Diddily Dee Dot's Dreamland for Children Everywhere Comfort Valley
Golden Rules for Living for Adults and Children alike. (Author
If you open it, close it.
If you turn it on, turn it off.
If you unlock it, lock it up.
If you break it, admit it.
If you can't fix it, call someone who can.
If you borrow it, return it.
If you value it, treasure it.
If you make a mess, clean it up.
If you move it, put it back.
If it belongs to someone else, get permission to use it.
If you don't know how to operate it, leave it alone. (this means you Daddy!)
If it's none of your business, don't ask questions.
HOME COMFORTS WITH DIDDILYDEEDOT AND TODAY'S SPECIAL GUESTS,
ALISON UTTLEY AND 5 GREENWAY
Today my wonderful husband gave me an early Christmas present. He is always giving me early presents, for I pester him like mad if I see he has a book or dvd in his bag. I love pressies, never expensive ones, usually from a Charity Shop (there are 12 in Mold my nearest town) so he has plenty of places to go searching. So today I have a new/old 1942 book by Alison Uttley published during the war years.
It is called NINE STARLIGHT TALES and is written by Alison Uttley and the illustrations are by Irene Hawkins and the book is dedicated to Frances Mary. Inside are nine wonderful tales, all with the titles of Nursery Rhymes.
I am going to write out one of these small tales, it is the story of Tom, Tom the Piper's Son.
at the end of the story I would like to show you a wonderful word-press
post from Alison Uttley Christmas * Very Berry Handmade
OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY
Night was falling, and the little bare room was nearly in darkness. young Thomas sat on one side of the dying fire, his hands crossed over his knees, and Old Thomas, his father, sat opposite him. From outside came the rattle of carts and horses on the London cobblestones, and the cries of hawkers and shouts of quarrelling beggars.
"What d'ye lack? What d'ye lack? Fine blue Ribbons for your back," called a voice, and "Lavender, sweet lavender," sang a woman, and the footsteps passed by the window. Young Thomas took no notice of them, for his eyes were fixed on his father, who was playing sweet tunes on a wooden pipe.
"Play 'Come Lasses and Lads',Father," he cried, and the piper piped the merry dancing tune. "And now play 'Lady Greensleeves,'" said Thomas, and his father player the lovely air which everyone in England at the time knew by heart.
"Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight,
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but Lady Greensleeves? "
He played "All in a Garden Fair," and Gathering Peascods", and "If all the World were Paper," and his little son sat entranced, listening to the sweet tunes which came out of that boxwood pipe. "Now it is time for your lesson, my lad," said the piper. " You must learn to play so that you'll be able to keep me company." And he took a small pipe from a shelf, wiped it with his handkerchief with tender care, and gave it to little Thomas.
What squeaks and squawks came from it! Sometimes it sounded like a pig under a gate, sometimes there was nothing at all but breaths and puffs and grunts. "You'll never make a piper unless you practise," grumbled the piper, I don't know what will become of you if you can't earn your living by piping, and play like me."
Tom puffed out his cheeks and blew and twiddled his little fingers over scales and trills. "Hark to me," Cried Old Thomas, impatiently. He put the pipe to his lips, and sent out a stream of rippling music like the sound of birds at dawn. He made the notes of the cuckoo, blackbird, thrush, wren, so that Young Thomas clapped his hands.
"Are the birds over there ? he asked.
"Over where ?" said his father. "Over the hills and far away," replied Thomas, gravely. Then he went on: Father, tell me the tale of the land over the hills and far away."
"Will you promise to practise two hours a day?" demanded his father. "Yes, oh yes, said Thomas earnestly. I promise," He would have promised anything to hear the story he had so often heard, the story which was always fresh.
"I don't know why you want that same old tale. I've told it so many times, you must know it off by heart." Tom nodded, "Tell it again," said he and he put his pipe back on the shelf and settled down by the glowing embers, whilst Old Thomas retold his story.
"You were born in the city of London Thomas but I came from far away, over the hills, where there are no streets or great houses or rows of shops. It is a village nestling in a cup of the hills, and there are three rivers run near it. These rivers aren't like the Thames, They are foaming tossing rivers, with ferns and primroses on the banks and rowan trees hanging over them, and moss covered boulders in the water, so that you can jump on them and stand on an island. There's a humped back little bridge, called "The Devil's Leap", so narrow that only horsemen can cross it and the pack-men who carry wool on their donkeys backs. In the water are trout, and many a one I've caught with my fingers and carried it home for my mother for supper."
