The Rabbit by Edith King

Brown bunny sits inside his burrow
Till everything is still.
Then out he slips along the furrow.
Or up the grassy hill.

He nibbles all about the bushes
Or sits to wash his face.
But at a sound he stamps, and rushes
At a surprising pace.

You see some little streaks and flashes,
A last sharp twink of white.
As down his hidy-hole he dashes
And disappears from sight.

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