A Book for Kids — Reading Notes

And had a long, long way to go. Each boot was broken at the toe, And he'd a swag upon his back. His billy-can, as black as black, Was just the thing for making tea At picnics, so it seemed to me.

'Twas hard to earn a bite of bread, He told me. Then he shook his head, And all the little corks that hung Around his hat-brim danced and swung And bobbed about his face; and when I laughed he made them dance again. He said they were for keeping flies-- "The pesky varmints"--from his eyes. He called me "Codger". . . "Now you see The best days of your life," said he. "But days will come to bend your back, And, when they come, keep off the track. Keep off, young codger, if you can." He seemed a funny sort of man.

He told me that he wanted work, But jobs were scarce this side of Bourke, And he supposed he'd have to go Another fifty mile or so. "Nigh all my life the track I've walked," He said. I liked the way he talked. And oh, the places he had seen! I don't know where he had not been-- On every road, in every town, All through the country, up and down. "Young codger, shun the track," he said. And put his hand upon my head. I noticed, then, that his old eyes Were very blue and very wise. "Ay, once I was a little lad," He said, and seemed to grow quite sad.

I sometimes think: When I'm a man, I'll get a good black billy-can And hang some corks around my hat, And lead a jolly life like that.

Once a little sugar ant made up his mind to roam-- To fare away far away, far away from home. He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma's consent To see what he should chance to see and here's the way he went-- Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone, Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone, Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high, Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky, Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss, Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across. 'Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread, He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed. His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent, And so he turned around again and here's the way he went-- Back away from desert lands feet and feet across, Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss, Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky, Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high, Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone, Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone. A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam, He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.

Flippity-flop! Flippity-flop! Here comes the butcher to bring us a chop Cantering, cantering down the wide street On his little bay mare with the funny white feet; Cantering, cantering out to the farm, Stripes on his apron and basket on arm. Run to the window and tell him to stop-- Flippity-flop! Flippity-flop!

Harry was a funny man, Harry was a hatter; He ate his lunch at breakfast time and said it didn't matter. He made a pot of melon jam and put it on a shelf, For he was fond of sugar things and living by himself. He built a fire of bracken and a blue-gum log, And he sat all night beside it with his big--black--dog.

I'd like to be a postman, and walk along the street, Calling out, "Good Morning, Sir," to gentlemen I meet, Ringing every door-bell all along my beat, In my cap and uniform so very nice and neat. Perhaps I'd have a parasol in case of rain or heat; But I wouldn't be a postman if . . . The walking hurt my feet. Would you?

As I rode in to Burrumbeet, I met a man with funny feet; And, when I paused to ask him why His feet were strange, he rolled his eye And said the rain would spoil the wheat; So I rode on to Burrumbeet.

As I rode in to Beetaloo, I met a man whose nose was blue; And when I asked him how he got A nose like that, he answered, "What Do bullocks mean when they say 'Moo'?" So I rode on to Beetaloo.

As I rode in to Ballarat, I met a man who wore no hat; And, when I said he might take cold, He cried, "The hills are quite as old As yonder plains, but not so flat." So I rode on to Ballarat.

As I rode in to Gundagai, I met a man and passed him by Without a nod, without a word. He turned, and said he'd never heard Or seen a man so wise as I. But I rode on to Gundagai.

As I rode homeward, full of doubt, I met a stranger riding out: A foolish man he seemed to me; But, "Nay, I am yourself," said he, "Just as you were when you rode out." So I rode homeward, free of doubt.

In our street, the main street Running thro' the town, You see a lot of busy folk Going up and down:

Bag men and basket men, Men with loads of hay, Buying things and selling things And carting things away.

The butcher is a funny man, He calls me Dandy Dick; The baker is a cross man, I think he's often sick;

The fruiterer's a nice man, He gives me apples, too; The grocer says, "Good morning, boy, What can I do for you?"

Of all the men in our street I like the cobbler best, Tapping, tapping at his last Without a minute's rest;

Talking all the time he taps, Driving in the nails, Smiling with his old grey eyes-- (Hush) . . . telling fairy tales.

Very few grown-up people understand houses. Only children understand them properly, and, if I understand them just a little, it is because I knew Sym. Sym and his wife, Emily Ann, lived in the Little Red House. It was built on a rather big mountain, and there were no other houses near it. At one time, long ago, the mountain had been covered all over with a great forest; but men had cut the trees down, all but one big Blue-gum, which grew near the Little Red House. The Blue-gum and the Little Red House were great friends, and often had long talks together. The Blue-gum was a very old tree--over a hundred years old--and he was proud of it, and often used to tell of the time, long ago, when blackfellows hunted 'possums in his branches. That was before the white men came to the mountain, and before there were any houses near it.

Once upon a time I put a verse about the mountain and the Little Red House into a book of rhymes which I wrote for grown ups. I don't think they thought much about it. Very likely they said, "0h, it's just a house on a hill," and then forgot it, because they were too busy about other things.

A great mother mountain, and kindly is she, Who nurses young rivers and sends them to sea. And, nestled high up on her sheltering lap, Is a little red house, with a little straw cap That bears a blue feather of smoke, curling high, And a bunch of red roses cocked over one eye.