Thomas looked hungrily at his father, and nodded.
"There's a grey church with an ancient crusader made of stone lying inside, and my name carved high up on the tower. I sang in the choir, for I was ever one for music and people used to come from the villages round to hear my voice. I played truant many a time, for I couldn't abide the long sermons of those days, so off I used to go, bird-nesting, trout-tickling, and the choir had to do without me. I got well trounced when I got back, though." He stopped and sat in a dream..
"Go on! Go on!" Pleaded Tom. "tell about the cottage where you lived?"
"It was an ivy-covered cottage, with a stone porch, and a clump of house -leek growing on it. The kitchen was cosy as cosy could be, all shining and clean and bright. There was a copper warming-pan hanging on the wall, and a pair of black and white china dogs on the mantle-piece, and a grandfather clock in the corner. In the garden was a well , right among the lilies and pansies and pinks. A weeping- willow learned over it, and I used to climb that tree and watch my father wind up the bucket from the deep water, and I listened to the queer sounds in the ground, murmurs and trickles and sighs. We had a little orchard with a few apple-trees. and a cherry and a plum. There were bee-skeps, too, and when my father took the honey I always had a wee pot for myself." Little Tom's eyes gleamed. he had never even tasted honey! "You must have been very rich!" said he. "Now tell how you ran away?"
"One day a travelling show came to our village, and I went to see the sights. There was a juggler, and a tight-rope walker, and a clown. Nothing much, but I thought it was wonderful, and I wandered about among the caravans after the show was done, in the afternoon. The owner, a big man with gold ear-rings, played the fiddle and his son beat the drum The boy was about my own age, and I talked to him, I played my pipe to him, and the father chanced to hear me. "If you'll join my lad,' said he,' and I'll take you to London, where you'll perhaps make your fortune".
"Are the streets really made of gold?" I asked, for I was as green as the grass in the meadows round our cottage. "Maybe! You 'll see when you get there,' he answered. 'I can tell you there is never a piper like you. I knew my parents wouldn't let me go, so that night, when the show left, I went off without telling them."
"And you never went back?" asked Tom, who knew the story very well, yet always hoped his father would change the ending. "I stayed away Tom, because I never made my fortune, " Answered my father bitterly, "Now off to bed, quick as greased lightening!"
Tom slipped off his clothes, and crept into the bed in the corner of the room, where he lay listening to his father practising a new tune, until he rolled off to sleep. He dreamed of those far-away hills that night, and a little melody came tripping into his head. There it strayed, a lively dancing little air, and the next day he played it to his father.
"You dreamt it?" exclaimed Old Tom, delighted, "It's a champion little tune, we shall make a piper of you yet! What shall we call it?"
"Over the Hills and far Away," answered Tom, and he piped it again. Tom's father played for weddings and routs and dances. He turned up at all the fairs and merry-makings. he played to suit his company slow dirges for the sorrowful, sweet love songs for the romantic, gay little jigs for the children. He walked up and down streets, and piped in the London Squares. He made enough money to keep the two of them, and to pay for Little Tom's schooling at a dame's school. Every night he gave the boy his lesson, but either Tom was stupid, or he was enchanted by his own melody, for the only piece that he could ever play was "Over the hills and far away" and that tune he played so perfectly that people stopped to listen to the eager little boy and threw pennies to him as often as to his father.
"Tom! Do try to get hold of "Haste to the Maypole' ready for May Day," Cried Old Tom impatiently. They had made their was across London, and were travelling through Kent, playing on many a village green. Spring had come and the country tugged at the old pipers heart. The May day Dancers would soon be dressed in their bright clothes, ribbons in their hands, skipping round their Maypoles.
Tom took out his pipe and played:
"Haste to the Maypole, hast away, Over the Hills and Far Away!"
"Stop! Tom! Stop! You've got it all wrong. Their feet will be out of time. That tune of yours has gone to your brain!" cried the Piper. He shook his head, bewildered at his son's obstinacy. he had to play the May tune himself, and let Tom collect the money. When the dance was over, Tom played his own tune in a corner of the green, and he played with such skill, with such sweet longing, and such happy notes, that all of the little boys and girls stopped their games of shuttlecock-and-battledore and ball, and ran to listen to him. Then the pretty maids and young men came, and finally the old people. Old Tom collected the money for his young son, that May day, and after that he left the boy to his one and only tune.
