Kensington Rhymes — Themes and Context

(6 User reviews) 1692

In Category - Adventure Picaresque Fiction

Authors: MacKenzie, Compton, 1883-1972, Monsell, J. R. [Illustrator] Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2012 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Children's poetry, English Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 8,576

Reading time 38 min

Text sections 2

The catalog record for Kensington Rhymes — Themes and Context provides practical reading context through 8,576 words, 38 min estimated reading time, and 2 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 22.8 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Children's poetry, English,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #39128

Compton Mackenzie's 1912 children's poetry collection captures Kensington life through a child's eyes, with precise observations of domestic spaces, social rituals, and imaginative transformations of urban fog into pirate seas.

Editorial Edition Score 4.5/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg39128

Read the Text

Mother said that you could? She said one of each? You'd better look out or I'll jolly well peach. You don't care if I do? All right, just you wait! You'll tell Mrs. Jones we were not to be late? I'm not pinching at all, you beastly young sneak! You _won't_ follow me round when we play hide and seek! There's Dorothy![E] Pax! You can eat what you like, And to-morrow I'll give you a ride on my bike.

[B] Miss Perkins is our governess]

[D] Eliza is our housemaid

[E] She's an awfully decent girl I know.

POSTMAN'S Knock! Postman's Knock! A letter for the girl next door, And two pence, please, to pay.

Kiss in the Ring! Kiss in the Ring! She's fallen down upon the floor, I don't know what to say.

Postman's Knock! Postman's Knock! I wish that I had asked for more; At games you must obey.

Kiss in the Ring! Kiss in the Ring! When running after her I tore Her frock the other day.

Postman's Knock! Postman's Knock! A letter for the girl next door, And a shilling she must pay.[F]

THE Round Pond is a fine pond With fine ships sailing there, Cutters, yachts and men-o'-war, And sailor-boys everywhere.

Paper boats they hug the shore, And row-boats move with string But cutters, yachts and larger ships Sail on like anything.

It was the schooner _Kensington_, Set out one Saturday: The wind was blowing from the east, The sky was cold and grey.

Her crew stood on the quarter-deck And stared across the sea, With two brass cannon in the stern For the Royal Artillery.

The Royal Tin Artillery Had faced the sea before, They had fallen in the bath one night And heard the waste-plug roar.

They were rescued by the nursery maid And put on the ledge to dry; And they looked more like the Volunteers Than the Royal Artillery.

For the blue had all come off their clothes, And they afterwards wore grey; But they stood by the cannon like Marines That famous Saturday.

The crew of the schooner _Kensington_ Were Dutchmen to a man, With wooden legs and painted eyes; But the Captain he was bran.

His blood was of the brownest bran And his clothes were full of tucks; But he fell in the sea half-way across, And was eaten up by ducks.

We launched the boat at half-past three, And stood on the bank to watch, And some friends of mine who were fishing there Had a wonderful minnow-catch.

Fifteen minnows were caught at once In an ancient ginger jar, When a shout went up that the _Kensington_ Was heeling over too far.

Too far for a five-and-sixpenny ship That was warranted not to upset; But she righted herself in half a tick Though the crew got very wet.

The crew got very wet indeed; The Artillery all fell down, And lay on their backs for the rest of the voyage For fear they were going to drown.

The schooner _Kensington_ sailed on Across the wild Round Pond, And we ran along the gravel-bank With a hook stuck into a wand.

A hook stuck into a wand to guide The schooner safe ashore To incandescent harbour lights And a dock on the school-room floor.

But suddenly the wind dropped dead. And a calm came over the sea, And a terrible rumour got abroad It was time to go home to tea.

We whistled loud, we whistled long, The whole of that afternoon; But there wasn't wind enough to float A twopenny pink balloon.

And the other chaps upon the bank Looked anxiously out to sea; For their sweethearts and sisters were going home, And they feared for the cake at tea.

It was the schooner _Kensington_ Came in at dead of night With many another gallant ship And one unlucky kite.

The keeper found them at break of day, And locked them up quite dry In his little green hut, with a notice that On Monday we must apply.

So on Sunday after church we went To stare at them through the door; And we saw the schooner _Kensington_ Keel upwards on the floor.

But though we stood on the tips of our toes, And craned our necks to see, We could not spot the wooden-legged crew Or the Royal Artillery.

THEY say that country children have Most fierce adventures every night, With owls and bats and giant moths That flutter to the candle-light.

They say that country children search For earwigs underneath the sheets, That creeping animals abound Upon the wooden window-seats.

