_THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS_
_At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything._
_Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back._
_There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed._
_These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink._
_I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about._
_So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books._
--_Robert Louis Stevenson, in_
“A Child’s Garden of Verses.”