ANTHOLOGY

SUBMITTED TO: MAAM SUSAN BONGALON

Submitted by: winie jane u. lizard

Nursery rhymes
ROW YOUR BOAT
Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

Row, row, row your boat,

Gently down the stream.
If you see a crocodile,
Don’t forget to scream.

BINGO
There was a farmer, had a dog,
and Bingo was his name-o.
B-I-N-G-O
B-I-N-G-O
B-I-N-G-O
And Bingo was his name-o.
 ABCD
ABCDEFG
HIJKLMNOP
QRS
TUV
W X Y and Z
Now you know you’re A B C
Next time won’t you sing with me.

ONE TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE

One Two, buckle my shoe;
Three Four, open the door;
Five Six, pick up the sticks;
Seven Eight, lay them straight;
Nine Ten, a big fat hen.

THE ITSY BITSY SPIDER

The itsy bitsy spider
Went up the waterspout
Down came the rain
and washed the spider out.
Out came the sun
Itsy bitsy spider
Went up the spout again
 POEM
A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me now avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains off the golden sand-
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp them with a tighter clasp?
O God! Can I not save one from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem

REMEMBER
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
That you should remember and be sad.
 SHOT STORIES
THE DREAMER
BY H.H MUNRO (SAKI)
It was the season of sale. The august establishment of Walpurgis and Nettlepink had lowered its
prices for an entire week as a concession to trade observances much as an Arch-duchess might
protestingly contract an attack of influenza for the unsatisfactory reason that influenza was locally
prevalent. Adela Chemping, who considered herself in some measure superior to the allurements
of an ordinary bargain sale, made a point of attending the reduction week at Walpurgis and
Nettlepink’s.
“I’m not a bargain hunter,” she said, “but I like to go where bargains are.”
Which showed that beneath her surface strength of character there flowed a gracious undercurrent
of human weakness.
With a view of providing herself with a male escort Mrs. Chemping had invited her youngest
nephew to accompany her on the first day of the shopping expedition, throwing in the additional
allurement of a cinematograph theatre and the prospect of light refreshment. As a Cyprian was not
yet eighteen she hoped he might not have reached that staged in masculine development when
parcel-carrying is looked on as a thing abhorrent.
“Meet me just outside the floral department,” she wrote to him, “and don’t be a moment later than
eleven.’
Cyprian was a boy who carried with him through early life the wondering look of a dreamer, the
eyes of one who sees things that are not visible to ordinary mortals, and invests the commonplace
things of this world with qualities unsuspected by plainer folk – the eyes of a poet or a house agent.
He was quietly dressed that sartorial quietude which frequently accompanies early adolescence,
and is usually attributed by novel-writers to the influence of a widowed mother. His hair was
brushed back in a smoothness as of ribbon seaweed and seamed with a narrow furrow that scarcely
aimed at being a parting. His aunt particularly noted this item of hid toilet when they met at the
appointed rendezvous, because he was standing waiting for her bare-headed.
‘Where is your hat?” she asked.
“I didn’t bring one with me,” he replied.
Adela Champing was slightly scandalized.
“You are not going to be what they call you nut, are you?” she inquired with some anxiety, partly
with the idea that a Nut would be an extravagance which her sister’s small household would
scarcely be justified in incurring, partly, perhaps, with the instinctive apprehension that a Nut, even
in its embryo stage, would refuse to carry parcels.
Cyprian looked at her with his wondering, dreamy eyes.
“I didn’t bring a hat,” he said, “because it is such a nuisance when one is shopping; I mean it is so
awkward if one meets anyone one knows and has to take one’s hands are full of parcels. If one
hasn’t got a hat on one can’t take it off.”
Mrs. Champing sighed with great relief; her worst fear had been laid at rest.
“It is more orthodox to wear a hat,” she observed, and then turned her attention briskly to the
business in hand.
“We will go first to the table-linen counter,’ she said, leading the way in that direction; “I should
like to look at some napkins.”
The wondering looked deepened in Cyprian’s eyes as he followed his aunt; he belonged to a
generation that is supposed to be over-fond of the role of mere spectator, but looking at napkins
that one did not mean to buy was a pleasure beyond his comprehension. Mrs. Chemping held one
or two napkins up to the light and stared fixedly at them, as though she half expected to find some
revolutionary cypher written on them in scarcely visible ink; then she suddenly broke away in the
direction of the glassware department.
“Millicent asked me to get her a couple of decanters if there were any going really cheap,” she
explained on the way,” and I really do want a salad bowls, and finally bought seven
chrysanthemum vases.
“No one uses that kind of vase nowadays,” she informed Cyprian, “but they will do for presents
next Christmas.”
Two sunshades that were marked down to a price that Mrs. Chemping considered absurbly cheap
were added to her purchases.
“One of them will do for Ruth Colson; she is going out to the Malay States, and a sunshade will
always be useful there. And I must get her some thin writing paper. It takes up no room in one’s
baggage.”
Mrs. Chemping bought stacks of writing paper, it was so cheap, and it went so flat in a trunk or
portmanteau. She also bought a few envelops somehow seemed rather an extravagance compared
with notepaper.
“Do you think Ruth will like blue or grey paper?” she asked Cyprian.
“Grey,” said Cyprian, who had never met the lady in question.
“Have you any mauve notepaper of this quality?’ Adela asked the assistant.
“We haven’t any mauve,” said the assistant, “but we’ve two shades or green and a darker shade of
grey.”
