Now We Are Six (12 page)

When Anne and I go out a walk,

We hold each other’s hand and talk

Of all the things we mean to do

When Anne and I are forty-two.

And when we’ve thought about a thing,

Like bowling hoops or bicycling,

Or falling down on Anne’s balloon,

We do it in the afternoon.

O Timothy Tim

Has ten pink toes,

And ten pink toes

Has Timothy Tim.

They go with him

Wherever he goes,

And wherever he goes

They go with him.

O Timothy Tim

Has two blue eyes,

And two blue eyes

Has Timothy Tim.

They cry with him

Whenever he cries,

And whenever he cries,

They cry with him.

O Timothy Tim

Has one red head,

And one red head

Has Timothy Tim.

It sleeps with him

In Timothy’s bed.

Sleep well, red head

Of Timothy Tim.

These are my two drops of rain

Waiting on the window-pane.

I am waiting here to see

Which the winning one will be.

Both of them have different names.

One is John and one is James.

All the best and all the worst

Comes from which of them is first.

James has just begun to ooze.

He’s the one I want to lose.

John is waiting to begin.

He’s the one I want to win.

James is going slowly on.

Something sort of sticks to John.

John is moving off at last.

James is going pretty fast.

John is rushing down the pane.

James is going slow again.

James has met a sort of smear.

John is getting very near.

Is he going fast enough?

(James has found a piece of fluff.)

John has hurried quickly by.

(James was talking to a fly.)

John is there, and John has won!

Look! I told you! Here’s the sun!

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,

A little black nothing of feet and fur;

And by-and-by, when his eyes came through,

He saw his mother, the big Tattoo.

And all that he learned he learned from her.

“I’ll ask my mother,” says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,

A ridiculous kitten with silky fur.

And little black Pinkle grew and grew

Till he got as big as the big Tattoo.

And all that he did he did with her.

“Two friends together,” says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,

An adventurous cat in a coat of fur.

And whenever he thought of a thing to do,

He didn’t much bother about Tattoo,

For he knows it’s nothing to do with her,

So “See you later,” says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo is the mother of Pinkle Purr,

An enormous leopard with coal-black fur.

A little brown kitten that’s nearly new

Is now playing games with its big Tattoo…

And Pink looks lazily down at her:

“Dear little Tat,” says Pinkle Purr.

No one can tell me,

Nobody knows,

Where the wind comes from,

Where the wind goes.

It’s flying from somewhere

As fast as it can,

I couldn’t keep up with it,

Not if I ran.

But if I stopped holding

The string of my kite,

It would blow with the wind

For a day and a night.

And then when I found it,

Wherever it blew,

I should know that the wind

Had been going there too.

So then I could tell them

Where the wind goes…

But where the wind comes from

Nobody
knows.

Lords of the Nursery

Wait in a row,

Five on the high wall,

And four on the low;

Big Kings and Little Kings,

Brown Bears and Black,

All of them waiting

Till John comes back.

Some think that John boy

Is lost in the wood,

Some say he couldn’t be,

Some say he could.

Some think that John boy

Hides on the hill;

Some say he won’t come back,

Some say he will.

High was the sun, when

John went away…

Here they’ve been waiting

All through the day;

Big Bears and Little Bears,

White Kings and Black,

All of them waiting

Till John comes back.

Lords of the Nursery

Looked down the hill,

Some saw the sheep-fold,

Some saw the mill;

Some saw the roofs

Of the little grey town…

And their shadows grew long

As the sun slipt down.

Gold between the poplars

An old moon shows;

Silver up the star-way

The full moon rose;

Silver down the star-way

The old moon crept…

And, one by another,

The grey fields slept.

Lords of the Nursery

Their still watch keep…

They hear from the sheep-fold

The rustle of sheep.

A young bird twitters

And hides its head;

A little wind suddenly

Breathes, and is dead.

Slowly and slowly

Dawns the new day…

What’s become of John boy?

No one can say.

Some think that John boy

Is lost on the hill;

Some say he won’t come back,

Some say he will.

What’s become of John boy?

Nothing at all
,

He played with his skipping rope
,

He played with his ball
.

He ran after butterflies
,

Blue ones and red;

He did a hundred happy things—

And then went to bed
.