“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.
Phebe and her Mother.
“But when...
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