You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't <br />understand. <br />He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really <br />make out what he meant? <br />What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father <br />write like that, I wonder? <br />Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and <br />fairies and princesses? <br />Has he forgotten them all? <br />Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him <br />an hundred times. <br />You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on <br />writing and forgets. <br />Father always plays at making books. <br />If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me, <br />"What a naughty child!" <br />If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that <br />father's at his work?" <br />What's the fun of always writing and writing? <br />When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book <br />just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me <br />then, mother? <br />You never say a word when father writes. <br />When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't <br />seem to mind at all. <br />But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say, <br />"Child, how troublesome you are!" <br />What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of <br />paper with black marks all over both sides?<br /><br />Sir Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/authorship-2/
