218 THE CHILD IN THE GARDEN 



Away behind the currant row 

 Where no one else but cook may go, 

 Far in the plots I see him dig, 

 Old and serious, brown and big. 



He digs the flowers, green, red and blue, 

 Nor wishes to be spoken to. 

 He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, 

 And never seems to want to play. 



Silly gardener ! summer goes, 

 And winter comes with pinching toes, 

 When in the garden bare and brown 

 You must lay your barrow down. 



Well now, and while the summer stays, 

 To profit by these summer days, 

 O how much wiser you would be 

 To play at Indian wars with me ! 



ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. 



