Under the Tree — Key Ideas to Explore

That were all blue wings and nothing else more.

Without any head and without any feet, Just blue wings flying over a street.

And almost every night I see A little brown bowl that can talk to me,

A nice little bowl that laughs and sings, And ever so many other things.

Sometimes they are plainer than I can say, And while I am waking they go away.

And when nobody is coming by, I feel my pillow all over and try

And try to feel the pretty things, The little brown bowl and the flying wings.

And it was Sunday everywhere, And Father pinned a rose on me And said he guessed he'd better take Me down to see Miss Kate-Marie.

And when I went it all turned out To be a Sunday school, and there Miss Kate-Marie was very good And let me stand beside her chair.

Her hat was made of yellow lace; Her dress was very soft and thin, And when she talked her little tongue Was always wriggling out and in.

I liked to smell my pretty rose; I liked to feel her silky dress. She held a very little book And asked the things for us to guess.

She asked about Who-made-y-God, And never seemed to fuss or frown; I liked to watch her little tongue And see it wriggle up and down.

The woodpecker pecked out a little round hole And made him a house in the telephone pole.

One day when I watched he poked out his head, And he had on a hood and a collar of red.

When the streams of rain pour out of the sky, And the sparkles of lightning go flashing by,

And the big, big wheels of thunder roll, He can snuggle back in the telephone pole.

O little one away so far, You cannot hear me when I sing.

You cannot tell me what you are, I cannot tell you anything.

All through the garden I went and went, And I walked in under the butterbean tent.

The poles leaned up like a good tepee And made a nice little house for me.

I had a hard brown clod for a seat, And all outside was a cool green street.

A little green worm and a butterfly And a cricket-like thing that could hop went by.

Hidden away there were flocks and flocks Of bugs that could go like little clocks.

Such a good day it was when I spent A long, long while in the butterbean tent.

Our brother Clarence goes to school. He has a slate and a blue school-bag. He has a book and a copybook And a scholar's companion and a little slate rag.

He knows a boy named Joe B. Kirk, And he learns about c-a-t cat, And how to play one-two-sky-blue, And how to make a football out of a hat.

We climb up on the fence and gate And watch until he's small and dim, Far up the street, and he looks back To see if we keep on watching him.

On Sunday morning, then he comes To church, and everybody smells The blacking and the toilet soap And camphor balls from Mr. Wells.

He wears his whiskers in a bunch, And wears his glasses on his head. I mustn't call him Old Man Wells-- No matter--that's what Father said.

And when the little blacking smells And camphor balls and soap begin, I do not have to look to know That Mr. Wells is coming in.

Our brother says that Will was born The very day that Dickie came; When one is four the other is, And all their birthdays are the same.

Their coats and waists are just alike; They have their hats together, too. They sleep together in one bed, And Will can put on Dickie's shoe.

But they are not the same at all; Two different boys they have to be, For Dick can play in Mother's room When Will is climbing in a tree.

Or maybe Will is on the porch To cry because he stubbed his toe, And Dick is laughing by the gate And watching ants go in a row.

The church has pieces jutting out Where corners of the walls begin. I have one for my little house, And I can feel myself go in.

I feel myself go in the bricks, And I can see myself in there. I'm always waiting all alone, I'm sitting on a little chair.

And I am sitting very still, And I am waiting on and on For something that is never there, For something that is gone.

A little light is going by, Is going up to see the sky, A little light with wings.