"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;
He has so many little ones,
He cannot clothe us all.
"I always long'd to go to church,
But never could I go;
For when I ask'd him for a gown,
He always answer'd, 'No.'
"'There's not a father in the world
That loves his children more;
I'd get you one with all my heart,
But, Phebe, I am poor.'
"But when the blackberries were ripe
He said to me one day,
'Phebe, if you will take the time
That's given you for play,
"And gather blackberries enough,—
And carry them to town,—
To buy your bonnet and your shoes,
I'll try to get a gown.'