Frink crept into his hole, and then turning round within the box, he put his head out a little way, and after looking at Mrs. Henry a moment with one eye, he winked in a very cunning manner.
There was a small paper tacked up with little nails on the side of the squirrel’s house, near the door.
“What is this?” said Mrs. Henry.
“Oh! that’s his poetry,” said Phonny, “you must read it.”
So Mrs. Henry, standing up near, read aloud as follows:—
My name is Frink,
And unless you think,
To give me plenty to eat and drink,
You’ll find me running away
Some day;
I shall tip you a wink,
Then slyly slink,
Out through some secret cranny or chink,
And hie for the woods, away,
Away.
Mrs. Henry laughed heartily at this production. She asked who wrote it.
“Why, we found it here one morning,” said Phonny. “Stuyvesant says that he thinks Beechnut wrote it.”
“But Beechnut,” added Malleville, “says that he believes that Frink wrote it himself.”