So he lay down on the sand again, feeling sleepy, and gazed sleepily out over the sand. “What is that, mother!” he said.
“Only a bit of paper,” she answered looking where he pointed.
“It flutters more than a bit of paper would, I think,” said Diamond.
“I’ll go and see if you like,” said his mother.
She rose and went and found that it was a little book partly buried in the sand. Several of its leaves were clear of the sand and these the wind kept blowing about in a very fluttering manner. She took it up and brought it to Diamond.
“What is it, mother?” he asked.
“Rhymes, I think,” said she.
“I am so sleepy,” he said. “Do read some of them to me.”
“Well, I will,” she said and began one. “But this is such nonsense,” she said again. “I will try to find a better one.”
She turned the leaves, searching, but three times with sudden puffs the wind blew the leaves rustling back to the same verses.
“I wonder if that is North Wind,” said Diamond to himself. To his mother he said, “Do read that one. It sounded very nice. I am sure it is a good one.”
His mother thought it might amuse him although she could not find any sense in it. So she read on like this:
I know a river
whose waters run asleep,
run, run ever,
singing in the shallows,
dumb in the hollows
sleeping so deep;
and all the swallows
that dip their feathers
in the hollows
or in the shallows
are the merriest swallows of all!
whose waters run asleep,
run, run ever,
singing in the shallows,
dumb in the hollows
sleeping so deep;
and all the swallows
that dip their feathers
in the hollows
or in the shallows
are the merriest swallows of all!
“Why!” whispered Diamond to himself sleepily, “that is what the river sang when I was at the back of the north wind.”
And so with the daisies
the little white daisies
they grow and they blow
and they spread out their crown
and they praise the sun;
and when he goes down
their praising is done
and they fold up their crown
till over the plain
he is rising amain
and they’re at it again!
praising and praising
such low songs raising
that no one hears them
but the sun who rears them!
and the sheep that bite them
awake or asleep
are the quietest sheep
with the merriest bleat!
and the little lambs
are the merriest lambs!
they forget to eat
for the frolic in their feet!
the little white daisies
they grow and they blow
and they spread out their crown
and they praise the sun;
and when he goes down
their praising is done
and they fold up their crown
till over the plain
he is rising amain
and they’re at it again!
praising and praising
such low songs raising
that no one hears them
but the sun who rears them!
and the sheep that bite them
awake or asleep
are the quietest sheep
with the merriest bleat!
and the little lambs
are the merriest lambs!
they forget to eat
for the frolic in their feet!
“Merriest, merriest, merriest,” murmured Diamond as he sank deeper and deeper in sleep. “That is what the song of the river is telling me. Even I can be merry and cheerful—and that will help some. And so I will—when—I—wake—up—again.” And he went off sound asleep.
Text licensed under CREATIVE COMMONS LICENSE, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.5/au/
The complete work is available online at: http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/m/macdonald/george/north/complete.html
Although Fogelson Library does not have this title in the collection, the full text is available online. We do have The Princess and Curdie by George MacDonald, at call number PZ8 .M1754 P25; and we also have a collection of quotations from MacDonald, George MacDonald: An Anthology by C. S. Lewis, at PR 4966 .L4.
George MacDonald writing. Photo by Lewis Carroll.
From: Lewis Carroll Album II.
Department of Rare Books and Special Collections; Princeton University Library / 1 Washington Road / Princeton, NJ 08544-2098 USA
Many thanks to Micaela Butts and Helen Maringer for the use of their bathroom, where I discovered this poem written all over the mirror surfaces. You are magnificent women! Love, ML