I have tried here to draw the Little Red House for you as well as I can; and it isn't my fault if it happens to look just a little like somebody's face. I can't help it, can I? if the stones of the door-step look something like teeth, or if the climbing roses make the windows look like a funny pair of spectacles. And if Emily Ann will hang bib fluffy bobs on the window blinds for tassels, and if they swing about in the breeze like moving eyes, well, I am not to blame, am I? It just happens. The only thing I am sorry for is that I couldn't get the big Blue-gum into the picture. Of course, I could have drawn it quite easily, but it was too big.

Sym and Emily Ann were fond of the Little Red House, and you may be sure the Little Red House was fond of them--he was their home. The only thing that bothered him was that they were sometimes away from home, and then he was miserable, like all empty houses.

Now, Sym was a tinker--a travelling tinker. He would do a little gardening and farming at home for a while, and then go off about the country for a few days, mending people's pots and pans and kettles. Usually Sym left Emily Ann at home to keep the Little Red House company, but now and then Emily Ann went with Sym for a trip, and then the Little Red House was very sad indeed.

One morning, just as the sun was peeping over the edge of the world, the big Blue-gum woke up and stretched his limbs and waited for the Little Red House to say "Good morning." The Blue-gum always waited for the greeting because he was the older, and he liked to have proper respect shown to him by young folk, but the Little Red House didn't say a word.

The big Blue-gum waited and waited; but the Little Red House wouldn't speak.

After a while the Blue-gum said rather crossly, "You seem to be out of sorts this morning."

But the Little Red House wouldn't say a word.

"You certainly do seem as if you had a pain somewhere," said the Blue-gum. "And you look funny. You ought to see yourself!"

"Indeed?" snapped the Little Red House, raising his eyebrows just as a puff of wind went by. "I can't always be playing the fool, like some people."

"I've lived on this mountain, tree and sapling, for over a hundred years," replied the big Blue-gum very severely, "and never before have I been treated with such disrespect. When trees become houses they seem to lose their manners."

"Forgive me," cried the Little Red House. "I didn't mean to be rude. I was just listening. There are things going on inside me that I don't like."

"I hope they aren't ill-treating you," said the Blue-gum.

"They are going to leave me!" sighed the Little Red House.

"And they are laughing quite happily, as if they were glad about it. There's a nice thing for you!--Going to leave me, and laughing about it!"

"But perhaps you are wrong," said the big Blue-gum, who was not so hard-hearted as he seemed.

"I always know," moaned the Little Red House. "I can't be mistaken. Sym was singing his Tinker's song this morning long before the sun was up. And then I heard him tell Emily Ann not to forget her umbrella. That means that she is going; and the little dog is going, and I shall be all alone."

"Well," answered the Blue-gum rather stiffly, "you still have ME for company."

"I know," sighed the Little Red House. "Don't think I'm ungrateful. But, when they both go away, I shan't be really and truly a home again until they come back--just an empty house; and it makes me miserable. How would YOU like to be an empty house?"

"Some day I might be," replied the Blue-gum, "if I don't grow too old. There is some fine timber in me yet."

Suddenly there was a great clattering and stamping inside the Little House, and Sym began to sing his Tinker's song.

"Kettles and pans! Kettles and pans! All the broad earth is the tinkering man's-- The green leafy lane or the fields are his home, The road or the river, where'er he way roam. He roves for a living and rests where he can. Then bring out your kettle! ho! kettle or pan!"

There's a nice thing for you!" said the Little Red House bitterly. "What kind of a song do you call that? Any old place is good enough for his home, and I am just nothing!"

"Oh, that's only his way of putting it," answered the Blue-gum kindly. "He doesn't really mean it, you know; he wants a change, that's all."

But the Little Red House wouldn't say a word.

"It looks a good deal like rain this morning, doesn't it?" said the Blue-gum cheerfully, trying to change the subject.

But the Little Red House wouldn't say a word.

Very soon Sym and Emily Ann, carrying bundles, came out of the Little Red House, laughing and talking; and Sym locked the door.

"Now for a jolly trip!" shouted Sym, as he picked up his firepot and soldering-irons.

But all at once Emily Ann ceased laughing and looked back wistfully at the Little Red House.

"After all I'm sorry to leave our little home," she said. "See how sad it looks!"

"Hurry on!" cried Sym, who was all eagerness for the trip. Then he, too, looked back. "Why, you forgot to draw down the blinds," he said.

"No, I didn't forget," answered Emily Ann, "but I think it a shame to blindfold the Little Red House while we are away. I just left the blinds up so that he could see things. Good-bye, little home," she called. And the Little Red House felt just the least bit comforted to think that Emily Ann was sorry to leave him. Then she went off down the winding path with Sym; and Sym began to shout his Tinker's Song again.

The Little Red House watched them go down the mountain.

Away they went: through the gate, past the black stump, round by the bracken patch and over the bridge, across the potato paddock, through the sliprails--getting smaller and smaller--past the sign-post, down by the big rocks--getting smaller and smaller--under the tree-ferns, out on to the stony flat, across the red road, until they were just two tiny specks away down in the valley. Then they went through a white gate, round a turn, and the high scrub hid them.

