(O tiniest of tiny men!
So wise, so whimsical, so witty!
Whose magic little fairy-pen
Is steeped in human pity;
Whose humour plays so quaint a tune,
From Peter Pan to Pantaloon!)
So wide a sympathy has he,
Such kindliness without an end,
That children clamber on his knee,
And claim him as a friend;
They somehow know he understands,
And doesn't mind their sticky hands.
And so they swarm about his neck,
With energy that nothing wearies,
Assured that he will never check
Their ceaseless flow of queries,
And grateful, with a warm affection,
For his avuncular protection.
And when his watch he opens wide,
Or beats them all at blowing bubbles,
They tell him how the dormouse died,
And all their tiny troubles;
And drag him, if he seems deprest,
To see the baby squirrel's nest.
For hidden treasure he can dig,
Pursue the Indians in the wood,
Feed the prolific guinea-pig
With inappropriate food;
Do all the things that mattered so
In happy days of long ago.
All this he can achieve, and more!
For, 'neath the magic of his brain,
The young are younger than before,
The old grow young again,
To dream of Beauty and of Truth
For hearts that win eternal youth.
Fat apoplectic men I know,
With well-developed Little Marys,
Look almost human when they show
Their faith in Barrie's fairies;
Their blank lethargic faces lighten
In admiration of his Crichton.
To lovers who, with fingers cold,
Attempt to fan some dying ember,
He brings the happy days of old,
And bids their hearts remember;
Recalling in romantic fashion
The tenderness of earlier passion.
And modern matrons who can find
So little leisure for the Nurs'ry,
Whose interest in babykind
Is eminently curs'ry,
New views on Motherhood acquire
From Alice-sitting-by-the-Fire!