Diddily Dee Dot's Dreamland for Children Everywhere Fairy Square
I wish I liked rice pudding, I wish I were a twin
I wish some day a real live fairy would just come walking in.
I wish when I'm at the table my feet would touch the floor,
I wish our pipes would burst next winter, just like they did next door.
I wish that I could whistle real proper grown up tunes,
I wish they'd let me sweep the chimneys on rainy afternoons.
I've got such heaps of wishes, I've only said a few;
I wish that I could wake some morning and find they'd all come true !
Written by Rose Fyleman- from Fairies and Chimneys
Rose Fyleman was born in Nottingham on 6 March 1877, the third child
of John Feilmann and his wife, Emilie, née Loewenstein, who was of
Russian extraction. Her father was in the lace trade, and his Jewish
family originated in 1860 from Jever in the historical state of Oldenburg, currently Lower Saxony, Germany
As a young girl, Fyleman was educated at a private school, and at the
age of nine first saw one of her compositions published in a local
paper. Although she entered University College, Nottingham, she failed
in the intermediate and was thus unable to pursue her ambition of
becoming a schoolteacher. Despite this, Fyleman had a good singing
voice, and therefore decided to study music. She studied singing in
Paris, Berlin and finally at the Royal College of Music in London, where
she received her diploma as associate of the Royal College of Music.
She returned to Nottingham shortly afterward, where she taught signing
and helped in her sister's school. Along with other members of her
family, she anglicised the spelling of her name at the outbreak of the
First World War in 1914.
When she was forty, Fyleman sent her verses to Punch
magazine and her first publication "There are Fairies at the Bottom of
Our Garden" appeared in May of 1917. The immense response from
publishers prompted Fyleman to submit several other fairy poems. Her
verses enjoyed tremendous success among readers and her first collection
Fairies and Chimneys (1918) was reprinted more than twenty times over
the next decade. During the 1920s and early 1930s Rose Fyleman published
multiple verse collections, wrote drama for children, and for two
years, edited the children's magazine Merry-Go-Round. Fyleman was also a
skilled linguist who translated books from German, French and Italian.
Rose Fyleman was one of the most successful children's writers of her
generation and she saw much of her earlier poetry become proverbial.
She died at a nursing home in St. Albans, Hertfordshire on 1 August, 1957.
VERSES WRITTEN BY CHILDREN BEFORE 1937
IF ANY CHILD WHO OF COURSE WILL NOW BE WELL INTO THEIR 70'S CAN REMEMBER WRITING THESE RHYMES/POEMS, IT WOULD BE LOVELY IF YOU COULD GET IN TOUCH WITH ME AT
I WOULD BE VERY PLEASED TO HEAR FROM YOU, MAYBE YOU WENT ON TO BECOME AN AMAZING POET IN YOUR LATER LIFE.
FAIRIES IN THE GLEN
Have you seen the elves and fairies
Down in Greenwood Glen ?
I think I have, I think I have,
I've seen some wee, wee men.
I've seen some pretty fairies, too
With shiny, shimmering wings,
And I've heard some fairy music -
It's so sweet when a fairy sings.
Patricia Adams (age 9)
In the land where fairies dwell
There stands a lovely wishing-well.
I wish you could see the fairies there
Washing their golden, curly hair
And there upon a summer night
Sits the Queen in her delight,
Bringing joy to every friend,
Happiness that has no end.
Joyce Farmer (Age 10)
With a whisper of tiny voices, a rustling of the breeze
That is very gently stirring the supple green trees,
A hundred little moombeams filtering through the glass,
A million little fairies are dancing on the grass.
A tiny, little fairy band tinkling ts fairy tune,
Whispering out its melody, stealing through the gloom,
With a clash of fairy cymbals, a twirl of fairy feet,
All the dainty fairies fly home to Fairy Street.
Jean Sanders (Age 12)
Oh, I wish I were a Fairy.
Oh I wish I were a fairy, With a pair of silver wings, And a lot of shining stardust in
I would frolic with the
butterflies, And bees and flying things, And I’d dine upon the daintiest of
I would sup upon a dewdrop And I’d sleep within a rose, Only to be awakened by a droning
And if I should chance to tumble, Off into another doze, There would not be a single soul
Here are seven little fairy stories for you to look and listen to. xxx
Diddily Dee Dot's Dreamland for Children Everywhere
Fairy Stories and Rhymes
THE HAPPY FAMILY
by Hans Christian Andersen.
