He had eaten all his breakfast, and he had his ma’s consent
To see what he should chance to see and here’s the way he went

Up and down a fern frond, round and round a stone,
Down a gloomy gully where he loathed to be alone,

Up a mighty mountain range, seven inches high,
Through the fearful forest grass that nearly hid the sky,

Out along a bracken bridge, bending in the moss,
Till he reached a dreadful desert that was feet and feet across.

‘Twas a dry, deserted desert, and a trackless land to tread,
He wished that he was home again and tucked-up tight in bed.

His little legs were wobbly, his strength was nearly spent,
And so he turned around again and here’s the way he went-

Back away from desert lands feet and feet across,
Back along the bracken bridge bending in the moss,

Through the fearful forest grass shutting out the sky,
Up a mighty mountain range seven inches high,

Down a gloomy gully, where he loathed to be alone,
Up and down a fern frond and round and round a stone.

A dreary ant, a weary ant, resolved no more to roam,
He staggered up the garden path and popped back home.

LET’S CHAT ABOUT THE POEM ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Courage, Independent Thinking

1. Why do you think the little sugar ant found some of his adventures so scary?

2. What do you think would have happened if he had kept adventuring?

3. Was it good for him to return home if he was too scared to go on? Why or why not?

Poem for Kids written by CJ Dennis

The post The Ant Explorer first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

Let him who is minded to meet with a Glug Pluck three hardy hairs from a rabbit-skin rug; Blow one to the South, and one to the West, Then burn another and swallow the rest. And who shall explain ’tis the talk of a fool, He’s a Glug! He’s a Glug of the old Gosh school! And he’ll climb a tree, if the East wind blows, In a casual way, just to show he knows . . . Now, tickle his toes! Oh, tickle his toes! And don’t blame me if you come to blows.

–OLD GOSH RHYME

CONTENTS

I. THE GLUG QUEST

II. JOI, THE GLUG

III. THE STONES OF GOSH

IV. SYM, THE SON OF JOI

V. THE GROWTH OF SYM

VI. THE END OF JOI

VII. THE SWANKS OF GOSH

VIII. THE SEER

IX. THE RHYMES OF SYM

X. THE DEBATE

XI. OGS

XII. EMILY ANN

XIII. THE LITTLE RED DOG

I. THE GLUG QUEST

Follow the river and cross the ford, Follow again to the wobbly bridge, Turn to the left at the notice board, Climbing the cow-track over the ridge; Tip-toe soft by the little red house, Hold your breath if they touch the latch, Creep to the slip-rails, still as a mouse, Then . . . run like mad for the bracken patch.

Worm your way where the fern fronds tall Fashion a lace-work over your head, Hemming you in with a high, green wall; Then, when the thrush calls once, stop dead. Ask of the old grey wallaby there– Him prick-eared by the woollybutt tree– How to encounter a Glug, and where The country of Gosh, famed Gosh may be.

But, if he is scornful, if he is dumb, Hush! There’s another way left. Then come.

On a white, still night, where the dead tree bends Over the track, like a waiting ghost, Travel the winding road that wends Down to the shore on an Eastern coast. Follow it down where the wake of the moon Kisses the ripples of silver sand; Follow it on where the night seas croon A traveller’s tale to the listening land.

Step not jauntily, not too grave, Till the lip of the languorous sea you greet; Wait till the wash of the thirteenth wave Tumbles a jellyfish out at your feet. Not too hopefully, not forlorn, Whisper a word of your earnest quest; Shed not a tear if he turns in scorn And sneers in your face like a fish possessed.

Hist! Hope on! There is yet a way. Brooding jellyfish won’t be gay.

Wait till the clock in the tower booms three, And the big bank opposite gnashes its doors, Then glide with a gait that is carefully free By the great brick building of seventeen floors; Haste by the draper who smirks at his door, Straining to lure you with sinister force, Turn up the lane by the second-hand store, And halt by the light bay carrier’s horse.

By the carrier’s horse with the long, sad face And the wisdom of years in his mournful eye; Bow to him thrice with a courtier’s grace, Proffer your query, and pause for reply. Eagerly ask for a hint of the Glug, Pause for reply with your hat in your hand; If he responds with a snort and a shrug Strive to interpret and understand.

Rare will a carrier’s horse condescend. Yet there’s another way. On to the end!

Catch the four-thirty; your ticket in hand, Punched by the porter who broods in his box; Journey afar to the sad, soggy land, Wearing your shot-silk lavender socks. Wait at the creek by the moss-grown log Till the blood of a slain day reddens the West. Hark for the croak of a gentleman frog, Of a corpulent frog with a white satin vest.

Go as he guides you, over the marsh, Treading with care on the slithery stones, Heedless of night winds moaning and harsh That seize you and freeze you and search for your bones. On to the edge of a still, dark pool, Banishing thoughts of your warm wool rug; Gaze in the depths of it, placid and cool, And long in your heart for one glimpse of a Glug.

