It's Not How, It's Who

The friends who used to play with me
Sometimes write and ask of me,
"Robert, my old friend, how are you?"

I always have the same reply,
And with a twinkle in my eye,
I smile and say, "Not how, my friend, but who."

For I lie abed in many forms,
Some well known, but all well worn.
Characters from books; both old and new.

And, like the lad in "Counterpane",
armies lain before me, in a game;
I always win when there are less than two.

I draw upon books I may have read;
and then tell stories in my head.
I make myself the hero; wouldn't you?

When the game is up I'm out of bed.
But the stories remain inside my head,
and next day I'll live them all again, re-newed.

"My Shadow" by Robert Louis Stevenson

The book of poetry which my Mom gave me for my 8^th birthday still inspires me over 50 years later. No matter where I have lived, this book has always been with me. Some of my favorite poems from my childhood rest between its covers, and from time to time I post one here. Today is one of those times.

I’ve been having a rough time of it lately for various reasons, and it amazes me at the comfort I can still derive form this old and battered book of children’s poetry. Perhaps I am just immature, or maybe the book is so much a part of who I am, that it is always able to make me smile.

So, without further delay, or comment on my part, here is “My Shadow”; both literally, and figuratively .

“My Shadow” by Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me; he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

"The Land of Counterpane" by Robert Louis Stevenson

Whenever I have a nasty cold, or flu, like now, and I am forced to take to bed, I think of this poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. It is no coincidence that he is also one of my favorite childhood authors, having given me such memorable playmates as Long John Silver in "Treasure Island", and David Balfour in "Kidnapped." So, as I've said, it is not unusual for me to pick up that old poetry book my Mom gave me in 1962, "The Golden Book of Poetry", and flip to page 59 to read "The Land of Counterpane." It doesn't have any medicinal value at all, it's more like "Chicken Soup for The Soul."

The gift of a book to a child can be a wonderful thing. Think of it - this book, which was given to me so many years ago, has provided me with solace and comfort so often, that it would be impossible to put a price upon it.

"The Land of Counterpane"

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay,
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

Robert Louis Stevenson