The Little Big Man Magic Hands

Hello! Come on, everybody. Take a seat.

Wow!

Woo!

BOTH: Hello!

-BOTH:

-Hello!

Wiggle your fingers and cross your feet.

Are you ready?

One, two, three. Watch me.

Four, five, six. I've got some tricks.

Seven, eight, nine. It's almost time.

10!

ALL: Magic hands!

# Just look at my magic

# My magic hands

# Make your fingers super-duper. #

Magic Hands!

-BOTH:

-Hello!

My name is...

And my name is...

Look at what my hands can do!

They're so tiny and beautiful.

Who do you think they belong to?

I don't know, but they definitely won't fit me.

Nor me.

Today's poem was written more than 100 years ago,

by a man who lived in Bengal,

which is near India.

His name is Rabindranath Tagore.

The poem is called The Little Big Man.

Are you ready?

Wow!

Everything is so big!

I am small because I am a little child.

I shall be big when I am as old as my father is.

My teacher will come and say, "It is late...

"Bring your slate and your books."

I shall tell him,

"Do you not know I am as big as father?

"And I must not have lessons any more."

My master will wonder and say,

"He can leave his books, if he likes,

"for he is grown up."

I shall dress myself

and walk to the fair,

where the crowd is thick.

My uncle will come rushing up to me and say...

.."You will get lost, my boy!

"Let me carry you."

I shall answer,

"Can't you see, Uncle, I am as big as Father...

"I must go to the fair alone."

Uncle will say, "Yes. He can go wherever he likes,

"for he is grown up."

In the holiday time, in October,

Father will come home and,

thinking I am still a baby,

will bring for me, from the town,

little shoes and small, silken frocks.

I shall say, "Father,

"give them to my brother,

"for I am as big as you are."

Father will think, and say,

"He can buy his own clothes if he likes,

"for he is grown up."

Wasn't that poem beautiful?

I don't understand why someone would want to grow up that fast, though.

It's my turn now.

My poem is also by Rabindranath Tagore,

and it's called Clouds And Waves.

Are you ready?

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me.

We play from the time we wake

till the day ends.

We play with the golden dawn.

We play with the silver moon.

I ask, "But how am I to get up to you?"

They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth...

"..lift up your hands to the sky,

"and you will be taken up into the clouds."

"My mother is waiting for me at home," I say.

"How can I leave her and come?"

Then they smile and float away.

But I know a nicer game than that, Mother.

I shall be the cloud and you the moon.

I shall cover you with both my hands,

and our house-top will be the blue sky.

The folk who live in the waves

call out to me.

We sing from morning till night.

On and on we travel,

and know not where we pass.

I ask, "But how am I to join you?"

They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore,

"and stand with your eyes tight shut,

"and you will be carried out

"upon the waves."

I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the evening.

How can I leave her and go?"

They smile, dance, and pass by.

But I know a better game than that.

I will be the waves

and you will be a strange shore.

I shall roll on and on and on,

and break upon your lap with laughter...

..and no-one in the world will know where we both are.

What a beautiful poem!

I wouldn't want to leave the people I love, either.

Oh, come here...

-Bye-bye!

-Bye!

Magic Hands!

# Just look at my magic

# My magic hands

# Make your fingers super-duper. #

Magic Hands!