A Real Story

Friday night, Skeeter was overtired and in his bed, crying over all the unfair things. So I sat down and started to read from a book of Fairy Tales, hoping to calm him down.

“I want to hear something real,” came the moan from under the blankets on Skeeter’s bed.

So I pulled out The Book of Indians, by Holling C Holling and started reading that.

“I don’t want to hear about Indians,” wailed Skeeter.

“I want to hear something real, like Peter Rabbit.”

Ahh Skeeter, I agree. Peter Rabbit is indeed real.

I think the great poet, Edgar A Guest would agree

PAGING MR MCGREGOR
Edgar A Guest

Say, Mr McGregor, do still you go hoeing
That garden of yours when the green things are growing?
It’s years since I gave up the glorious habit
Of reading of you and that bold Peter Rabbit,
But the son with your story who once went to bed to,
Now has a son of his own to be read to.

Say, Mr. McGregor – oh dreadful misgiving!
I hope you are still in the land of the living;
That while I’ve been delving in Tennyson’s meter,
No evil has happened to you or to Peter.
That while I’ve been pondering Shelley and Browning,
You haven’t met death via murder or drowning.

Say, Mr. McGregor – what’s time to a story?
Only real people age and grow ugly and hoary,
But book people live and keep on with their duty,
Grow younger and stronger and richer in beauty.
And surely while twenty five years I’ve been aging
That foot race with Peter you’ve daily been staging.

Say, Mr McGregor, I think it now fitting,
To tell you the classics I’ll shortly be quitting.
That now there’s a grandson – a bright little beggar
Who’ll soon want to hear about Mr McGregor
And a grandpa about to resume his old habit.
Of reading the story of young Peter Rabbit