Fern

Dear Journal,

Do you know the boredom of tanning a deer hide? It is such a bore that I often have to sneak away while my mother is looking away. Today was one such occasion in which I found the work so dull I had to slink away. I headed off into the forest beside our smartly built wigwam. The brush around me was so beautiful I decided to stand on a fallen log the color of a fresh beaver pelt and stare at the thick wilderness surrounding me. The golden sunlight hit the fresh green leaves so perfectly, I stood there staring for quite a while unknowing to the fact that it was getting darker every minute. I finally noticed that the sky was turning to twilight. I grumbled, as I often do when I leave a place I want to stay in, and pointed myself to the wigwam on the edge of the forest. My internal map of the forest was never wrong. As set off it became harder and harder to see the leaves that I heard rustling beneath my feet. Then I tripped. I did not scream as I fell into a thorn bush right beyond the rock had tripped over. I did not scream as the thorn bush pierced the skin under my eye. I knew better than to alert every animal in the forest of my presence. So I just screamed inwardly. When I got home mother treated my cut and, journal, she thinks I will have that scar for a very long while afterward.