The Baby.

A poem by H. P. Nichols

We've the dearest baby sister!
And so small and sweet is she,
That we love to stand beside her,
All her cunning ways to see.

She can talk in baby language,
She can laugh, and she can crow;
She's the pet and she's the darling,
She's the sweetest one we know.

Mother says that she will always
Be a sweet and gentle child,
If, in all our actions towards her,
We are loving, good, and mild.

Let us, then, be kind and pleasant
Ever to our little pet;
Nor to thank the God who gave her,
Morn and night, let us forget.

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