58

PLAYING AT PARADISE

‘Bob was the angel ; and he said

We must dig thistles for our bread.

And though we digged with toil and pain,
He’d make the thistles grow again.

‘But can he, mother? And he says
The orchard ’s shut to us for days.
Do come, and make him let us in,
Because we’re sorry for our sin.’

I went; and whirling by the gate
A wooden sword about his pate

I found our Bob in angel-wise
Guarding his orchard-paradise.

‘Beware the flaming sword !’ he cried,
‘It turns all ways! Don’t come inside!’
‘Now, Bob, run in,’ I laughing said,
‘It’s time all angels went to bed.’