University of Virginia Library

WHAT AUNTIE SAID

Your Father is extremely fond
Of going to his private pond
And pulling out such fairy-fish
As never lie upon a dish
In solemn rows, with parsley spread
Beside a tail, beside a head.
All trespassers would seek in vain
To fish the pond of Father's brain,
Since none could climb the fence of bone
That keeps the pond his very own,
And use, as he, the proper weight
And sort of appetising bait.
He carries over Frolic Hill
The rod of work, the line of skill,
The hook of thought. With clever care
He lays upon the bank a pair
Of what so many children wish—
Those silver-sided fairy-fish
With fins as perfect as their scales,
And brightness even in their tails.
Thus, frequently, he goes beyond
The Hill of Frolic to the pond
Where no one else, however fine,
However big, can cast a line.
Then, happy in his faded coat,
He watches hour by hour the float,
Prepared to sit with Trust and wait
For bobbing fish to nose the bait.
You children always think he ought
To show the fish as soon as caught,
But, being tired, he often goes
To have a game of dominoes
With Mother in the little room
Where Rest and Love and Quiet bloom
When Evening, gentler than a mouse,
Becomes the mistress of the house.
Be patient! In a month or two
Your Father means to print for you
A hundred pages, all in rhyme,
About his luck at fishing-time.
Then clap your hands! Then rush to look
At what his basket (that's a book)
Contains for you to eat with eyes
Astonished to a larger size!