I was hiding in the crooked apple tree, Scouting for Indians, when a man came! I thought it was an Indian, for he Was running like the wind -- There was a flame Of sunlight on his hand as he drew near, And then I saw a knife gripped in his fist! He panted like a horse! His eyes were queer! Wide-open! Staring frightfully! And, hist! His mouth stared open like another eye! And all his hair was matted down with sweat! I crouched among the leaves lest he should spy Where I was hiding -- So he did not get His awful eyes on me; but, like the wind, He fled, as if he heard some thing behind! |