One night Tom's father was taken ill. He lay in the cottage and Tom sat frightened by his side, whilst the woman of the house prepared hot drinks and strangely-smelling herb-possetts.
"Give me my pipe once more, Tom," said the piper softly. He put it to his lips, and played his old merry airs, feeble notes which seemed to struggle out of the pipe, and dance unwillingly in the quiet room.
"Tom," said he, as he dropped his pipe, "Tom, lad. I shall never get better. I shall never go back but you must go. Go over the hills and and far away. Pipe your way north, to the village where I was born. Right up north, through nearly the length of England you must go. Go home, and tell them you are my son. There may be someone left who remembers Young Tom the Piper. Now I am Old Tom."
There was silence, broken only by the sound of the weeping boy. His father went on: "There's some silver and a few gold pieces in the leather bag in my pocket. It is all my savings. Take it with you, but only use it if you're forced."
"Play your tune up England, Tom. It may get you home," whispered Old Tom. Then he shut his eyes and seemed to fall asleep. A few days later they buried the piper in the churchyard, and Tom was left alone..
"You can stay with me for always and be my son," said the kind cottage woman. "I've nobody of kin to care for." Tom shook his head. I have to go home," said he.
"Home? I thought you had no home!" she exclaimed. "Where do you live?"
"Over the hills and far away," replied Tom, sadly. He tied his little bundle on his back, and the old woman sewed his money into his trousers. Then with his pipe in his hand, he set of for the long walk, through the green lanes of England. Sometimes he got a lift in a farmer's cart, or a gypsy's wagon. Sometimes he rode pillion behind a kind miller, but these were rare events. he played his pipe at every village through which he passed, and he always received something - a few pence, or a slice of bread and dripping, or a newly-baked cake, for the cottagers were sorry to see such a young boy alone on the roads. Wherever he went, the girls and boys ran out to listen to him, and often they followed him along the road for company.
He slept under hedges and haystacks when it was fine, and in rainy weather he crept into barns, or asked if he might go to a stable or shed. he seldom used any of his money, for the country folk were so kind to him. They gave him old shoes when his own were worn out, and patched his shabby jacket where he tore it. He washed his shirt in the brooks and dried it on the bushes when the sun was hot, but on wet days he covered his shoulders with a sack and trudged on through the mire.
As he travelled he learned many things, for no one can spend weeks in the countryside without finding out much of the secret life of the wild creatures - of badger and fox and little red squirrel. He met men, different from those of the towns, and he walked along the lanes with tinkers, and pedlars, Bible-men, gypsies, and the great company of roamers. he watched the labourers working in the brown fields, and saw the green wheat cover the ground with a veil of pale silk. The grass in the meadows grew tall, and flowers went through their seasons - roses, dog daisies, purple cranes-bill, heavy loose-strife, giant foxgloves. Then the hay-makers came and he joined a band and earned a little tossing and raking the sweet-smelling hay. A few nights he slept in an outhouse with the merry hay-makers, and ate the good food from the farm. Then on he went, journeying sometimes through a big town, but keeping chiefly to the villages and hamlets and greens of England.
Summer changed to autumn. The corn ripened and the apples were red. The little piper came to the great hills, the humpbacked giants which seemed to reach up to the sky with their dark heads. He wondered how he could get across them, but he always found a narrow valley with a farm and a few fields and a whitewashed cottage hiding in the folds of the hills. So he walked the twisty paths, and over the little stone bridges which spanned the wild streams, and ever he went northwards, till at last he found the village he sought.
it was exactly as he had imagined it. There was the green, with the sycamore tree in the middle, and a group of old men who stared at the ragged little boy. There was the inn, with the painted sign of "The White Hart", and the innkeeper in his apron at the door. There was the grey church with the rooks' nests in the elms, and the blacksmith's forge and one of the famous rivers rushing near.
He walked steadily on, his heart thumping as he wondered who would remember Old Tom, the piper of long ago, but round the corner he saw the ivy-covered cottage with the stone porch and a clump of house leek growing on its roof. Then he knew he had come home!
In the orchard, tending the bees, was a white-haired old man, with stooping back and thin hands, and sitting in the shelter of the porch was an old woman with spectacles on her nose, reading a big leather book.
Then Tom took out his pipe and began to play his tune, 'Over the hills and far away' The old man raised himself slowly, and put his hands up to shade his eyes. The old woman dropped her book and a frightened cry.
"Tom?" she whispered. "Is't thou, our Tom? Hast thou come home? Is it a dream?" Tom opened the garden gate and went up to her.
