The Picture Book.

When I was not quite five years old          I first saw the blue picture book,      And Fraulein Spitzenburger told      Stories that sent me hot and cold;          I loathed it, yet I had to look:          It was a German book.      I smiled at first, for she'd begun          With a back-garden broad and green,      And rabbits nibbling there:    page one      Turned; and the gardener fired his gun          From the low hedge:    he lay unseen          Behind:    oh, it was mean!      They're hurt, they can't escape, and so          He stuffs them head-down in a sack,      Not quite dead, wriggling in a row,      And Fraulein laughed, "Ho, ho!    Ho, ho!"          And gave my middle a hard smack,          I wish that I'd hit back.      Then when I cried she laughed again;          On the next page was a dead boy      Murdered by robbers in a lane;      His clothes were red with a big stain          Of blood, he held a broken toy,          The poor, poor little boy!      I had to look:    there was a town          Burning where every one got caught,      Then a fish pulled a nigger down      Into the lake and made him drown,          And a man killed his friend; they fought          For money, Fraulein thought.      Old Fraulein laughed, a horrid noise.          "Ho, ho!"    Then she explained it all      How robbers kill the little boys      And torture them and break their toys.          Robbers are always big and tall:          I cried:    I was so small.      How a man often kills his wife,          How every one dies in the end      By fire, or water or a knife.      If you're not careful in this life,          Even if you can trust your friend,          You won't have long to spend.      I hated it, old Fraulein picked          Her teeth, slowly explaining it.      I had to listen, Fraulein licked      Her fingers several times and flicked          The pages over; in a fit          Of rage I spat at it...      And lying in my bed that night          Hungry, tired out with sobs, I found      A stretch of barren years in sight,      Where right is wrong, but strength is right,          Where weak things must creep underground,          And I could not sleep sound.