The Simple Story

'Dame, we should know before we go to rest,'Whence comes this Girl, and how she came distrest.'Wake her, and ask; for she is sorely bruis'd:'I long to know by whom she's thus misus'd.

'Child, what's your name? how came you in the storm?'Have you no home to keep you dry and warm?'Who gave you all those wounds your shoulders show?'Where are your Parents? Whither would you go?

The Stranger bursting into tears, look'd pale,And this the purport of her artless tale.'I have no Parents; and no friends beside:'I well remember when my Mother died:'My Brother cried; and so did I that day:'We had no Father;--he was gone away;'That night we left our home new cloaths to wear:'The Work-house found them; we were carried there.'We lov'd each other dearly; when we met'We always shar'd what trifles we could get.Rustic Hospitality and Protection of the friendless.

But George was older by a year than me:--He parted from me and was sent to Sea."Good-bye, dear Phoebe," the poor fellow said!Perhaps he'll come again; perhaps he's dead.When I grew strong enough I went to place,My Mistress had a sour ill-natured face;And though I've been so often beat and chid,I strove to please her, Sir: indeed, I did.Weary and spiritless to bed I crept,And always cried at night before I slept.This Morning I offended; and I boreA cruel beating, worse than all before.Unknown to all the House I ran away;And thus far travell'd through the sultry day;And, O don't send me back! I dare not go.'--'I send you back!' the Miller cried, 'no, no.'Th' appeals of Wretchedness had weight with him,And Sympathy would warm him every limb;

The Child becomes one of the Family.

He mutter'd, glorying in the work begun,'Well done, my little Wench; 'twas nobly done!'Then said, with looks more cheering than the fire,And feelings such as Pity can inspire,'My house has childless been this many a year;While you deserve it you shall tarry here.'The Orphan mark'd the ardor of his eye,Blest his kind words, and thank'd him with a sigh.

Thus was the sacred compact doubly seal'd;Thus were her spirits rais'd, her bruises heal'd:Thankful, and cheerful too, no more afraid,Thus little PHOEBE was the Miller's Maid.Grateful they found her; patient of controul:A most bewitching gentleness of soulMade pleasure of what work she had to do:She grew in stature, and in beauty too.

Five years she pass'd in this delightful home;Five happy years: but, when the sixth was come,