K. Pyle

We went to hunt for chestnuts

One fine October day,

And in the windy country

We wandered far away.

We built a fire of brush-wood

Beneath the sheltering hill,

Among the rustling corn-shocks

The wind was never still.

We played that we were gypsies,

Who never sleep in beds,

But lie beside their fires

With starts above their heads.

But when the aire grew frosty,

Beneath the chestnut tree

We filled our bags and baskets

And hastened home to tea.