Who picked all the fine berries and the yellow plums, the juicy, dark red cherries from the young trees over there, so that it was a pleasure to see her? Cornelli, of course! And now she won't even look at anything. All the berries are dried up by now and spoiled, and the fine cherries, too. The yellow plums, also, are lying under the tree by the dozen. They are only meant for children; the ladies won't bother about them and one can't cook them, either. So they fall down and lie there, and Cornelli never raises her head ...
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Who picked all the fine berries and the yellow plums, the juicy, dark red cherries from the young trees over there, so that it was a pleasure to see her? Cornelli, of course! And now she won't even look at anything. All the berries are dried up by now and spoiled, and the fine cherries, too. The yellow plums, also, are lying under the tree by the dozen. They are only meant for children; the ladies won't bother about them and one can't cook them, either. So they fall down and lie there, and Cornelli never raises her head when she goes by them. Cornelli, the heroine, suffers temporarily from the unjust suspicion of her elders, a misfortune which, it is to be feared, still occurs frequently in the case of sensitive children.
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