"I'm Tom the piper's son," said he, taking off his hat. "Please, ma'am, are you my grand-mother?"
The old lady sobbed as she hugged him, dirty and ragged as he was, and the old man came hurrying to the house.
"Thou are the very image of thy father when he went away," they said, as they watched him devour a plate of beef and dumplings. "But he never had thy great appetite!"
"It does my bones good to watch thee," cried the grandmother as she piled up Tom's plate. "Thou might never have seen good victuals before."
"I haven't," said Tom, grinning.
"Thou won't leave us, wilt thou?" begged the old woman. "Not I," laughed Tom. "I've come home to stop," and the grandparents were glad he had used that magic word 'home'.
When Tom went to the wooden bed in the low room under the eaves, he looked through the tiny window at the gold moon hanging over the orchard, shining on the bent willow-tree and the well and the mossy stone wall which encircled the little kingdom "over the hills and far away". Then he learned out in the moonshine and played his tune, and the old grand-parents smiled happily as they heard the notes, just as in the old days, when the other Tom played.
So Tom the Piper's son came home. He played to the boys and girls of all the villages around, and piped at fairs and wakes and weddings. The children came running out of school when they saw him, and clustered round him like a swarm of bees, crying; "Play to us Tom. Play your tune." Then Tom played on his pipe, and they sang the following song which Tom had made up on his journey through England:
"Tom he was a piper's son, He learnt to play when he was young,
But all the tune that he could play, Was 'Over the hills and far away'
Over the hills and a great way off, The wind shall blow my top-knot off!
Tom with his pipe made such a noise, That he pleased both the girls and boys,
And they stopped to hear him play, 'Over the the hill and far away'.
Over the hills and a great way off, The wind shall blow my top-knot off!"
Now before I leave I will place a few nursery rhymes for you to sing along to.
I WILL RETURN TOMORROW WITH THE REST OF THE STORY OF OVER THE HILLS, BUT HERE IS THE BEGINNING AND THE WORD-PRESS FROM 5GREENWAY. TAKE CARE. DIDDILYDEEDOT'S DREAMLAND. XXX
bookish post for Tuesday. And with Advent calendars starting tomorrow,
and snow outside, it doesn’t seem too unseasonal to do a slightly
Christmassy post. All the books I’m writing about here are sadly out of
print, but they’re well worth tracking down; two of them are children’s
picture books, and the other is one for the grown-ups.
Alice Jane Uttley (born Alice Jane Taylor in 1884) was a bit of a
remarkable woman. Only the second woman to graduate with honours from
Manchester University, with a degree in physics in 1906, she worked as a
teacher before marrying in 1911. After her husband’s death, she turned
to writing, drawing upon her childhood growing up on a farm near Matlock
in Derbyshire for a series of books for children.
probably best known now for the later series of stories about Grey
Rabbit and her woodland friends who recreate ‘a rural society largely
populated by animals’ (Brian Alderson, Dictionary of National Biography).
She was helped in this by her illustrators: Margaret Tempest for the
earlier books and Katherine Wigglesworth for the later ones. Both
produced lovely pictures. It’s Uttley’s mirroring of a remembered
society, as well as the lovely illustrations, which make the Grey Rabbit
books so enjoyable.
This is true for the two Grey Rabbit books set around Christmas, Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas and Little Grey Rabbit and the Snow-Baby, are
typical Uttley fables. They’re lovely books. The gentle sentiments
contained within manage to avoid being oversweet: the Snow Baby in
particular is a lovely little tale of a Winter visitor who leaves with
the season, not unlike Raymond Briggs’ snowman.
The coming together of all the characters in Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas,
around mole’s tree, says something strong about community, rather than
something sappy. Sadly, while the Christmas book is available from
Abebooks (linked above), the Snow Baby story appears to be more
seriously out of print. They’d be well worth a reprint. And they do turn
up from time to time in second hand shops..
The same qualities, without the animal trappings, are evident in a rather wonderful 1932 memoir, The Country Child.
For anyone interested in reading about the ordinary customs of a
Christmas in England at the end of the nineteenth century, this book is
one of the first places to go. In the three wintry chapters, December, Christmas Day and January,
Uttley describes familiar customs like stockings and trees and plum
puddings; and traditions that have not come all the way to our century,
like a kissing bough and the ‘Christmas texts’, improving pious mottos
to decorate the walls. The blessed relief of Christmas in contrast to an
often harsh Christianity is striking:
She was almost too happy, and her
heart ached with joy as she stood on a hassock by her mother’s side,
with her hymn-book in her hand, singing “Noel, Noel”, feasting her eyes
on the coloured windows and bright berries and flowers, wrapped in
scents and sounds as in a cloud of incense. She buried her face in her
muff in ecstasy. No thoughts of hell or idols to-day, only of Baby Jesus
in the manger, and the singing angels.
