PART I.

“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.

[Illustration:  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;

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.’

[Illustration:  Phebe and Billy going to School.]

“O Miss, I fairly jumped for joy,
  My spirits were so light: 
And so, when I had leave to play,
  I pick’d with all my might.

“I sold enough to get my shoes,
  About a week ago;
And these, if they had not been spilt,
  Would buy a bonnet too.

“But now they are gone, they all are gone,
  And I can get no more,
And Sundays I must stay at home
  Just as I did before.

“And, mother, then.  I cried again,
  As hard as I could cry;
And, looking up, I saw a tear
  Was standing in her eye.

“She caught her bonnet from her head—­
  ‘Here, here,’ she cried, ‘take this!’

O, no, indeed—­I fear your ’ma
  Would be offended, Miss.

[Illustration]

“’My ’ma! no, never! she delights
  All sorrow to beguile;
And ’tis the sweetest joy she feels,
  To make the wretched smile.

“’She taught me when I had enough,
  To share it with the poor: 
And never let a needy child
  Go empty from the door.