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

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 |