She begged me not to cry.
"'Poor little girl, you fell,' said she,
'And must be sadly hurt;'
'Oh, 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 stripped the vines,
These were the last they bore.
"'My father, Miss, is very poor,