FRIGHTENED
Today I had the awfulest time,
Dear mother, in the wood.
That hill out there we were to climb,
And we'd been very good.
But nurse was walking up the hill,
When little Anne and I,
We had to stop and stand quite still,
And Anne began to cry.
For something moved behind the trees,
We felt so all alone—
Said I to Anne, "Stop crying, please,
I'll hit it with a stone."
Cried Anne, "Oh, listen, hear it growl."
Said I, "I'm not afraid
Of bears or lions." "Now don't scowl.
You look so cross," she said.
So then I had to smile and smile, for Anne was crying all the while.
And if we didn't hear a bear, I'm sure, dear mother, one was there.
Boys always must take care of girls,
You see you've told me so.
That's why I tried to pat Anne's curls,
And walked with her real slow.
But when we heard nurse calling out,
"Come, children, come along!"
"Come, Nurse," you should have heard me shout—
Anne says my voice is strong.
"Run, Anne," I cried, "I'm almost five, and I'll kill any bear alive."
And if we didn't see a bear, I truly think that one was there.
How glad I was when Nurse turn'd round,
For everything seemed queer.
The trees looked strange, and then that sound
We didn't like to hear.
Nurse laughed when we had told her all
About the bear we saw.
"I came as quick's I heard you call,
And it's against the law
For bears to live where people stay. They are five hundred miles away."
But if we didn't meet a bear, I'm sure that almost one was there.
THE CHRISTMAS LETTER
I'm always glad when Christmas comes, and yet I'd like it better;
If mother wouldn't bother me to write a Christmas letter
To uncle John and Cousin Kate and dear old Grand-aunt Gray,
And all whose presents come to me from places far away.
Of course I love my presents, and if givers should forget her,
No little girl, my mother says, need write a Christmas letter.
For oh! my ink makes awful blots, though I try to do real well,
And when you write them out of school, all words are hard to spell.
I mean to mind my mother, she's so kind I would not fret her,
But when she says, "Stop playing, dear. Come, write this Christmas letter,"
That's just the thing I hate to hear, and if I dared, I wouldn't
Remember how to hold a pen, I'd make believe I couldn't.
A VICTIM