The Apple Tree
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!
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!
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