BABY'S RIDE.
Clear the way all, move the playthings aside,
Baby is having a glorious ride:
See! from the hall he comes galloping in,
Dimpled hands folded beneath papa's chin.
Golden curls flying, fat cheeks all aglow,
Three pearly teeth peeping out in a row:
Hark! how he crows, and laughs out in his glee!
Never was baby more happy than he.
Now he goes trotting along to the town,
Far away, far away, up hill and down;
Back to mamma then as quick as he can,
There's a good ride for papa's little man!
RUTH REVERE.