Mrs. Chemping inspected the greens and the darker grey, and choose the blue.
“Now we can have some lunch,” she said.
Cyprian behaved in an exemplary fashion in the refreshment department, and cheerfully accepted
a fish cake and a mince pie and a small cup of coffee as adequate restoratives after two hours of
concentrated shopping. He was adamant, however, in resisting his aunt’s suggestion that a hat
should be bought for him at the counter where men’s headwear was being disposed of at
temptingly reduced prices.
“I’ve got as many hats as I want at home,” he said, “and besides, it rumples one’s hair so, trying
them on,”
Perhaps he was going to develop into a Nut after all. It was disquieting symptom that he left all the
parcels in charge of the cloak-room attendant.
“We shall not be getting more parcels presently,’ he said, “so we need not collect these till we have
finished our shopping.”
His aunt was doubtfully appeased ; some of the pleasure and excitement of a shopping expedition
seemed to evaporate when one was deprived of immediate personal contact with one’s purchases.
“I’m going to look at those napkins again,” she said, as they descended the stairs to the ground
floor. “You need not come,” she added, as the dreaming look in the boy’s eyes changed for a
moment into one of mute protest, “you can meet me afterwards in the cutlery department; I’ve just
remembered that I haven’t a corkscrew in the house that can be depended on.”
Cyprian was not be found in the cutlery department when his aunt in due course arrived there, but
in the crush and bustle of anxious shoppers and busy attendants it was an easy matter to miss
anyone. It was in the leather goods department some quarter of an hour later that Adela Chemping
caught sight of her nephew, separated from her by a rampart of suit-cases and portmanteaux and
hemmed in by the jostling crush of human beings that now invaded every corner of the great
shopping emporium. She was just in time to witness a pardonable but rather embarrassing mistake
on the part of a lady who had wriggled her way with unstayable determination towards the
bareheaded Cyprian, and was now breathlessly demanding the sale price of a handbag which had
taken her fancy.
“There now” exclaimed Adela to herself, “she takes him for one of the shop assistants because he
hasn’t got a hat on. I wonder it hasn’t happened before.”
Perhaps if had. Cyprian, at any rate, seemed neither startled nor embarrassed by the error into
which the good lady had fallen. Examining the ticket on the bag, he announced in a clear,
dispassionate voice.
“Black seal, thirty-four shillings, marked down to twenty-eight. As a matter of fact, we are clearing
them out at a special reduction price of twenty-six shillings. They are going off rather fast.”
“I’ll take it,” said the lady, eagerly digging some coins out of her purse.
“Will you take it as it is?” asked Cyprian; “it will be a matter of a few minutes to get wrapped up,
there is such a crush.”
“Never mind, I’ll take it as it is,” said the purchaser, clutching her treasure and counting the money
into Cyprian’s palm.
Several kind strangers helped Adela into the open air.
“It’s the crush and the heat,” said one sympathizer to another, “it’s enough to turn anyone giddy.”
When she next came across Cyprian he was standing in the crowd that pushed and jostled around
the counters of the book department. The dream look was deeper than ever in his eyes. He had
just sold two books of devotion to an elderly Canon.
 FABLES
THE FROG WHO WISHED FOR A KING
The frogs were tired of governing themselves. They had so much freedom that it had spoiled
them, and they did nothing but sit around croaking in a bored manner and wishing for a
government that could entertain them with the pomp and display of royalty, and rule them in a way
to make them know they were being ruled. No milk and water government for them, they
declared. So they sent a petition to Jupiter asking for a king.
Jupiter saw what simple and foolish creatures they were, but to keep them quiet and make them
think they had a king he threw down a huge log, which fell into the water with a great splash. The
frogs hid themselves among the reeds and grasses, thinking the new king to be some fearful giant.
But they soon discovered how tame and peaceable King Log was. In a short time the younger frogs
were using him for a diving platform, while the older frogs made him a meeting place, where they
complained loudly to Jupiter about the government.
To teach the frog a lesson the ruler of the Gods now sent a crane to be king of frog land. The
Crane proved to be a very different sort of king from old King Log. He gobbled up the poor Frogs
right and left and they soon saw what fools they had been. In mournful croaks they begged Jupiter
to take away the cruel tyrant before they should all be destroyed.
“How now!” cried Jupiter “Are you not yet content?” you have what you asked for and so you have
only yourselves blame for your misfortune.”
“Be sure you can better your condition before you seek to change.”

THE FARMER AND HIS SONS

A rich old farmer, who felt that he had not many more days to live, called his sons to his bedside.
“My sons,” he said, “heed what I have to say to you. Do not on any account part with the estate
that has belonged to our family for so many generations. Somewhere on its hidden a rich treasure.
I do not know the exact spot, but it is there, and you will surely find it. Spare no energy and leave
no spot unturned in your search.”
The father died, and no sooner was he in his grave than the sons set to work digging with all their
might, turning up every foot of ground with their spades, and going over the whole farm two or
three times.
No hidden gold did they find; but at harvest time when they had settled their accounts and had
pocketed a rich profit far greater than that of any of their neighbors, they understood that the
treasure their father had told them about was the wealth of a bountiful crop, and that in their
industry had they found the treasure.
“Industry is itself a treasure.”
SHORT STORIES