With hasty steps the farmer ran,
And close beside the fire they place
The poor, half-frozen beggar man,

With shaking limbs and pale, blue face.

The little children flocking came,

And chafed his frozen hands in theirs ;
And busily the good old dame

A comfortable mess prepares.

Their kindness cheered his drooping soul,
And slowly down his wrinkled cheek
The big round tear was seen to roll,
And told the thanks he could not speak.

The children then began to sigh,
And all their merry chat was o'er;
And yet they felt, they knew not why,

More glad than they had done before.

WHY, Phebe, have you come so soon?
Where are your berries, child?
You cannot, sure, have sold them all;
You had a basket piled.

No, mother; as I climbed 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.

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;
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 stripped the vines;
These were the last they bore.

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.

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.

O miss, I fairly jumped for joy,
My spirits were so light;
And so, when I had leave to play,
I picked 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're 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.

My ma! no, never! she delights
All sorrow to beguile;

And 'tis the sweetest joy she feels,
To make the wretched smile.