The photographer’s shadow in the River Almond, just before it flows into the Firth of Forth near Edinburgh.
My Shadow
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 arrant sleepy-head,
Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.
Précis
Stevenson writes in the manner of a child, wondering at the shadow that follows him everywhere, changing shape bewilderingly and giving him away in hide-and-seek. But one morning he awoke and went out just before daybreak, and this time his shadow did not follow him. (45 / 60 words)