The largest green leaves that you can find in the country are the burdock leaves; if a little girl takes one of them and holds it in front of the skirt of her frock, it serves her as an apron; and if she places it on her head, it is almost as good a shelter against the rain as an umbrella, it is so large. never is a burdock leaf found growing alone; wherever one grows a whole colony grows. They are beautiful too, but all their beauty is for the snails.
Those large white snails, of which great folks in olden times made fricassees, dined off the burdock leaves. They ate greedily of them, saying all the while, "Hum, how nice, how exquisite!" for they thought the snails delicious. These snails lived upon the burdock leaves, and they imagined the burdock leaves had been sown for their sakes.
There was an old-fashioned manor house where snails were no longer cooked and eaten, because not only had the custom dies away, but the owners of the house had died, and no one lived in it. But burdock leaves grew near, and they had not died. They grew and multiplied; and as there was no one to weed them out, they spread over all the paths and all the beds till the garden at last became a wilderness of burdock leaves. Here and there might still be seen a solitary apple or plum tree, otherwise no one could possibly have guessed that this had ever been a garden, for on all sides you saw nothing but burdock leaves. ...... more at Fairy Stories, diddilydeedotsdreamland .
Amongst the leaves there dwelt two old snails, the last of their race. They themselves could not tell how old they were, but they could remember that their family had once been very numerous, that they belonged to a foreign colony, and that for them the whole grove had been planted. Beyond the burdock grove they had never been, but they knew that there was another place in the world called the manor house, and that there snails were cooked, and then became black, and laid on silver dishes; but what happened afterwards they did not know. Nor did they imagine how they would feel when cooked and laid on silver dishes; but they were certain that it was very delightful and a very good honour. Neither the cockchafer nor the toad, nor the earthworm, whom they questioned could give them any information on the subject, for not one of them had ever been cooked or laid on a silver dish. These old white snails were the grandest creatures in the world, they were quite sure of that. The burdock wood had grown up solely on their account, and the manor house stood beyond, merely that they might someday be taken there, cooked and laid on silver dishes.
They now lived a very lonely and yet happy life, and as they had no children of their own, they had taken a liking to a little common snail, and brought it up as their own child. This little snail would not grow, for he was only a common black snail, and not like his foster parents; but the mother snail insisted that she could see he was growing fast, and she begged the father snail, since he could not see it, to touch the little snails house and feel it. And the father snail felt the house, and found that the mother was in the right.
One day there was a heavy shower of rain. "Only listen, what a drum-drum-drumming there is on the burdock leaves!" said father snail. "There come the drops," said the mother snail; "they are running down the stalk; you will see it quite wet presently. I am glad we have our own houses, and that the little one too is safe in his. It cannot be denied that more has been done for us than for all other creatures put together; it is easily seen that we are of the first important in the world. We have houses from our birth, and the burdock wood has been planted for our sakes. I should rather like to know though, how far it stretches and what is beyond it."
"There can be nothing beyond better than this," said the father snail; "we have nothing to wish for." "I cannot say that," replied mother snail. "I own I should like to go up to the manor house, and be cooked and laid in a silver dish. All our forefathers went there, and only think what an honour it must be!" "Most likely the manor house is in ruins," said father snail, "or else the burdock grove has grown over it, so that the human beings cannot now get out of it to fetch us. However, there is no need to be in such a violent hurry about everything as you are, and the little one too in that matter begins to take after you. Why, he has crept all up the stalk in three days; it makes me quite dizzy to look at him!"
"Don't scold him," said mother snail; he crawls so carefully. We shall have great pride and pleasure in him, and what else have we old folk got to live for? But we ought to think now of where we are to get him a wife? Don't you think that far out in the burdock grove there may perhaps be a few more of our family left?
"There are black snails, no doubt, in plenty," replied the other, "black snails without houses; but they are so vulgar and so conceited. I'll tell you what we can do: we can commission the ats to look about for us. They are always running backwards and forewards, as if all the business in the world had to be done by them; they must certainly know of a fit wife for our youngster."
"To be sure, we know where there is the loveliest little creature in the world!" said five or six ants, who were passing by just then. "But perhaps she may not choose to listen to the proposal, for she is a Queen."
"What does that matter?" answered the two old snails. "Has she a house? That is much more to the purpose," "She has a palace," replied the ants, "a most magnificent ant-palace with seven hundred passages."
