by Margaret Sangster
Away to the hill-side on swift little feet,
Trot quick through the meadows in shadow and sun;
Broad brims and deep crowns over brows that are sweet,
And round rosy cheeks that are dimpling with fun.
And home from the hill-side on slow little feet,
With baskets as heavy as faces are bright;
And who will be first the dear mother to greet,
And see her surprise and her look of delight?
But she never will dream, by the berries they bring,
Of the millions they left where the sweet berries grow,
Away on the hills where the merry birds sing,
And the brook dances down to the valley below.