Chapter I: Front Matter

KENSINGTON RHYMES

KENSINGTON

RHYMES

BY COMPTON MACKENZIE

ILLUSTRATED BY J. R. MONSELL

LONDON: MARTIN SECKER

NUMBER FIVE JOHN STREET ADELPHI

First published 1912

PRINTED BY

BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD

AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

TAVISTOCK STREET COVENT GARDEN

LONDON

TO

ETHEL LONG

CONTENTS

PAGE

OUR HOUSE 11

OUR SQUARE 15

THE DANCING CLASS 17

MY SISTER AT A PARTY 22

KISSING GAMES 26

A BALLAD OF THE ROUND POND 28

TOWN AND COUNTRY 35

POOR LAVENDER GIRLS 37

SUMMER HOLIDAYS 39

THE UNPLEASANT MOON 42

SUGGESTIONS ABOUT SLEEP 44

THE RARE BURGLAR 47

THE GERMAN BAND 49

THE DECEITFUL RAT-TAT 53

THE CAGE IN THE PILLAR BOX 54

THE FORTUNATE COALMEN 57

THE PAVEMENT ARTIST 60

SWEEPS 63

GREENGROCERS 65

CHRISTMAS NOT FAR OFF 66

THE DISAPPOINTMENT 67

TREASURE TROVE 68

A VISIT TO MY AUNT 73

DON QUIXOTE 77

THE WET DAY 84

LAST WORDS 87

KENSINGTON RHYMES

OUR house is very high and red,
The steps are very white,
The balcony is full of flowers,
The knocker's very bright.

The hall has got a coloured lamp,
A rack for father's hat,
And pegs for coats: a curious word[A]
Is printed on the mat.

The kitchen ticks too loud at night,
It is a horrid place;
Black-beetles run about the floor
At a most dreadful pace.

The cellar is quite black with coal,
The cat goes scratching there;
People go tramping past above,
But nobody knows where.

The dining-room has rosy walls,
And silver knives and forks,
And when I listen at the door,
I hear the popping corks.

The library smells like new boots,
It is a woolly room;
The housemaid comes at eight o'clock
And sweeps it with a broom.

The staircase has a thousand rods
That rattle if you kick,
And when the twilight makes it blue
I rush up very quick.

The landing is a dismal place,
The bannisters creak so,
The door-knobs twinkle horribly,
The gas is always low.

The drawing-room is cold and white,
The chairs have crooked legs;
Silk ladies rustle in and out
While Fido sits and begs.

The bathroom is a trickling room,
And always smells of paint,
The cupboard's full of medicine
For fever, cold or faint.

My bedroom is a brassy room
With pictures on the wall:
It's rather full of nurse's clothes
But then my own are small.

Our house is very high and red,
The steps are very white,
The balcony is full of flowers,
The knocker's very bright.

[A] Nobody knows what SALVE means

OUR square is really most select,
Infectious children, dogs and cats
Are not allowed to come inside,
Nor any people from the flats.

I have a sweetheart in the square,
I bring her pebbles that I find,
And curious shapes in mould, and sticks,
And kiss her when she does not mind.

She wears a dress of crackling white,
A shiny sash of pink or blue,
And over these a pinafore,
And she comes out at half-past two.

Her legs are tall and thin and black,
Her eyes are very large and brown,
And as she walks along the paths,
Her frock moves slowly up and down.

We all have sweethearts in our square,
And when the winter comes again,
We shall go to the dancing-class
And watch them walking through the rain.

EACH week on Friday night at six
Our dancing-class begins:
Two ladies dressed in white appear
And play two violins.

It's really meant for boys at school,
But girls can also come,
And when you walk inside the room
You hear a pleasant hum.

The older boys wear Eton suits,
The younger boys white tops;
We stand together in a row
And practise curious hops.

The dancing-master shows the step
With many a puff and grunt;
He has a red silk handkerchief
Stuck grandly in his front.

He's awfully excitable,
His wrists are very strong,
He drags you up and down the room
Whenever you go wrong.

And when you're going very wrong,
The girls begin to laugh;
And when you're pushed back in your place,
The boys turn round and chaff.

We've learnt the polka and the waltz,
We've _got_ the ladies' chain;
Although he says our final bows
Give him enormous pain.

The floor is very slippery,
It's difficult to walk
From one end to the other end
Unless you sort of stalk.

And when the steps have all been done,
He takes you by the arm
To choose a partner for the dance--
It makes you get quite warm.

You have to bow and look polite,
And ask with a grimace
The pleasure of the next quadrille,
And slouch into your place.

He always picks out girls you hate,
I really don't know why,
And when you look across the room
It almost makes you cry

To see the girl you would have picked
Dance with another boy
Without a single smile for you,
Determined to annoy.

Your heart beats very loud and quick,
Your breath comes very fast,
You pinch your partner in the chain--
But dances end at last.

You think you will not look at her,
You look the other way;
Yet when she beckons with her fan,
You instantly obey.

How quick the evening gallops by
And eight o'clock comes soon,
But not till you've arranged to meet
To-morrow afternoon.