Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE CHILDREN'S PEDDLER, by FANNIE STEARNS DAVIS GIFFORD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE CHILDREN'S PEDDLER, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Up above the village roofs the white road climbs away
Last Line: Just the crazy peddlerman that all the children know!
Alternate Author Name(s): Davis, Fannie Stearns
Subject(s): Children; Peddlers & Peddling; Childhood


UP above the village roofs the white road climbs away;
There among its maple trees the church stands cool and gray,
And the Dead Folk all around have houses still and sweet. --
But I -- I go a-peddling on the dusty village street.

Uphill, downhill, rain and sunny weather:
Right foot, left foot, (faith, it's hard on leather)!
Dolls and balls and kites and chains, knives and knick-knacks -- oh,
I'm the crazy peddlerman that all the children know!

All the village children shout and tag me down the street:
Bobbing braids and freckled cheeks and bare brown dusty feet.
"Have you got the marbles with the twisty glass inside?"
"Have you got the gun that popped?" "And oh, the doll that cried?"

"Have you got a sailorman with wind-mill arms and oars?"
"I must buy a league ball, and a book to keep the scores."
"Did you bring my box of paints?" They pull my coat and tease:
"Show me how to fly my kite!" "And run my jig-saw, please!"

Eager eyes and laughing lips and dancing dusty feet,
So they cry and chase me down the maple-shaded street.
And the grown-up people smile from window-sill and door,
"It's the children's peddlerman, come to town once more."

Oh, the grown-up people smile and tap their foreheads wise.
If they think me simple -- well, I must be, in their eyes!
But who'd peddle tins and tapes and soap and pious books,
When there's heaven paid him out for knives and fishing-hooks?

Uphill, downhill, every sort of weather:
Right foot, left foot, (and it's hard on leather)!
None too much to eat and drink, shabby coat to wear;
No, it's little wonder that the grown-up people stare!

* * * * * * * *

But above the village roofs the church stands cool and gray.
There the Dead Folk lie at ease, and dream the years away.
There beneath a sweetbriar bush are three gray stones I know,
Worn alike, but one is tall, and two are small and low.

When it's summer dusk along the lazy village street,
When the children loiter home with tired eyes and feet,
And the grown-up people say, "You little drowsi-head,
Put your playthings straight away and tumble into bed!"

Then they never see me climb the steep white crooked road.
Underneath the apple-tree I hide my peddler's load;
In the starry singing dusk I pass the churchyard gate,
And beside the sweetbriar bush I stand alone and wait.

Oh, there's nothing there to hear, nothing there to see:
Only stars and village lights and tree that crowds on tree.
No one answers when I speak; no one takes my hand.
But I think they hear my voice; I think they understand.

Uphill, downhill, every sort of weather:
Right foot, left foot, (mighty hard on leather)!
Dolls and bats and blocks and stamps, knives and knick-knacks, -- oh,
Just the crazy peddlerman that all the children know!





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