“Why, Phebe, are you come so soon,
Where are your berries, child?
You cannot, sure, have sold them all,
You had a basket pil’d.”
“No, mother, as I climb’d the fence,
The nearest way to town,
My apron caught upon a stake,
And so I tumbled down.
“I scratched my arm, and tore my hair,
But still did not complain;
And had my blackberries been safe,
Should not have cared a grain.
Phebe and her Mother.
“But when I saw them on the ground
All scattered by my side,
I pick’d my empty basket up,
And down I sat and cried.
“Just then a pretty little Miss
Chanced to be walking by;
She stopp’d, and looking pitiful,
She begg’d me not to cry.
“‘Poor little girl, you fell,’ said she,
‘And must be sadly hurt’—
‘O, no,’ I cried, ‘but see my fruit,
All mixed with sand and dirt!’
“‘Well, do not grieve for that,’ she said
‘Go home, and get some more:’
Ah, no, for I have stripp’d the vines,
These were the last they bore.
“My father, Miss, is very poor,
And works in yonder stall;