SPRING CLEANING

The hailstorm stopped; a watery sun came out,

And late that night I clearly saw the moon;

The lilac did not actually sprout,

But looked as if it ought to do in June.

I did not say, "My love, it is the Spring;"

I rubbed my chilblains in a cheerful way

And asked if there was some warm woollen thing

My wife had bought me for the first of May;

And, just to keep the ancient customs green,

We said we 'd give the poor old house a clean.

Good Mr. Ware came down with all his men,

And filled the house with lovely oily pails,

And went away to lunch at half-past ten,

And came again at tea-time with some nails,

And laid a ladder on the daffodil,

And opened all the windows they could see,

And glowered fiercely from the window-sill

On me and Mrs. Tompkinson at tea,

And set large quantities of booby-traps

And then went home—a little tired, perhaps.

They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair,

And switched the lights off—but I knew the game;

They took the geyser—none could tell me where;

It was impossible to wash my frame.

The painted windows would not shut again,

But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies;

The house was full of icicles and rain;

The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size;

And if there be a more unpleasant smell

I have no doubt that that was there as well.

My wife went out and left me all alone,

While more men came and clamoured at the door

To strip the house of everything I own,

The curtains and the carpets from the floor,

The kitchen range, the cushions and the stove,

And ask me things that husbands never know,

"Is this 'ere paint the proper shade of mauve?"

Or "Where is it this lino has to go?"

I slunk into the cellar with the cat,

This being where the men had put my hat.

I cowered in the smoking-room, unmanned;

The days dragged by and still the men were here.

And then I said, "I too will take a hand,"

And borrowed lots of decorating gear.

I painted the conservatory blue;

I painted all the rabbit-hutches red;

I painted chairs in every kind of hue,

A summer-house, a table and a shed;

And all of it was very much more fair

Than any of the work of Mr. Ware.

But all his men were stung with sudden pique

And worked as never a worker worked before;

They decorated madly for a week

And then the last one tottered from the door,

And I was left, still working day and night,

For I have found a way of keeping warm,

And putting paint on everything in sight

Is surely Art's most satisfying form;

I know no joy so simple and so true

As painting the conservatory blue.

A.P.H.