I can’t, mamma, the little minx
May play with whom she can;
And while she lives she shall not have
My waxen doll again.
“With any other little girl
I should be glad to play;
But I don’t love our Frances, Ma,
I wish she’d go away.
MOTHER.
Amelia, little Betsy Smith
Spends all her time alone;
She had a little sister once,
But now she’s dead and gone.
Betsy, like you, was very cross,
And when she used to play
“With pretty little Emeline,
She’d quarrel every day.
One time her sister said to her,
“Don’t, Betsy, be so cross;
Indeed, I am not well to-day,
And fear I shall be worse.”
“Not well! Oh, yes, you’re very sick!
I don’t believe it’s true;
You only want to coax Mamma
To get nice things for you.”
But Emeline grew worse and worse,
Till she could hardly speak;
And when the doctor came he said,
She would not live a week.
And then it rushed on Betsy’s mind,
How wicked she had been;
The cruel treatment of the child
She never felt till then.
Over her sister’s bed she hung,
With many a bitter sigh,
And laid her arms about her neck,
and begged her not to die.