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Under the Tree

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I saw a shadow on the ground

And heard a bluejay going by;

A shadow went across the ground,

And I looked up and saw the sky.

It hung up on the poplar tree,

But while I looked it did not stay;

It gave a tiny sort of jerk

And moved a little bit away.

And farther on and farther on

It moved and never seemed to stop.

I think it must be tied with chains

And something pulls it from the top.

It never has come down again,

And every time I look to see,

The sky is always slipping back

And getting far away from me.



I went across the pasture lot

When not a one was watching me.

Away beyond the cattle barns

I climbed a little crooked tree.

And I could look down on the field

And see the corn and how it grows

Across the world and up and down

In very straight and even rows.

And far away and far away—

I wonder if the farmer man

Knows all about the corn and how

It comes together like a fan.



When supper time is almost come,

But not quite here, I cannot wait,

And so I take my china mug

And go down by the milking gate.

The cow is always eating shucks

And spilling off the little silk.

Her purple eyes are big and soft—

She always smells like milk.

And Father takes my mug from me,

And then he makes the stream come out.

I see it going in my mug

And foaming all about.

And when it's piling very high,

And when some little streams commence

To run and drip along the sides,

He hands it to me through the fence.



When Mother or Father turns down the light,

I like to look into my pillow at night.

Some people call them dreams, but for me

They are things I look down in my pillow and see.

I saw some birds, as many as four,

That were all blue wings and nothing else more.

Without any head and without any feet,

Just blue wings flying over a street.

And almost every night I see

A little brown bowl that can talk to me,

A nice little bowl that laughs and sings,

And ever so many other things.

Sometimes they are plainer than I can say,

And while I am waking they go away.

And when nobody is coming by,

I feel my pillow all over and try

And try to feel the pretty things,

The little brown bowl and the flying wings.



And it was Sunday everywhere,

And Father pinned a rose on me

And said he guessed he'd better take

Me down to see Miss Kate-Marie.

And when I went it all turned out

To be a Sunday school, and there

Miss Kate-Marie was very good

And let me stand beside her chair.

Her hat was made of yellow lace;

Her dress was very soft and thin,

And when she talked her little tongue

Was always wriggling out and in.

I liked to smell my pretty rose;

I liked to feel her silky dress.

She held a very little book

And asked the things for us to guess.

She asked about Who-made-y-God,

And never seemed to fuss or frown;

I liked to watch her little tongue

And see it wriggle up and down.



The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole

And made him a house in the telephone pole.

One day when I watched he poked out his head,

And he had on a hood and a collar of red....