The Pencil’s Story
I am a little pencil, and my name is H and B,
I lie upon the mantelpiece for every one to see;
I’m handled forty times a day, it is a weary life,
And when my wits are rather dull I’m sharpened with a knife!
I scrawl when Tommy has me, and I draw all sorts of things,
From submarines and aeroplanes to cabbages and kings;
I write a lovely letter when Miss Phyllis is about,
And if by chance I make mistakes Miss Phyllis rubs them out.
And if I slip and tumble down I’m certain to be missed,
For Mother wants me badly when she does the washing-list,
And Father makes me keep the score when he begins to play—
I’m just a little pencil, but I have a busy day.
I really never am allowed to grow up as I ought,
I’m getting shorter every day (it’s awful to be short),
And when the knife begins on me I ache in every joint,
I put it in that way because you’re sure to see the point.
I’m very glad I’m useful, though my speech is always dark,
But every time they handle me I always make my mark!
But sorrow seems to follow me in spite of many a friend,
For when I’m meditating I am bitten at the end.
I am a little pencil, and my name is H and B,
I lie upon the mantelpiece for every one to see;
I’m getting shorter every day, and every day I’m older,
And when my last few hours have come they’ll put me in a holder!