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Poem	What is it that makes little Emily cry? Come then, let mamma wipe the tear from her eye: There -- lay down your head on my bosom -- that's right, And now tell mamma what's the matter to-night. What! Emmy is sleepy, and tired with play? Come, Betty, make haste then, and fetch her away; But do not be fretful, my darling; you know Mamma cannot love little girls that are so. She shall soon go to bed and forget it all there Ah! here's her sweet smile come again, I declare: That's right, for I thought you quite naughty before. Good night, my dear child, but don't fret any more.
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