Now there is nothing wrong with
Except — I think it's called T.
B.
And that is why I have to
Out in the garden all the day.
Our garden is not very
And cars go by on either side,
And make an angry-hooty
That rather startles little boys.
But worst of all is when they
Me out in cars that growl and shake,
With charabancs so dreadful-nearI have to shut my eyes for fear.
But when I'm on my back again,
I watch the Croydon
That flies across to France, and
Like hitting thick piano-strings.
When I am strong enough to
The things I'm truly wishful to,
I'll never use a car or
But always have an aeroplane;
And just go zooming round and round,
And frighten Nursey with the sound,
And see the angel-side of clouds,
And spit on all those motor-crowds!
R.
L.
Stevenson
