Our Blackberries Are In

It was not a long climb to where the blackberries grew, and she was soon at work, the great luscious berries dropping into her pail almost with a touch.  But while she worked the vision of the hills, the sheep meadow below, the river winding between the neighboring farms, melted away, and she did not even see the ripe fruit before her, because she was planning the new frock she was to buy with these berries she had come to pick.

Pink and white it was to be; she had seen it in the store the last time she went for sugar and spice.  There were dainty springs of pink over the white ground, and every berry that dropped into her bright pail was no longer a berry but a sprig of pink chintz. 

-- Grace Livingston Hill, excerpt from Marcia Schuyler