Oh, the blue blue bloom On the velvet cheek Of the little pansy’s face That hides away so still and cool In some soft garden place! The tiger lily’s orange fires, The red lights from the rose Aren’t like the gloom on that blue cheek Of the softest flower that grows! SASSAFRAS TEA The sass’fras tea is red and clear In my white china cup, So pretty I keep peeping in Before I drink it up. I stir it with a silver spoon, And sometimes I just hold A little tea inside the spoon, Like it was lined with gold. It makes me hungry just to smell The nice hot sass’fras tea, And that’s one thing I really like That they say’s good for me. SKY PICTURES Sometimes a right white mountain Or great soft polar bear, Or lazy little flocks of sheep Move on in the blue air. The mountains tear themselves like floss, The bears all melt away. The little sheep will drift apart In such a sudden way. And then new sheep and mountains come. New polar bears appear And roll and tumble on again Up in the skies so clear. The polar bears would like to get Where polar bears belong. The mountains try so hard to stand In one place firm and strong. The little sheep all want to stop And pasture in the sky, But never can these things be done, Although they try and try! THE QUILT I have the greatest fun at night, When casement windows are all bright. I make believe each one’s a square Of some great quilt up in the air. The blocks of gold have black between, Wherever only night is seen. It surely makes a mammoth quilt-- With bits of dark and checks of gilt-- To cover up the tired day In such a cozy sort of way. THE BAKER’S BOY The baker’s boy delivers loaves All up and down our street. His car is white, his clothes are white, White to his very feet. I wonder if he stays that way. I don’t see how he does all day. I’d like to watch him going home When all the loaves are out. His clothes must look quite different then, At least I have no doubt. WILD ROSES What! Roses growing in a meadow Where all the cattle browse? I’d think they’d fear the very shadow Of daddy’s big rough cows. QUOITS In wintertime I have such fun When I play quoits with father. I beat him almost every game. He never seems to bother. He looks at mother and just smiles. All this seems strange to me, For when he plays with grown-up folks, He beats them easily. FOOTNOTES: [10] (This poem, published in the CRISIS during the World War, was written after reading an account of the little African babies who are sent before the explorer into jungle grasses that tower many feet. The little boys, Dan Crawford says in his THINKING BLACK, who go out to tread down a path and by chance meet the lurking leopard or hyena are “Human Brooms,” and are called DEW-DRIERS.) JOHN FREDERICK MATHEUS