"'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