On her return from church, Susan is surprised to see a small
Christmas tree, brought in alive to be returned to the plantation after
Christmas, and decorated as it sat in its pot on a table (see the bottom
pic). It’s a reminder that the Christmas tree in England is a
relatively young custom, especially in its adoption by all parts of
society. Elsewhere there is music and visits from guisers, visits which
Uttley transferred across into Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas (right).
The reading of the Christmas Story from the Bible on Christmas Eve reminded me of the family reading in Enid Blyton’s Christmas Book
(1944), my favourite when I was little. Is this another lost,
widespread custom? Today we may rely on one-to-one re-tellings from
children’s books (if at all) than to sit down with the family Bible or
to tell our own version (as the idealised Blyton mother does…). The
stories we respond to as whole families are probably more likely to be
on TV or DVD now.
The Country Child describes a world in transition from the
nineteenth century re-imagining of Christmas to our more familiar,
modern celebrations. There’s still a balance of the sacred and profane;
tall tales and the Bible, carols and concertinas, set within a community
coming together to wish each other well:
Then the villagers rose to their feet
and passed out of church, to greet each other in the porch and find
their mufflers, sticks and pattens. Margaret lighted the lantern and
they pulled their stockings over their shoes in the confusion of the
crowd. Becky waited for them at the gate, and they called, “Good night,
good night. A happy Christmas and many of them. A happy Christmas and a
prosperous New Year when it comes. Same to you and many of them”, as
they turned away to the darkness.
Passed through memories and fond nostalgia, these little snapshots,
whether they are villagers in the shapes of animals, or the remembered
characters of Uttley’s childhood, give us a corner of the eye glimpse
into a Christmas that’s at once familiar and far from us now. The
outward shows we put on may be quite different now; the well-wishing,
community and abundance at the centre of it hopefully are not. All three
of these books are great reads, in their own way, and each might prompt
some thoughts about the way we celebrate our Christmases.
I THOUGHT I MIGHT ADD THE WORDS OF "OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY," FROM THE SHARPE COLLECTION.
I HAVE WATCHED MY COLLECTION SO MANY TIMES , I CAN SAY THE WORDS BEFORE THE ACTORS :)
I TELL YOU WHAT THOUGH, FOR ALL I ADMIRE PETE POSTLETHWAITE FOR HIS TREMENDOUS ACTING SKILLS, I HAVE NEVER HATED AN ACTOR SO MUCH IN A FILM, SERIES WHATEVER, THAN WHEN HE PLAYED "OBIDIAH" IN SHARPE.
Over the Hills and far Away Lyrics:
Here's forty shillings on the drum For those who'll volunteer to come To 'list and fight the foe today. Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and o'er the main. Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain. King George commands and we obey. Over the hills and far away.
When duty calls me I must go To stand and face another foe. But part of me will always stray Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and o'er the main. Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain. King George commands and we obey. Over the hills and far away.
If I should fall to rise no more, As many comrades did before, Then ask the fifes and drums to play. Over the hills and far away.
Then fall in lads behind the drum, With colours blazing like the sun. Along the road to come-what may. Over the hills and far away.
Home Comforts with Diddilydeedot in Dreamland LUCKY DUCKLINGS Nine little Ducklings Out in all the rain - How they love the puddles wet, Down our Muddy Lane!
I would like to join their fun, But I'm kept indoors. It must be nice to be a duck When it pours and pours!
"Never fear spoiling children by making them too happy. Happiness is the
atmosphere in which all good affections grow."
The Little Elf
I MET a little Elf-man, once, Down where the lilies blow. I asked him why he was so small, And why he didn't grow.
He slightly frowned, and with his eye He looked me through and through. "I'm quite as big for me," said he, "As you are big for you."
Gelett Burgess. 1866 - 1951
The Purple Cow (Reflections on a Mythic Beast Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least.)
I NEVER saw a Purple Cow; I never hope to See One; But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I'd rather See than Be One.
Excellent don't you think Kids. Why don't you try writing a four lined verse about something wierd.
