"
"No, mother, as I climbed the fence,
The nearest way to town,
My apron caught upon the 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.
"But when I saw them on the ground.
All scattered by my side,
I picked my empty basket up,
And down I sat and cried.
"Just then a pretty little Miss
Chanced to be walking by;
She stopped, and looking pitiful,
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,
And works in yonder stall;
He has so many little ones,
He cannot clothe us all.
"'I always longed to go to church,
But never could I go;
For when I asked him for a gown,
He always answered, "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.
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