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.