I

All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, All the fleecy flocks of cloud, gone beyond the hill; Through the noon-day silence, down the woods of June, Hark, a little hunter's voice, running with a tune. "Hide and seek! When I speak, You must answer me: Call again, Merry men, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"

Now I hear his footsteps rustling in the grass: Hidden in my leafy nook, shall I let him pass? Just a low, soft whistle,--quick the hunter turns, Leaps upon me laughing loud, rolls me in the ferns. "Hold him fast, Caught at last! Now you're it, you see. Hide your eye, Till I cry, Coo-ee, coo-ee, coo-ee!"