And moonbeams lay about,
The comical cone of a young bamboo
Came cautiously creeping out.
It tossed its cap upon the ground,
Amazed at the sudden light,
And so pleased it was the world it found
That it grew six feet that night.
It grew and grew in the summer breeze;
It grew and grew until
It looked right over camphor trees
To the further side of the hill.
A Japanese phrase the woodcutter usd
(“Fine tree!” is what we should say),
He chopped it all round till it fell to the ground,
His ox then hauled it away.
He made a fine tub from the lowermost round,
A pail from the following one;
A caddy for rice from the very next slice,
And his work was no more than begun.
The next were tall vases and medicine cases,
With dippers and cups galore;
There were platters and bowls, and pickets and poles,
And matting to spread on the floor.
A parasol frame and an intricate game,
And the ribs to a paper fan;
A sole to his shoe and a toothpick or two,
He made next, this wonderful man.
Pencil, I think, and
a bottle for ink,
And a stem for his miniature pipe;
A ring for his hand, and a shokoji stand,
And a tray for the oranges ripe.
A rake then he made, and a small garden space,
And a trellis to loop up his vine,
A flute which he blew, and a tea strainer too,
And a fiddle that squeaked shrill and fine.
It wound take me all day, if I were to say
All that wonderful man brought to view;
But a traveler I meet, says he’s sitting there yet,
At work on that single bamboo!
Copy write by: MY Mc NEIL SCOTT
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