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.