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 for fear he'd 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 something behind.