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“Go back to the garden,” my mother cried,
“Where the Halloween Pumpkins grow.
Hide there until I count up to ten.”
I told her to count slow.
“Never forget where you came from,” she said,
“Remember your way to the house.
I don’t want you lost out in that field,
But be quiet as a field mouse.”
So I went and I hid but she counted so slow
I was tempted to leave my spot.
But she’d said never leave it just for one moment,
Or else, Jill, you will be caught.
As I lay in the garden of pumpkins and vines,
I thought of a good book I’d read:
The little rabbits of Beatrix Potter
Were bouncing through my head.
The sun warmed my toes; I was falling asleep
Back in that pumpkin patch.
Suddenly my mother jumped out and yelled, “Gotcha!
Now it’s your turn to catch!”