The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/A Child's Garden of Verses

by Robert Louis Stevenson

A CHILD'S GARDEN
OF VERSES

A Child's Garden of Verses was first published in 1885.

PREFATORY NOTE

DURING all the early part of her married life, Margaret Stevenson was more or less an invalid, with persistent and alarming symptoms of consumption; her only child, Robert Louis, inherited from her a predisposition to affections of the lungs. He was unfortunate, besides, in having to endure in infancy the climate of Edinburgh, which with its cold mists and penetrating east winds was far from a desirable home for a delicate child. Unable, through her own ill-health, to take proper charge of her little son, his mother was forced to give him over almost entirely into the hands of hired nurses. The reign of the first nurse was very short, she being accidentally discovered in a public-house much the worse for drink, while her tender charge, done up in a parcel, lay tucked out of sight on a shelf behind the bar. The second nurse proved no better; but the third, Alison Cunningham, familiarly called Cummy, proved an estimable woman, who soon won the confidence of the family.

Cummy's piety was her strongest recommendation, but her convictions and consequent teachings, believing as she did in a literal hell along with the other tenets of her church, were rather strong meat for the mental digestion of an imaginative, nervous child. My husband has told me of the terrors of the night, when he dared not go to sleep lest he should wake amid the flames of eternal torment, and how he would be taken from his bed in the morning unrefreshed, feverish, and ill, but rejoicing that he had gained at least a respite from what he believed to be his just doom; Cummy, kindly soul, never dreaming of the dire effect of her religious training. The nursery, in the custom of the time, was kept almost hermetically closed, so that not a breath of air could penetrate from the outside; if little Smoutie, as he was called, waked from his dreams with cries of fright, the watchful Cummy was ready to make him a fresh drink of coffee, which she considered a particularly soothing beverage. According to her lights she was faithful and conscientious, and the child regarded her with the deepest affection.

The terrifying aspects of religion were generally confined to the night hours. In the daytime Cummy, with her contagious gayety and unceasing inventions for the amusement of her nursling, made the time fly on wings. Her imagination was almost as vivid as the child's, and her tact in his management was unfailing. She had a great feeling for poetry and the music of words, and can still tell a story with much dramatic effect. When the sick child turned from his food and would not eat, Cummy could usually persuade him to another effort by saying, "It is made from the finest of the wheat." The biblical words "shew bread" might also be used when everything else failed, but I fancy Cummy was chary of quoting from the sacred book unless the occasion were very serious indeed.

Had my husband's infancy been passed in the fresh air and sunshine of a milder climate, his whole life might have been different. His choice of the profession of literature was an acknowledgment that his health would not admit of his becoming what he wished to be most,—a soldier. To be sure, the child often visited Colinton Manse, where the grandchildren of Dr. Balfour were more than welcome. To question the healthfulness of Colinton would be like a heresy in the family, but it lies on low, damp ground, and in any other part of the world would suggest malaria. No doubt, too, the minister's little grandson would be carefully dressed to befit his position, and not allowed the freedom that would have been so wholesome for him.

Judged by the standards of to-day, the methods of the medical profession were inconceivably harsh and ignorant, and it seems a miracle that my husband should have survived their treatment and grown to manhood. When the little Louis was stricken with gastric fever he was dosed with powerful drugs; no one thought of looking into the sanitary condition of the premises, which were afterwards found to have been for years in a most dangerous state. And when the child, weakened by an attack of pneumonia, took cold after cold, antimonial wine was administered continuously for a period extending into months; "enough," said Dr. George Balfour, "to ruin his constitution for life." No wonder that after a little time at play he became so feverishly excited that his toys must be removed and his playmates sent away.

My husband drew upon his memory for The Sick Child who lay awake hoping for the dawn, and listening for the sound of the morning carts that proved the weary night was almost over. Indeed, every poem in The Child's Garden was a bit out of his own childhood. He had little understanding of children in general; I remember his watching with puzzled amazement the games of a little brother and sister who were visiting us at Bournemouth. Their poverty of resource, and the spiritless way they went about their sport, were most distressing to him. When he found that they were not exceptional, but represented a pretty fair average, he exclaimed: "I see the approaching decline of England! There is something radically wrong in a generation that does not know how to play." I imagine, however, that it requires something almost like genius to play as he played, and that it was hardly fair to judge our little guests from the plane of his own childhood.

In spite of the many days and nights passed in the "Land of Counterpane," and shining, perhaps, all the brighter by comparison, there were brilliant episodes of play that remained clearer in my husband's memory than almost any other part of his life. He was especially happy in the companionship of two of his Edinburgh cousins,—Willie and Henrietta Traquair. As a little girl Henrietta already showed the characteristics that were her charm in womanhood. Never quarrelsome, and always cheerfully willing to take a secondary place, she nevertheless made her individuality felt, and threw a romantic glamour over every part she assumed. Even the wicked ogre, or giant, she endowed with unexpected attributes of generosity, and her impersonation of a chivalrous knight was ideal. When I last saw Henrietta, a few years ago, we both knew that she had but a little while to live, but the undaunted light in her eyes seemed to say:—

"Must we to bed, indeed? Well then
Let us arise and go like men."

