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Poem by Menella Bute Smedley
What May Happen to a Thimble
Come about the meadow, Hunt here and there, Where's Mother's thimble? Can you tell where? Jane saw her wearing it, Fan saw it fall, Ned isn't sure That she dropp'd it at all. Has a mouse carried it Down to her hole— Home full of twilight, Shady, small soul? Can she be darning there, Ere the light fails, Small ragged stockings— Tiny torn tails? Did a finch fly with it Into the hedge, Or a reed-warbler Down in the sedge? Are they carousing there, All the night through? Such a great goblet, Brimful of dew! Have beetles crept with it Where oak roots hide? There they have settled it Down on its side? Neat little kennel, So cosy and dark, Has one crept into it, Trying to bark? Have the ants cover'd it With straw and sand? Roomy bell-tent for them, So tall and grand; Where the red soldier-ants Lie, loll and lean— While the blacks steadily Build for their queen. Has a huge dragon-fly Borne it (how cool!) To his snug dressing-room, By the clear pool? There will he try it on? For a new hat— Nobody watching But one water-rat? Did the flowers fight for it, While, undescried, One selfish daisy Slipp'd it aside; Now she has plunged it in Close to her feet— Nice private water-tank For summer heat? Did spiders snatch at it, Wanting to look At the bright pebbles Which lie in the brook? Now are they using it (Nobody knows!), Safe little diving-bell, Shutting so close? Did a rash squirrel there, Wanting to dine, Think it some foreign nut, Dainty and fine. Can he have swallow'd it, Up in that oak? We, if we listen, Shall soon hear him choke. Has it been buried by Cross imps and hags, Wanting to see us Like beggars in rags? Or have fays hidden it, Lest we should be Tortured with needlework After our tea? Hunt for it, hope for it, All through the moss; Dip for it, grope for it— 'Tis such a loss! Jane finds a drop of dew, Fan finds a stone; I find the thimble, Which is Mother's own! Run with it, fly with it— Don't let it fall; All did their best for it— Mother thanks all. Just as we give it her,— Think what a shame!— Ned says he's sure That it isn't the same!
Menella Bute Smedley
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