Sweet B and I took longish morning walks when we were together last week. One day we got good and wet. One day we stopped for coffee (me) and bananas—two of them (her). One day we concentrated on beep-beeps (trucks). But each day we stopped at a park and made use of the playground. B slid, climbed, and practiced being other-directive (“M up!”). But for utter glee, it’s the swing. She chortles, we sometimes play a game with her stuffed bunny (“munny”), and I inevitably essay some Robert Louis Stevenson, which in my mouth quickly becomes a mere rhythm section. When she’s more fortunate in her pusher, though, she gets the whole thing, expressively recited.
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
A joy to watch...and hear.
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