From the memory of these early days my husband plucked a blossom here and there for The Child's Garden. A beginning was made by the writing of a few verses while we stopped in Braemar. A few months later, in Hyères, the games of his childhood served in a new way again to interest and amuse him. After a terrible hemorrhage, he fell a victim to sciatica, and at the same time was temporarily blind from an attack of ophthalmia. Not only was all light excluded from the room where he lay, but on account of the hemorrhage his right arm was closely bound to his side. Most men would have succumbed to the force of circumstances, but he, undismayed, determined to circumvent the fate he would not accept. Across his bed a board was laid on which large sheets of paper were pinned; on these, or on a slate fastened to the board, he laboriously wrote out in the darkness, with his left hand, many more of the songs of his childhood. In 1885 these were collected in a volume first called Penny Whistles, but afterwards changed to A Child's Garden of Verses, and published under that name with the addition of six envoys.

F. V. de G. S.

TO

ALISON CUNNINGHAM

FROM HER BOY

For the long nights you lay awake
And watched for my unworthy sake:
For your most comfortable hand
That led me through the uneven land:
For all the story-books you read:
For all the pains you comforted:
For all you pitied, all you bore,
In sad and happy days of yore:—
My second Mother, my first Wife,
The angel of my infant life—
From the sick child, now well and old,
Take, nurse, the little book you hold!

And grant it, Heaven, that all who read
May find as dear a nurse at need,
And every child who lists my rhyme,
In the bright, fireside, nursery clime,
May hear it in as kind a voice
As made my childish days rejoice!

R. L. S.

	CONTENTS A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES
		PAGE
I.	Bed in Summer	17
	In winter I get up at night
II.	A Thought	17
	It is very nice to think
III.	At the Sea-side	18
	When I was down beside the sea
IV.	Young Night Thought	18
	All night long, and every night
V.	Whole Duty of Children	19
	A child should always say what's true
VI.	Rain	19
	The rain is raining all around
VII.	Pirate Story	19
	Three of us afloat in the meadow by the swing
VIII.	Foreign Lands	20
	Up into the cherry-tree
IX.	Windy Nights	21
	Whenever the moon and stars are set
X.	Travel	21
	I should like to rise and go
XI.	Singing	23
	Of speckled eggs the birdie sings
XII.	Looking Forward	23
	When I am grown to man's estate
XIII.	A Good Play	24
	We built a ship upon the stairs
XIV.	Where go the Boats?	24
	Dark brown is the river
XV.	Auntie's Skirts	25
	Whenever Auntie moves around
XVI.	The Land of Counterpane	25
	When I was sick and lay a-bed
XVII.	The Land of Nod	26
	From breakfast on through all the day
XVIII.	My Shadow	27
	I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me
XIX.	System	28
	Every night my prayers I say
XX.	A Good Boy	28
	I woke before the morning, I was happy all the day
XXI.	Escape at Bedtime	29
	The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out
XXII.	Marching Song	30
	Bring the comb and play upon it!
XXIII.	The Cow	31
	The friendly cow, all red and white
XXIV.	Happy Thought	31
	The world is so full of a number of things
XXV.	The Wind	32
	I saw you toss the kites on high
XXVI.	Keepsake Mill	32
	Over the borders, a sin without pardon
XXVII.	Good and Bad Children	33
	Children, you are very little
XXVIII.	Foreign Children	34
	Little Indian, Sioux or Crow
XXIX.	The Sun's Travels	35
	The sun is not a-bed when I
XXX.	The Lamplighter	36
	My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky
XXXI.	My Bed is a Boat	37
	My bed is like a little boat
XXXII.	The Moon	37
	The moon has a face like the clock in the hall
XXXIII.	The Swing	38
	How do you like to go up in a swing
XXXIV.	Time to Rise	39
	A birdie with a yellow bill
XXXV.	Looking-glass River	39
	Smooth it slides upon its travel
XXXVI.	Fairy Bread	40
	Come up here, O dusty feet
XXXVII.	From a Railway Carriage	40
	Faster than fairies, faster than witches
XXXVIII.	Winter-Time	41
	Late lies the wintry sun a-bed
XXXIX.	The Hayloft	42
	Through all the pleasant meadow-side
XL.	Farewell to the Farm	43
	The coach is at the door at last
XLI.	North-west Passage	43
	1. Good Night
	When the bright lamp is carried in
	2. Shadow March
	All round the house is the jet-black night
	3. In Port
	Last, to the chamber where I lie
THE CHILD ALONE
I.	The Unseen Playmate	49
	When children are playing alone on the green
II.	My Ship and I	50
	O, it's I that am the captain of a tidy little ship
III.	My Kingdom	51
	Down by a shining water well
IV.	Picture-books in Winter	52
	Summer fading, winter comes—
V.	My Treasures	53
	These nuts, that I keep in the back of the nest
VI.	Block City	54
	What are you able to build with your blocks
VII.	The Land of Story-Books	55
	At evening when the lamp is lit
VIII.	Armies in the Fire	56
	The lamps now glitter down the street
IX.	The Little Land	57
	When at home alone I sit
GARDEN DAYS
I.	Night and Day	63
	When the golden day is done
II.	Nest Eggs	65
	Birds all the sunny day
III.	The Flowers	66
	All the names I know from nurse
IV.	Summer Sun	67
	Great is the sun, and wide he goes
V.	The Dumb Soldier	68
	When the grass was closely mown
VI.	Autumn Fires	69
	In the other gardens
VII.	The Gardener	70
	The gardener does not love to talk
VIII.	Historical Associations	71
	Dear Uncle Jim, this garden ground
ENVOYS
I.	To Willie and Henrietta	75
	If two may read aright
II.	To my Mother	76
	You, too, my mother, read my rhymes
III.	To Auntie	76
	Chief of our aunts—not only I
IV.	To Minnie	76
	The red room with the giant bed
V.	To my Name-child	79
	Some day soon this rhyming volume
VI.	To Any Reader	80
	Whether upon the garden seat