“Krock!” Was he mocking you? “Krock! Kor-r-rock!” Well, you bought a return, and it’s past ten o’clock.

Choose you a night when the intimate stars Carelessly prattle of cosmic affairs. Flat on your back, with your nose pointing Mars, Search for the star who fled South from the Bears. Gaze for an hour at that little blue star, Giving him, cheerfully, wink for his wink; Shrink to the size of the being you are; Sneeze if you have to, but softly; then think.

Throw wide the portals and let your thoughts run Over the earth like a galloping herd. Bounds to profundity let there be none, Let there be nothing too madly absurd. Ponder on pebbles or stock exchange shares, On the mission of man or the life of a bug, On planets or billiards, policemen or bears, Alert all the time for the sight of a Glug.

Meditate deeply on softgoods or eggs, On carraway seeds or the causes of bills, Biology, art, or mysterious wrecks, Or the tattered white fleeces of clouds on blue hills. Muse upon ologies, freckles and fog, Why hermits live lonely and grapes in a bunch, On the ways of a child or the mind of a dog, Or the oyster you bolted last Friday at lunch.

Heard you no sound like a shuddering sigh! Or the great shout of laughter that swept down the sky? Saw you no sign on the wide Milky Way? Then there’s naught left to you now but to pray.

Sit you at eve when the Shepherd in Blue Calls from the West to his clustering sheep. Then pray for the moods that old mariners woo, For the thoughts of young mothers who watch their babes sleep. Pray for the heart of an innocent child, For the tolerant scorn of a weary old man, For the petulant grief of a prophet reviled, For the wisdom you lost when your whiskers began.

Pray for the pleasures that he who was you Found in the mud of a shower-fed pool, For the fears that he felt and the joys that he knew When a little green lizard crept into the school. Pray as they pray who are maddened by wine: For distraction from self and a spirit at rest. Now, deep in the heart of you search for a sign– If there be naught of it, vain is your quest.

Lay down the book, for to follow the tale Were to trade in false blame, as all mortals who fail. And may the gods salve you on life’s dreary round; For ’tis whispered: “Who finds not, ’tis he shall be found!”

The post The Glugs of Gosh first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

“Now, butterfingers,” they would call,
And such-like names;
The emus couldn’t hold the ball
– They had no hands – but hands aren’t all
In football games.

A match against the kangaroos
They played one day.
The kangaroos were forced to choose
Some wallabies and wallaroos
That played in grey.

The rules that in the West prevail
Would shock the town;
For when a kangaroo set sail
An emu jumped upon his tail
And fetched him down.

A whistler duck as referee
Was not admired.
He whistled so incessantly
The teams rebelled, and up a tree
He soon retired.

The old marsupial captain said,
“It’s do or die!”
So down the ground like fire he fled
And leaped above an emu’s head
And scored a try.

Then shouting, “Keep it on the toes!”
The emus came.
Fierce as the flooded Bogan flows
They laid their foemen out in rows
And saved the game.

On native pear and Darling pea
They dined that night:
But one man was an absentee:
The whistler duck – their referee –
Had taken flight.

POEM FOR KIDS WRITTEN BY BANJO PATERSON

LET’S CHAT ABOUT THE POEM ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Creativity

1. The poet says that “hands aren’t all in football games”. Can you think of some good ways the emus might have played football in this game?

The post Fur and Feathers by Banjo Paterson first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

“See here, young man,” said Mulga Bill, “from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy’s Gap to Castlereagh, there’s none can ride like me.
I’m good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I’m not the one to talk – I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There’s nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There’s nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I’ll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I’ll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight.”

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man’s Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But ‘ere he’d gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man’s Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man’s Creek.

‘Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, “I’ve had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I’ve rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I’ve encountered yet.
I’ll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it’s shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It’s safe at rest in Dead Man’s Creek, we’ll leave it lying still;
A horse’s back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill.”

LET’S CHAT ABOUT THE POEM ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Pride

1. Mulga Bill thinks he can ride this bike, despite never having ridden a bike before. Why do you think Mulga Bill thought he could ride a bike? Was he right?

Humility

2. Does Mulga Bill blame the bike for the accident? What do you think this shows about Mulga Bill?

POEMS FOR KIDS WRITTEN BY BANJO PATERSON

The post Mulga Bill’s Bicycle first appeared on Bedtime Stories.

LET’S CHAT ABOUT THE POEM ~ IDEAS FOR TALKING WITH KIDS

Creativity

1. What is the funniest word you can think of?

2. If you could imagine an animal with this funniest word as its name, what would it look like?

POEMS FOR KIDS WRITTEN BY C.J. DENNIS

The post The Triantiwontigongolope first appeared on Bedtime Stories.