And when he has finished his airy fun And all his flights and his swoops are done He will drop to the shore and lend a hand In building a castle of weed and sand. He will cover with flints its frowning face To keep the tide in its proper place, And the waves shall employ their utmost damp art In vain to abolish your moated rampart. And nobody's nurse shall make a fuss, As is far too often the case with us; Instead of the usual how-de-do She will give us praise when we get wet through; In fact she will smile and think it better When we get as wet as we like and wetter. As for eating too much, you can safely risk it With chocolate, lollipop, cake, and biscuit, And your mother will revel with high delight In the state of her own one's appetite. Great shells there shall be of a rainbow hue To be found and gathered by me and you; Wonderful nets for the joy of making 'em. And scores of shrimps for the trouble of taking 'em; In fact it isn't half bad--now is it?-- When Robin the Sea-boy pays his visit. And perhaps he will tire of his shape and habit And change and turn to a frisky rabbit, A plump young gadabout cheerful fellow With a twitching nose and a coat of yellow, And never the smallest trace of fear From his flashing scut to his flattened ear. But, lo, there's a hint of coming rain, So, presto, Robin is back again. He lifts his head and he cocks his eye And waves his hand and prepares to fly-- "Good-bye, Robin, good-bye, good-bye!" THE BIRTHDAY Sweetheart, where all the dancing joys compete Take now your choice; the world is at your feet, All turned into a gay and shining pleasance, And every face has smiles to greet your presence. Treading on air, Yourself you look more fair; And the dear Birthday-elves unseen conspire To flush your cheeks and set your eyes on fire. Mayhap they whisper what a birthday means That sets you spinning through your pretty teens. A slim-grown shape adorned with golden shimmers Of tossing hair that streams and waves and glimmers, Lo, how you run In mere excess of fun, Or change to silence as you stand and hear Some kind old tale that moves you to a tear. And, since this is your own bright day, my dear, Of all the days that gem the sparkling year, See, we have picked as well as we were able And set your gifts upon your own small table: A knife from John, Who straightway thereupon, Lest you should cut your friendship for the boy, Receives a halfpenny and departs with joy. The burnished inkstand was your mother's choice; For six new handkerchiefs I gave my voice, Having in view your tender little nose's Soft comfort; and the agate pen is Rosie's; The torch is Peg's, Guide for your errant legs When ways are dark, and, last, behold with these A pencil from your faithful Pekinese!