VII

THE GARDENER

The gardener does not love to talk, He makes me keep the gravel walk; And when he puts his tools away, He locks the door and takes the key. Away behind the currant row Where no one else but cook may go, Far in the plots, I see him dig, Old and serious, brown and big. He digs the flowers, green, red, and blue, Nor wishes to be spoken to. He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, And never seems to want to play. Silly gardener! summer goes, And winter comes with pinching toes, When in the garden bare and brown You must lay your barrow down. Well now, and while the summer stays, To profit by these garden days, O how much wiser you would be To play at Indian wars with me!
VIII

HISTORICAL ASSOCIATIONS

Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground, That now you smoke your pipe around, Has seen immortal actions done And valiant battles lost and won. Here we had best on tip-toe tread, While I for safety march ahead, For this is that enchanted ground Where all who loiter slumber sound. Here is the sea, here is the sand, Here is simple Shepherd’s Land, Here are the fairy hollyhocks, And there are Ali Baba’s rocks. But yonder, see! apart and high, Frozen Siberia lies; where I, With Robert Bruce and William Tell, Was bound by an enchanter’s spell. There, then, a while in chains we lay, In wintry dungeons, far from day; But ris’n at length, with might and main, Our iron fetters burst in twain. Then all the horns were blown in town; And, to the ramparts clanging down, All the giants leaped to horse And charged behind us through the gorse. On we rode, the others and I, Over the mountains blue, and by The Silver River, the sounding sea, And the robber woods of Tartary. A thousand miles we galloped fast, And down the witches’ lane we passed, And rode amain, with brandished sword, Up to the middle, through the ford. Last we drew rein—a weary three— Upon the lawn, in time for tea, And from our steeds alighted down Before the gates of Babylon.

ENVOYS