Oh when I wake up in my bed And see the sun all fat and red, I'm glad to have another day For all my different kinds of play. There are so many things to do-- The things that make a man of you, If grown-ups did not get so vexed And wonder what you will do next. I often wonder whether they Ever made up our kinds of play-- If they were always good as gold And only did what they were told. They like you best to play with tops And toys in boxes, bought in shops; They do not even know the names Of really interesting games. They will not let you play with fire Or trip your sister up with wire, They grudge the tea-tray for a drum, Or booby-traps when callers come. They don't like fishing, and it's true You sometimes soak a suit or two: They look on fireworks, though they're dry, With quite a disapproving eye. They do not understand the way To get the most out of your day: They do not know how hunger feels Nor what you need between your meals. And when you're sent to bed at night, They're happy, but they're not polite. For through the door you hear them say: 'He's done his mischief for the day!' I'm currently reading E. Nesbit's The Story of the Treasure Seekers. This delightful little poem sits in Chapter Four.