THE STORIED ROADS OF FAIRYLAND
The dinner done, the lamp is lit,
And in its mellow glow we sit
And talk of matters, grave and gay,
That went to make another day.
Comes Little One, a book in hand,
With this request—nay, this command—
(For who’d gainsay the little sprite):
“Please—will you read to me to-night?”
Read to you, Little One? Why, yes.
What shall it be to-night? You guess
You’d like to hear about the bears—
Their bowls of porridge, beds and chairs?
Well, that you shall.... There! that tale’s done!
And now—you’d like another one?
To-morrow evening, Curly Head,
It’s “hass-pass seven!” Off to bed!
So each night another story:—
Wicked dwarfs and giants gory;
Dragons fierce and princes daring,
Forth to fame and fortune faring;
Wandering tots, with leaves for bed;
Houses made of gingerbread;
Witches bad and fairies good;
And all the wonders of the wood.
“I like the witches best,” says she
Who nightly nestles on my knee;
But why by them she sets such store
Psychologists must puzzle o’er.
Her likes are mine, and I agree
With all that she confides to me.
And thus we travel, hand in hand,
The storied roads of Fairyland.
Ah, Little One, when years have fled,
And left their silver on my head,
And when the dimming eyes of age
With difficulty scan the page,
Perchance I’ll turn the tables then;
Perchance I’ll put the question, when
I borrow of your better sight:
“Please—will you read to me to-night?”