Bring me nuts,” quoth she.
Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies,—
Golden woodlights glancing in his eyes,—
And adown the tree
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one.
Hark! how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
“Happy Bell!” pipes he.
Little Bell looked up and down the glade;
“Squirrel, squirrel, if you’re not afraid,