Authors: Rebecca Dickinson
Over in the Hollow
For my mother, who shared with me her love of reading and the lovely sound of words strung together “just so.”—R. D.
For Andrea and Sara. Without you, the Hollow would be empty.—S.b.
Over in the Hollow
Over in the hollow, where the cobwebs are spun, live a giant mother spider and her little spidey one.
“SPIN,” hums the mother.
“I SPIN,” hums the one.
So they spin silver lace where the cobwebs are spun.
Over in the hollow, wrapped in old sheets and glue, live an old, moldy mummy and his little mummies two.
“LURCH!” moans the mummy.
“WE LURCH!” moan the two.
And they lurch into the mist, wrapped in old sheets and glue.
Over in the hollow, in a twisted, tangled tree, live a spooky mama owl and her little owlets three.
“WHOO,” hoots the mama.
“WE WHOO!” hoot the three.
So they whooooo and they hoot in their twisted, tangled tree.
Over in the hollow, in a coffin on the floor, live a pale grandpa vampire and his little vampies four.
“BItE!” groans the grandpa.
“WE BItE!” groan the four.
So they nibble and they bite in their coffin on the floor.
Over in the hollow, where the bats dip and dive, live a furry grandma bat and her little batties five.
“FLAP!” squeaks the grandma.
“WE FLAP!” squeak the five.
So they flap and they flutter where the bats dip and dive.
Over in the hollow, on their magic broomsticks, fly a good auntie witch and her little witchies six.
“ZOOM!” cries the auntie.
“we Zoom!” cry the six.
So they zoom through the night on their magic broomsticks.
Over in the hollow, a swingin’ and a steppin’, live a daddy Frankenstein and his little Frankies seven.
“STOMP!” shouts the daddy.
“WE STOMP!” shout the seven.
So they stomp and they clomp, a swingin’ and a steppin’.
Over in the hollow, through the creaky graveyard gate, prowl a hairy uncle werewolf and his little wolfies eight.
“HOWL!” growls the uncle.
“WE HOWL!” growl the eight.
So they howl and they prowl through the creaky graveyard gate.
Over in the hollow, ‘neath the blue moonshine, sit a papa jack-o’-lantern and his little pumpkins nine.
“GLOW,” whispers the papa.
“WE GLOW,” whisper the nine.
So they glimmer and they glow ‘neath the blue moonshine.