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Solitude

 

  I have a house where I go

 

  When there’s too many people,

 

  I have a house where I go

 

  Where no one can be;

 

  I have a house where I go

 

  Where nobody ever says “No”;

 

  Where no one says anything—so

 

  There is no one but me.

 

   

 

King John’s Christmas

 

  King John was not a good man—

 

  He had his little ways.

 

  And sometimes no one spoke to him

 

  For days and days and days.

 

  And men who came across him,

 

  When walking in the town,

 

  Gave him a supercilious stare,

 

  Or passed with noses in the air—

 

  And bad King John stood dumbly there,

 

  Blushing beneath his crown.

 

   

  King John was not a good man,

 

  And no good friends had he.

 

  He stayed in every afternoon....

 

  But no one came to tea.

 

  And, round about December,

 

  The cards upon his shelf

 

  Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,

 

  And fortune in the coming year,

 

  Were never from his near and dear,

 

  But only from himself.

 

   

  King John was not a good man.

 

  Yet had his hopes and fears.

 

  They’d given him no present now

 

  For years and years and years.

 

  But every year at Christmas,

 

  While minstrels stood about,

 

  Collecting tribute from the young

 

  For all the songs they might have sung,

 

  He stole away upstairs and hung

 

  A hopeful stocking out.

 

  King John was not a good man.

 

  He lived his life aloof;

 

  Alone he thought a message out

 

  While climbing up the roof.

 

  He wrote it down and propped it

 

  Against the chimney stack:

 

  “TO ALL AND SUNDRY—NEAR AND FAR—

 

  F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.”

 

  And signed it not “Johannes R.”

 

  But very humbly, “JACK.”

 

   

  “I want some crackers,

 

  And I want some candy;

 

  I think a box of chocolates

 

  Would come in handy;

 

  I don’t mind oranges,

 

  I do like nuts!

 

  And I SHOULD like a pocketknife

 

  That really cuts.

 

  And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

 

  Bring me a big, red, india rubber ball!”

 

  King John was not a good man—

 

  He wrote this message out,

 

  And got him to his room again,

 

  Descending by the spout.

 

  And all that night he lay there,

 

  A prey to hopes and fears.

 

  “I think that’s him a-coming now.”

 

  (Anxiety bedewed his brow.)

 

  “He’ll bring one present, anyhow—

 

  The first I’ve had for years.”

 

  “Forget about the crackers,

 

  And forget about the candy;

 

  I’m sure a box of chocolates

 

  Would never come in handy;

 

  I don’t like oranges,

 

  I don’t want nuts,

 

  And I HAVE got a pocketknife

 

  That almost cuts.

 

  But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

 

  Bring me a big, red, india rubber ball!”

 

  King John was not a good man—

 

  Next morning when the sun

 

  Rose up to tell a waiting world

 

  That Christmas had begun,

 

  And people seized their stockings,

 

  And opened them with glee,

 

  And crackers, toys, and games appeared,

 

  And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,

 

  King John said grimly: “As I feared,

 

  Nothing again for me!”

 

   

  “I did want crackers,

 

  And I did want candy;

 

  I know a box of chocolates

 

  Would come in handy;

 

  I do love oranges,

 

  I did want nuts.

 

  I haven’t got a pocketknife—

 

  Not one that cuts.

 

  And, oh! If Father Christmas had loved me at all,

 

  He would have brought a big, red, india rubber ball!”

 

  King John stood by the window,

 

  And frowned to see below

 

  The happy bands of boys and girls

 

  All playing in the snow.

 

  A while he stood there watching,

 

  And envying them all...

 

  When through the window, big and red

 

  There hurtled by his royal head,

 

  And bounced and fell upon the bed,

 

  An india rubber ball!

 

  AND, OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,

 

  MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL

 

  FOR BRINGING HIM

 

  A BIG, RED,

 

  INDIA RUBBER

 

  BALL!