"Oh, thankyou!" said the mother snail. "If you fancy our son is going to live in an anthill, then you are mistaken. If you have no better proposal to make than that, we can give the commission to the white gnates; they fly about in rain and in sunshine, and know every corner of the burdock grove."
"Oh yes, we know ethe very wife for him!" said the gnats." on being asked about the matter. "A hundred man steps off there sits on a gooseberry bush, a little snail with a house. She lives alone poor thing! like a hermitess, and she is quite old enough to marry. It is only a hndred man steps from here."
"Well then, let her come to him," said the old snails, that will be most fitting. He has a burdock grove, she has a gooseberry bush."
And so the gnats brought the little lady snail. Eight days passed before she came, which showed that she was of the right breed, And then the wedding was held. Six glow-worms shone as brightly as they could; otherwise the whole affair passed off very quietly, for neither of the old snails could endure merriment and rioting. Indeed, the father snail was much moved to be able to say a word; but the mother snail made a most beautiful and affecting speech at the breakfast; and they gave the two youngsters the whole burdock grove for their inheritance, and declared, as they had always held, that it was the best place in the world. They said if they lived together as peaceably and honestly, and multiplied in the grove, they and their children should at last be taken to the manor house, there to be cooked until they were black, and laid on silver dishes.
After this speech the two old snails crept back into their houses and never came out again; there they slept. And the young snails reigned in the burdock wood in their stead, and had a great many children. But they never had the good fortune to be cooked, or to be put on silver dishes, and so they concluded that the manor house must have fallem to pieces, and that all the human beings in the world must be dead.
No one ever contradicted them, and therefore they thought they must be right. And for their sakes the raindrops beat upon the burdock leaves, and made drum music, and for their sakes the sun shone on the burdock leaves, giving them a bright-green colour.
And they were very happy, and the whole snail family was very happy.
Diddily Dee Dot's Dreamland for Children Everywhere
Fairy Stories and Rhymes
PETER QUINCE from the fabulous Alfred Noyes.
Peter Quince was nine year oldWhen he see'd what never was told.
When he crossed the fairy fern,Peter had no more to learn.
Just as day began to die,He see'd them rustling on the sky;
Ferns, like small green finger-printsPressed against them rosy tints,
Mother-o'-pearl and opal tingesDying along their whispering fringes,
Every colour, as it died,Beacoming, Come, to the other side.
Up he crept, by the shrew-mouse track.A robin chirped, You woant come back.
Through the ferns he crept to look. There he found a gurt wide book;
. . . . . . Much to big for a child to holdIts clasps were made of sunset gold.
It smelled as old ship's timbers do.He began to read it through.
All the magic pictures burned,Like stained windows, as he turned
Page by big black-lettered page,Thick as cream, and ripe with age.
Then he read, till all grew dim.Then green glow-worms lighted him.
There he read till he forgotAll that ever his teachers taught. . . . . . .
Someone, old as the moon, crept back,Late that night by the shrew-mouse track.
Someone, taller maybe, by an inch.Boys grow fast. He'll do at a pinch.
Only, folks that know'd him claimPeter's wits were never the same.
Ev'ryone said that Peter QuinceH'aint been never the same child since.
Now he'd sit, in a trance, for hours,Talkin' softly to bees and flowers.
Now, in the ingle-nook at night,Turn his face from the candle-light;
Till, as you thought him fast asleep,You'd see his eyes were wide and deep;
And, in their wild magic glow,Rainbow colours 'ud come and go.
Dame Quince never could wholly wake him,So they say, tho' she'd call and shake him.
He sat dreaming. He sat bowedIn a white sleep, like a cloud.
Over his dim face at whiles,Flickered liddle elvish smiles. . . . . . .
Once, the robin at the pane,Tried to chirp the truth again.
Peter quince has crossed the fern.Peter Quince will not return.
Drive the changeling from your chair!That's not Peter dreaming there.
Peter crossed the fern to look.Peter found the magic book.
Ah, Dame Quince was busy sobbin',So she couldn't hear poor rRobin.
And the changeling, in a dream,Supped that night on pears and cream.
Night by night, he cleared his platter;And - from moon to moon - grew fatter;
Mostly dumb, or muttering dimlyWhen the smoke blew down the chimley,
Peter's turned another page.I have almost earned my wage.
Then the good dame's eyelids shone. . . . . . . This was many a year agone.Peter Quince is reading on.