They say that country children wash Their hands in water full of things, Tadpoles and newts and wriggling eels, Until their hands are pink with stings.

Continue Reading →

Compton Mackenzie's Kensington Rhymes (1912) presents a child's-eye view of Edwardian London, where the domestic landscape is charged with both comfort and menace. The opening poem, 'Our House,' catalogues rooms with a mixture of familiarity and unease: the kitchen 'ticks too loud at night' and is 'a horrid place,' while the library 'smells like new boots' and is 'a woolly room.' These sensory details ground the collection in a specific, tactile world.

The poems move between the regulated spaces of the square and dancing class and the wilder territories of imagination. In 'Treasure Trove,' a foggy street becomes a pirate fleet, and a baked potato transforms into Captain Kidd's treasure. This tension between the orderly and the fantastical runs through the collection, as the child narrator navigates rules, rituals, and the private dramas of play.

Domestic Geographies and Unease

Mackenzie's child narrator maps the house with a precision that reveals both attachment and anxiety. The staircase has 'a thousand rods / That rattle if you kick,' and the landing is 'a dismal place' where 'the door-knobs twinkle horribly.' These details create a world where the familiar is slightly off-kilter. The cellar is 'quite black with coal,' and the cat goes 'scratching there,' hinting at unseen activity. Even the bathroom is 'a trickling room, / And always smells of paint.'

This attention to sensory detail extends to the square, which is 'really most select' and excludes 'infectious children, dogs and cats.' The social order is internalized: the child knows that 'people from the flats' are not allowed. Yet within this regulated space, sweethearts are chosen, and pebbles and sticks are offered as gifts. The poems capture the way children inhabit adult spaces, finding both security and strangeness in the routines of home.

The Transformative Power of Fog and Play

In 'Treasure Trove,' a foggy walk home becomes a pirate adventure. The lamp-posts 'sailed like a wicked pirate fleet,' and the pavement 'smelt of tar and salt.' The child narrator becomes 'an English midshipman,' and a baked potato is 'just exactly Captain Kidd.' This imaginative leap is typical of the collection: the mundane is constantly reimagined. A bullfinch in a lighted window becomes a parrot in a far-off creek; the parlour-maid at Twenty-two is transformed into 'black-eyed Susan.'

The poems often hinge on such moments of perceptual shift, where the boundary between reality and fantasy blurs. In 'Don Quixote,' the child identifies with the knight because 'he saw queer things, he heard queer sounds / Though he was more than nine.' The child's bedroom becomes a landscape of adventure, with 'the hilly counterpane' serving as a plain for 'strange little knights-at-arms.' Mackenzie captures the way children use imagination to assert control over their environment, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary.

Social Rituals and the Child's Perspective

The collection is rich with observations of Edwardian social rituals. 'The Dancing Class' depicts a weekly event where children are 'watched' walking through the rain. 'My Sister at a Party' and 'Kissing Games' hint at the coded behaviors of childhood courtship. In 'Our Square,' the child narrator has a sweetheart who wears 'a dress of crackling white' and 'a shiny sash of pink or blue.' The rituals are observed with a mixture of earnestness and bemusement.

Mackenzie also notes the hierarchies of the street: the 'German Band,' the 'Pavement Artist,' the 'Fortunate Coalmen,' and 'Poor Lavender Girls.' These figures are seen from a child's vantage point, often with sympathy or curiosity. In 'A Visit to My Aunt,' the aunt's house is 'as quiet as a mouse,' and the garden is 'like a secret corner in / A sort of nightmare park.' The child is relieved to return home 'into the shining lamps / And comfortable sound of streets.' The poems consistently balance the allure of the unfamiliar with the comfort of the known.

Readers approaching Kensington Rhymes will find a collection that rewards attention to its small, precise details. The poems are best read as a sequence, where the child's voice accumulates a coherent world. Notice how Mackenzie uses rhyme and meter to echo the rhythms of nursery rhymes while subverting them with moments of genuine strangeness. The illustrations by J. R. Monsell, though not reproduced here, complement the text's blend of charm and unease. This is a book that invites rereading, each poem revealing new layers of observation.

I’ve often shelved Compton Mackenzie’s Kensington Rhymes near the fog-swathed piers of childhood, where rain becomes a sea. Years later, I found The Dream of Gerontius — Reading Notes beside it, and understood both books share a quiet inward gaze—one turning streets to tide, the other turning death to a passage, each tenderly sure of its own strange weather.