Her scarlet hood could scarcely show
Its dash of color on the snow.
She dropped for bird and beast forlorn
Her little store of nuts and corn,
And thus her timid guests bespoke:
“Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak—
Come, black old crow; come, poor blue-jay,
Before your supper’s blown away!
Don’t be afraid, we all are good!
And I’m mamma’s Red Riding-Hood!”