The Ball That Started It All

A Read Aloud Story by:

Maggie Bab Boon

This is the ball that started it all.

This is the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the parrot they call McCall
Who was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the feathered, right-sided wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the vase, a fragile, glass thing
That was hit by the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the Mother who jumped from her swing
When she heard the crash of the fragile, glass thing
That was hit by the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the tea, that was brought on a cart

And splashed as the Mother jumped from her swing
When she heard the crash of the fragile, glass thing
That was hit by the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the lady who clutched at her heart
When her dress got wet from the tea on the cart

That splashed as the Mother jumped from her swing
When she heard the crash of the fragile, glass thing
That was hit by the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the sister who did her own part
By patting the lady who clutched at her heart
When her dress got wet from the tea on the cart

That splashed as the Mother jumped from her swing
When she heard the crash of the fragile, glass thing
That was hit by the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

This is the Father, older and smart
Who stared at the sister doing her part
By patting the lady who clutched at her heart
When her dress got wet from the tea on the cart

That splashed as the Mother jumped from her swing
When she heard the crash of the fragile, glass thing
That was hit by the bell that made a soft ding
As it fell from the shelf, being hit by the wing

That flapped as the parrot they call McCall
Was scared by the cat with her bed in the hall
Who ran from the baby, sweet and small
Who hit the ball that started it all.

The father stands staring, his hands in his hair
When he sees a ball roll, kind of slow, down the stair

And he thinks to himself that a ball on the stair
Could cause a commotion if left to stay there

“Why, one could get hurt, one might even fall”
So he walked and bent over and picked up the ball

And placed it back safe, by the cat in the hall.

Copyright © 1998-2008 Tim Boon
All rights reserved.

Authors’ 1998 bio:

“The authors of The Ball That Started It All are a father and daughter team. The 37-year-old father half is the administrator for a hospice agency in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. His other recently published works appeared in RN magazine in 1995 and 1998. The daughter is 11 years old and is in the 5th grade. The authors would love to hear from you! You can tell them what you thought of their story by sending an email to Tim Boon, the father half at TBOON02 [at] aol [dot] com. “

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