I like this one by Ogden Nash;
I've never seen an Abominable Snowman,
I'm hoping not to see one,
I'm also hoping, if I Do,
That It will be a Wee One.
This is Diddily's little verse
I've never seen a Dragon red I hope I sometime see one, But if I do, I know that I Will hope it is a Welsh one!
Happiness is watching my granchildren's face's, as they sit with me by the PC and sing along to the songs
This page will give you a small idea of what is on all the web site pages.
save you from going down and down and down even further, Diddily places
all the different things on a page of their own. So if you want to
see where Sarah Sage has travelled to today then pop along to her own
page and go travelling with her. Maybe you want to know if Jaimie
Jungle box has found any more adventurous animals. Then away you go, don't forget to take a picnic with you.
THE CRAFTY CARTOON SHOW SOMETIMES A CRAFT ..... SOMETIMES A CARTOON TAKE YOUR PICK. IT WILL SOON BE ANOTHER BIRTHDAY COME AND SEE WHAT IS ON OFFER IN PASTIMES 4 U IN DREAMLAND
Enjoy yourselves Diddily and Seligor xxxx for all the Children of the World.
Welcome to the land of tales, of songs, poems and rhymes. Where Mums and Dads can join in and have such jolly times. Sing out loud! Sing out strong! Fill your hearts with joy. Let's celebrate a wonderous time with every girl and boy.
DISCLAIMER Disclaimer: This website contains materials authored by me and also partly a collection of items from the internet. The collections are, I believe, in the Public Domain. In case any material, inadvertently put up, which has a copyright please do write to me and it will be removed. The compilations are for entertainment purposes only and have not been compiled for educational or historical purposes.
Good morning little bluebird Good morning both to you. The flowers bid you welcome, and say good morning too.
Good morning little kittens, With your eyes so big and bright. Come join in the singing, And make the morning sunshine light.
HTML Tips and Tricks Handy web design tips, mini-tutorials and tricks for web site design and maintenance.
How would Willie like to go to the land of Thus and So?
Everything is proper there: All the children comb their hair
Smoother than the fur of cats or the nap of high silk hats;
Every face is clean and white as a lily washed in light;
Never vaguest soil or speck found on forehead, throat or neck;
Every little crumpled ear, in and out as pure and clear
As the cherry blossom's blow in the land of Thus and So.
The Wonderful Beautiful Dreamer.
Here are a few little cartoons for you to watch, enjoy them they are so funny. xxx Diddily
Diddilydeedot's Dreamland brings you to
HOME COMFORT'S with Eleanor Farjeon
Tarragon, Tansy, Thyme, and Teasel.
Timothy went to Aragon Riding on a weasel, To ask the Dons for Tarragon, Tansy, Thyme, and Teasel.
The Dons they met in Aragon Didn't like the weasel, So Timothy got no Tarragon, Tansy, Thyme, or Teasel.
Then I Saw
Once upon a time I looked out of the window, I looked out of the window For to find a rhyme: There I saw the kitchenmaid Kneeling half awake For Cinnamon and Saffron To put inside a cake.
Once upon a time I looked through the keyhole I looked through the keyhole, For to find a rhyme: There I saw a king or two All in gold and fur Stooping for sandalwood, Frankincense and Myrrh.
Once upon a time I looked from the roof-top, I looked from the roof-top For to find a rhyme: There I saw a little boy Astride the Butcher's broom Sending up a rocket Till its head burst into bloom.
Once upon a time I looked through the doorway, I looked through the doorway For to find a rhyme: There I saw a little girl With nothing on her feet Gathering Willowherb And Meadowsweet.
Two beautiful little rhymes from the, oh so talented, Eleanor Farjeon.
AND NOW FOR SOME LITTLE SINGING/ACTION SONGS FOR THE LITTLEST ONES. XXX
Diddilydeedot's Dreamland welcomes you to Dream Comforts The Garden Year January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots, and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit; Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant;
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.
Written by Sara Coleridge Sara was the fourth child and only daughter
of the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge. She grew up in the Lake district
with an extended family that included her uncle, Robert Southey, and her
Aunt Lovell, widow of the poet Robert Lovell. The Wordsworths were her
She was educated at home by various relatives, especially Southey.
Her first published work was a translation she did for him while he was
writing the Tale of Paraguay. Her next work was translating from
Sara married her cousin, Henry Nelson Coleridge, in 1829. Verses she wrote for her own children
were published and very popular, as was the fairy story. After Henry's
death in 1843, Sara was left with the task of editing her father's works.