Poems (Mansfield)/The Town between the Hills
THE TOWN BETWEEN THE HILLS
The further the little girl leaped and ran,The further she longed to be;The white, white fields of jonquil flowersDanced up as high as her kneeAnd flashed and sparkled before her eyesUntil she could hardly see.So into the wood went she.
It was quiet in the wood,It was solemn and grave;A sound like a waveSighed in the tree-topsAnd then sighed no more.But she was brave,And the sky showed throughA bird's-egg blue,And she sawA tiny path that was running awayOver the hills to—who can say?She ran, too.But then the path broke,Then the path endedAnd wouldn't be mended.
A little old manSat on the edge,Hugging the hedge.He had a fireAnd two eggs in a panAnd a paper pokeOf pepper and salt;So she came to a haltTo watch and admire:Cunning and nimble was he!"May I help, if I can, little old man?""Bravo!" he said, "You may dine with me.I've two old eggsFrom two white hensAnd a loaf from a kind ladie:Some fresh nutmegs,Some cutlet endsIn pink and white paper frills:And—I've—gotA little hot-potFrom the town between the hills."
He nodded his headAnd made her a signTo sit under the sprayOf a trailing vine.
But when the little girl joined her handsAnd said the grace she had learned to say,The little old man gave two dreadful squealsAnd she just saw the flash of his smoking heelsAs he tumbled, tumbledWith his two old eggsFrom two white hens,His loaf from a kind ladie,The fresh nutmegs,The cutlet-endsIn the pink and white paper frills.And away rumbledThe little hot-pot,So much too hot,From the town between the hills. 1916.