UPON the hills of Garlingtown Beneath the summer sky, In many pleasant pastures On sunny slopes and high, Their skins abloom with dusty blue, Asleep, the berries lie.

And all the lads of Garlingtown, And all the lasses too, Still climb the tranquil hillsides, A merry, barefoot crew;Still homeward plod with unfilled pails And mouths of berry blue.

And all the birds of Garlingtown, When flocking back to nest, Remember well the patches Where berries are the best;They pick the ripest ones at dawn And leave the lads the rest.

Upon the hills of Garlingtown When berry-time was o'er, I looked into the sunset, And saw an open door, And from the hills of Garlingtown I went, and came no more.

FRANK PRENTICE RAND