was really a carpenter made.

VI

Block City

What are you able to build with your blocks?

Castles and palaces, temples and docks.

Rain may keep raining, and others go roam ,

But I can be happy and building at home.

Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea ,

There I'll establish a city for me:

A kirk and a mill and a palace beside,

And a harbour as well where my vessels may ride.

Great is the palace with pillar and wall ,

A sort of a tower on the top of it all,

And steps coming down in an orderly way

To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay.

This one is sailing and that one is moored :

Hark to the song of the sailors aboard!

And see, on the steps of my palace, the kings

Coming and going with presents and things!

Now I have done with it, down let it go!

All in a moment the town is laid low.

Block upon block lying scattered and free ,

What is there left of my town by the sea?

Yet as I saw it, I see it again,

The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men,

And as long as I live and where'er I may be,

I'll always remember my town by the sea.

VII

The Land of Story-Books

At evening when the lamp is lit ,

Around the fire my parents sit;

They sit at home and talk and sing,

And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl

All in the dark along the wall ,

And follow round the forest track

Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy ,

All in my hunter's camp I lie,

And play at books that I have read

Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods ,

These are my starry solitudes;

And there the river by whose brink

The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away

As if in firelit camp they lay ,

And I, like to an Indian scout,

Around their party prowled about.

So when my nurse comes in for me ,

Home I return across the sea,

And go to bed with backward looks

At my dear land of Story-books.

VIII

Armies in the Fire

The lamps now glitter down the street ;

Faintly sound the falling feet;

And the blue even slowly falls

About the garden trees and walls.

Now in the falling of the gloom

The red fire paints the empty room :

And warmly on the roof it looks,

And flickers on the back of books.

Armies march by tower and spire

Of cities blazing, in the fire;--

Till as I gaze with staring eyes ,

The armies fade, the lustre dies.

Then once again the glow returns ;

Again the phantom city burns;

And down the red-hot valley, lo!

The phantom armies marching go!

Blinking embers, tell me true

Where are those armies marching to ,

And what the burning city is

That crumbles in your furnaces!

IX

The Little Land

When at home alone I sit

And am very tired of it,

I have just to shut my eyes

To go sailing through the skies--

To go sailing far away

To the pleasant Land of Play;

To the fairy land afar

Where the Little People are;

Where the clover-tops are trees,

And the rain-pools are the seas,

And the leaves, like little ships,

Sail about on tiny trips;

And above the Daisy tree