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The Book of the Little Past

Chapter 31: Thunder-Storms
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About This Book

A sequence of short lyric poems written in a child's voice that collects small domestic and outdoor moments—play, family routines, weather, holidays, and simple religious and imaginative experiences. Images of smoke, wind, birds, candlelight, a Christmas tree, thunderstorms, and markets recur as sensory anchors, while the child-speaker alternates between observation, wonder, and private secrets. The poems range from playful inventiveness to tender introspection, using concise, rhythmic lines and vivid snapshots to explore memory, belonging, and the everyday magic of childhood.

have a secret to myself,
That no one else can see.
I hum it over to myself,
And no one hears but me.
—Something You don't know!
I knew long ago.—
And the more I never tell you it,
The more it gets to be.
It makes me feel as purry
As the Kitten on your knee.
It makes me feel as round and warm
As the Sparrow on that tree;
It makes me puff my feathers out
The way he puffs out his.—
And if you think I haven't one,
I'll tell you what it Is,
—Maybe!

The Christmas Tree

know you're in the house;
I know you are in there;
I feel the green and breathing
All around the air.
I know you're safe and warm;
I know you're very near.
Oh, darling Tree,
Do you hear?
I promised not to look
(The way I did before),
But I can hear you purring—
Purring, through the door:
A green, soft, purring;
Just as if you knew:
Everybody here
Loves you.
Don't feel lonely,
Now you are in-doors.—

Wait for all the shining things
To-morrow,—all yours!
Then you won't know what to think!—
All over Candle-light.
—Oh, darling Tree,
Good-night.
And I love you, I love you;
And everybody, too.
And so does the market-man
That brought us you!
And if you haven't Anything
For me, this year,
—I love you. Good-night!
Do you hear?

Candle-Light


Cow-Bells


Thunder-Storms


Church-Time


Angels


The Beggar-Man


The Green Singing-Book

don't know how to read the words,
Nor how the black things go.
But if you stand it up, and sing,
You never have to know.
The music sounds alike each time
When grown-up people play;
But every time I sing, myself,
It sounds a different way.
And when I've sung the book all through,
And every page, around,
I stand it upside down and sing,
To see how that will sound.
I sing how all the things outside
The window look to me;
The shiny wrinkles in the road,
And then, about my Tree;

Wing-Sprouts


Early


The Wind's East


After-Word