At evening when the lamp lit,
Round the fire the parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow around the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read,
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelight camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
About their party prowled about.
So, when nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And got to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of storybooks.
Robert Louis Stevenson