MY SHADOW

 My Shadow

~Robert Louis Stevenson~

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; 

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— 

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; 

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, 

And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all. 

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, 

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. 

He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see; 

I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! 

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, 

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; 

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, 

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Robert Louis Stevenson (born Robert Lewis Balfour Stevenson; 13 November 1850 – 3 December 1894) was a Scottish novelist, essayist, poet and travel writer. He is best known for works such as Treasure Island, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Kidnapped and A Child's Garden of Verses.

CLIMBING

 

High up in the apple 

Tree climbing I go,

With the sky above me, the

Earth below.

Each branch is the step of a 

Wonderful stair

Which leads to the town I see 

Shining up there.

Climbing, climbing, higher

And higher,

The branches blow and I see a

Spire,

The gleam of a turret, the

Glint of a dome,

All sparkling and bright, like

White Sea foam.

On and on, from bough to bough,

The leaves are thick, but I

Push my way through;

Before, I have always had to 

Stop,

But today I am sure I shall

Reach the top.

Today to the end of the marvelous stair,

Where those glittering 

Pinnacles flash in the air!

Climbing, climbing, higher I go,

With the sky close above me,

The earth below.

Climbing 

By

Amy Lowell (1874 - 1925)

Amy Lawrence Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925) born in Boston, Massachusetts, was an American poet of the imagist school, which promoted a return to classical values. She posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.

WORD OF THE DAY WITH A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

I noticed each little boy had an endearing twinkle in his eyes, a mischievous look on his face.

UK 1890

“Scallywag”

“A person who behaves badly but in an amusingly mischievous rather than harmful way; often for personal profit.”

There was such a scallywag in one of our old neighborhoods, a darling little boy I was very fond of.  The other children used to pick on him and I would hear him call out my name for help.  All I had to do was open the front door for others to scatter in all directions.  He would run in the house and I would give him milk and cookies, and he stayed with me until his mom got home.  

Times were changing and most all of the moms went out to work on our road.  I had a small cottage industry that allowed me to stay home, so I became the unofficial nanny to several of the neighborhood kids.  I didn’t mind because our son had lots of company.  

My little scallywag, however, had a lot of time on his hands, as his mom worked longer hours than most.  She also traveled on business and had a live-in nanny who was as old as I am now, and he spent most of his non-school time running all hours around the neighborhood.

One time, just before the holidays, I noticed there were paper plates in the gutter in front of my neighbors’ houses, including ours.  As I looked a few doors down, there was my little scallywag sitting on the curb.  He was stuffing his mouth with cookies from one of the plates that had been previously festively wrapped.  

His mother had given those cookies to all the neighbors as a gift, and placed them in the letter boxes for them to find when they came home and checked their mail.  Scallywag said he thought it was okay to take them back, as they were his mother’s cookies, he had helped her bake them and he was hungry.  

We had a little chat about that.  I told him a) he would get into trouble going into people's letter boxes and he shouldn't do that anymore, and b) once his mother had given her cookies away, they were now the neighbors' cookies, not his mothers and not his. 

He was six years’ old and we had our very own artful dodger on the loose.  Not really, but I think you know what I mean.  He's probably chatting to his own kids now, giving them talks like, "I understand, when I was a kid there was this time..."

When his mom remarried and moved out of state a couple of years later, I really missed that little boy, and even now the thought of him makes me smile.

After reading this Gregg said what he remembers is that he was a natural athlete, could kick a soccer ball and run like the wind.

What I remember is that kid sure loved his cookies and milk.

The photo was given to me by Gregg who belongs to an online historical photo group.  Seeing all those little boys sent me on a trip down memory lane.  A great trip for me, thank you Gregg.