On the pastures high and level,
That overlook the sea,
Where I wondered what the devil
Those little things could be
That Mimi stooped to gather,
As she strolled across the down,
And held her dress skirt rather—
Oh, now, you needn't frown.

For you know the dew was heavy,
And your boots, you know, were thin:
So a little extra brevi-
ty in skirts was, sure, no sin.
Besides, who minds a cousin?
First, second, even third—
I've kissed 'em by the dozen,
And they never once demurred.

"If one's allowed to ask it,"
Quoth I, "ma belle cousine,
What have you in your basket?"
(Those baskets white and green
The brave Passamaquoddies
Weave out of scented grass,
And sell to tourist bodies
Who through Mt. Desert pass.)

You answered, slightly frowning,
"Put down your stupid book—
That everlasting Browning!—
And come and help me look.
Mushroom you spik him English,
I call him champignon:
I'll teach you to distinguish
The right kind from the wrong."

There was no fog on Fundy
That blue September day;
The west wind, for that one day,
Had swept it all away.
The lighthouse glasses twinkled,
The white gulls screamed and flew,
The merry sheep bells tinkled,
The merry breezes blew.

The bayberry aromatic,
The papery immortelles
(That give our grandma's attic
That sentimental smell,
Tied up in little brush-brooms)
Were sweet as new-mown hay,
While we went hunting mushrooms
That blue September day.

In each small juicy dimple
Where turf grew short and thick,
And nibbling teeth of simple
Sheep had browsed it to the quick;
Where roots or bits of rotten
Wood were strewed, we found a few
Young buttons just begotten
Of morning sun and dew.

And you compared the shiny,
Soft, creamy skin, that hid
The gills so pink and tiny,
To your gloves of undressed kid,
While I averred the color
Of the gills, within their sheath,
Was like—but only duller—
The rosy palms beneath.

As thus we wandered, sporting
In idleness of mind,
There came a fearful snorting
And trampling close behind;
And, with a sudden plunge, I
Upset the basketful
Of those accursed fungi,
As you shrieked, "The bull! The bull!"

And then we clung together
And faced the enemy,
Which proved to be a wether
And scared much worse than we.
But while that startled mutton
Went scampering away,
The mushrooms—every button—
Had tumbled in the bay.

The basket had a cover,
The wind was blowing stiff,
And rolled that basket over
The edges of the cliff.
It bounced from crag to boulder;
It leaped and whirled in air,
But while you clutched my shoulder
I did not greatly care.