A little old woman,
As old as could be,
Picked the ripe berries
From bush and tree.

Then in a clearing
She made a fire,
Piling the dry sticks
Higher and higher;
And at the top
Of the crackling pile,
She put her gallipot
On to boil,
Sugar and fruit
She boiled for hours,
Till the juice set red
As peony-flowers;
And all the next morning
The Little Folks ran
With pursefuls of money
To buy pots of jam.