Down which hill did a small child roll?

Might it be the one,
littered with broken branches
and smelling of the dung of troll?

Or perhaps the one,
whose grass is disturbed
by the brown mounds of the mole?

Though possibly the one,
covered with ruts
left by sleds in the snow?

Can't be the one,
overgrown with trees
littered with leaves ever so old?

'Tisn't this one,
all full of brambles
he'd be scratched full of holes!

Nor here this one,
strewn with boulders
she'd likely fall down a hole!

No, 'tis this very hill,
all smooth and well-aimed,
straight toward the stream
with ajoining swimming hole,
this is the hill
down which a small child rolls.

Hrm. So I'm a little rusty. Oh well.