Had you been able to see the Little Red House just at that moment, you would have been sure he was going to cry--he looked so miserable and so lonely.

"Cheer up!" said the big Blue-gum.

But the Little Red House couldn't say a word.

Presently the big Blue-gum groaned loudly.

"Oo! Ah! Ah! Golly!" groaned the Blue-gum in a strange voice.

"I beg your pardon? said the Little Red House.

"Oh, I have a nasty sharp pain in my side," said the Blue-gum. "I do hope and trust it isn't white-ants. It would be simply horrible, if it were. Fancy getting white-ants at my time of life! Here I have lived on this mountain, tree and sapling, for over a hundred years; and to think those nasty, white, flabby little things should get me at last is horrible--horrible!"

"I am sorry," said the Little Red House. "I'm afraid I've been very selfish, too. I was forgetting that everyone has troubles of his own; but I hope it isn't so bad as you fear."

"It is bad enough," groaned the Blue-gum. "Ow! There it is again. I'm afraid it IS white-ants. I can feel the wretched little things nipping."

But the Little Red House hardly heard him. He was thinking again of his own troubles.

So they stood all through that day, saying very little to each other. Rabbits came and played about the Little Red House, and lizards ran over his door-step, and once a big wallaby went flopping right past the front gate. But the Little Red House paid no attention. He was too busy thinking of his loneliness.

Birds came and perched in the branches of the big Blue-gum, and chattered and sang to him, trying to tell him the news of other trees on distant mountains. But the big Blue-gum took no notice. He was too busy thinking about white-ants.

So the sun sank low behind the Little House, and the shadow of the tall Blue-gum began to creep down the mountain and get longer and longer.

Just as it was growing dark, the big Blue-gum said Suddenly, "It certainly looks more like rain than ever. The heavy clouds have been gathering all day, and we shall get it properly to-night."

But the rain did not come that night, nor the next day, nor for two days and nights. And all this while the Little Red House and the Big Blue-gum remained silent and miserable--one through loneliness, the other through white-ants.

But on the evening of the third day the big Blue-gum said, "The rain will come to-night for certain. I know by the feel of the air."

"Let it come!" said the Little Red House. "I don't care. I couldn't be more miserable than I am."

Just as he said that, one great rain-drop fell right on the middle of his roof--Plop!

"It's coming already," cried the Blue-gum, "and it's going to pour."

Then three more big drops fell--Plop! Plop! Plop!

"I have never in my life seen such big rain-drops," said the Blue-gum. "I've lived on this mountain, tree and sapling, for--"

But--Crash! came rain before he could finish; and in two seconds everything was sopping wet. The noise of it was deafening,

"Why, it's a cloud-burst!" shouted the Blue-gum. "Half of my leaves have been stripped off already." Then he peered through the rain and the dark to see how the Little Red House was taking it. "Why, what's the matter with your face?" he cried. "You look awful."

"I'm crying!" sobbed the Little Red House. "That's all--just crying. "Can't you see the tears?"

"Nonsense!" said the Blue-gum. "Those are not tears. It's just the rain-water running off your window-sills."

"I tell you I'm crying!" wailed the Little Red House. "I'm crying bitterly. I should know, shouldn't I? I'm shivering and crying because I'm cold and lonely and miserable."

"Oh, very well," agreed the Blue-gum. "You are crying. But if this rain doesn't stop soon, you'll cry the front path away. It certainly is wet."

Very late that night the rain eased a little and then stopped altogether. The tears ceased to run from the eyes of the Little Red House, and they now came only in drops, slower and slower, falling into the great pool by the front door.

"It's a hard world!" sobbed the Little Red House, squeezing out another tear.

"Listen!" cried the Big Blue-gum. "Do you hear THAT?"

From far away on the distant ranges came a dull, moaning sound. As they listened it grew louder, and right in the middle of of it came another sound--Thump!

"That's wind," said the Blue-gum; "and a big wind, too."

"Let it come!" sighed the Little Red House. "I couldn't be more miserable than I am."

As he spoke, the moaning grew louder, and there were three or four quite big thumps one after another.

"What's that thumping?" asked the little House.

"Those are my poor brothers," answered the big Blue-gum very sadly, "Those are trees going down before the big wind. The birds were bringing me messages from those poor fellows quite lately; and now I shall never hear from them again. It's very sad."

"I never thought the wind could blow down big trees," said the Little House.

"No tree knows when his time will come," the big Blue-gum answered gravely. "I've had some very narrow escapes in my time, as tree and sapling on this mountain."

The Little Red House was very quiet and thoughtful for a long time after that. Then he asked suddenly, "Which way do you think you would fall if you did fall?"

But the big Blue-gum said that he couldn't tell. It depended on the wind, and he might fall any way.

"Not on me!" cried the Little House.

The Blue-gum said that he didn't know; but he hoped not.

"If you DID fall on me," said the Little Red House, "I suppose it would hurt me."

The Blue-gum said it certainly would, and there would be very little left but splinters and glass.

"Then don't! Please don't," yelled the Little Red House.