she said, 'I write serious poetry like yours myself; too, but I have a
piece here that I think you will like because it's about a boy.' She
gave it to us--and so I can copy it down, and I will, for it shows that
some grown-up ladies are not so silly as others. I like it better than
Noel's poetry, though I told him I did not, because he looked as if he
was going to cry. This was very wrong, for you should always speak the
truth, however unhappy it makes people. And I generally do. But I did
not want him crying in the railway carriage. The lady's piece of
poetry:

Oh when I wake up in my bed
And see the sun all fat and red,
I'm glad to have another day
For all my different kinds of play.

There are so many things to do--
The things that make a man of you,
If grown-ups did not get so vexed
And wonder what you will do next.

I often wonder whether they
Ever made up our kinds of play--
If they were always good as gold
And only did what they were told.

They like you best to play with tops
And toys in boxes, bought in shops;
They do not even know the names
Of really interesting games.