The trees are tall, but the moon small,

My legs feel rather weak,

For Avis, Mavis and Tom Clarke

Are hiding somewhere in the dark,

And it’s my turn to seek.

Suppose they lay a trap and play

A trick to frighten me?

Suppose they plan to disappear

And leave me here, half dead with fear,

Groping from tree to tree?

Alone, alone, all on my own

And then perhaps to find

Not Avis, Mavis and young Tom

But monsters to run shrieking from,

Mad monsters of no kind?