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Title: The Dog's Book of Verse
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

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  The Dog's Book

  of Verse



  Collected by

  J. Earl Clauson


  "'I never barked when out of season;
  I never bit without a reason;
  I ne'er insulted weaker brother,
  Nor wronged by fraud or force another;'
  Though brutes are placed a rank below,
  Happy for man could he say so."

  [Illustration: Crest]


  Boston
  Small, Maynard & Company
  Publishers



  Copyright, 1916

  BY SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY

  (INCORPORATED)



  TO

  THE MEMORY OF

  JACK,

  AN AIREDALE



  PREFACE


  Matthew Arnold, explaining why those were his most popular poems
  which dealt with his canine pets, Geist, Kaiser, and Max, said
  that while comparatively few loved poetry, nearly everyone loved
  dogs.

  The literature of the Anglo-Saxon is rich in tributes to the
  dog, as becomes a race which beyond any other has understood and
  developed its four-footed companions. Canine heroes whose
  intelligence and faithfulness our prose writers have celebrated
  start to the memory in scores--Bill Sykes's white shadow, which
  refused to be separated from its master even by death; Rab,
  savagely devoted; the immortal Bob, "son of battle"--true souls
  all, with hardly a villain among them for artistic contrast.
  Even Red Wull, the killer, we admire for his courage and lealty.

  Within these covers is a selection from a large body of dog
  verse. It is a selection made on the principle of human appeal.
  Dialect, and the poems of the earlier writers whose diction
  strikes oddly on our modern ears, have for the most part been
  omitted. The place of such classics as may be missed is filled
  by that vagrant verse which is often most truly the flower of
  inspiration.



  CONTENTS


  PART I
  PUPPYHOOD

  TITLE                               AUTHOR                      PAGE

  We Meet at Morn                     _Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley_  3

  The Lost Puppy                      _Henry Firth Wood_             5

  A Laugh in Church                   _Anonymous_                    8

  Treasures                           _Anonymous_                   10

  That There Long Dog                 _Alice Gill Ferguson_         11

  My Friend                           _Anonymous_                   12

  Ted                                 _Maxine Anna Buck_            14

  Little Lost Pup                     _Anonymous_                   16

  My Brindle Bull-Terrier             _Coletta Ryan_                18

  Lauth                               _Robert Burns_                20

  The Drowned Spaniel                 _Charles Tennyson Turner_     21


  PART II
  THE HUMAN RELATIONSHIP

  Cluny                               _William Croswell Doane_      25

  The Best Friend                     _Meribah Abbott_              26

  My Dog and I                        _Alice J. Chester_            27

  My Gentleman                        _Anonymous_                   29

  The Dead Boy's Portrait and His Dog _Gerald Massey_               31

  Advice to a Dog Painter             _Jonathan Swift_              33

  Mercy's Reward                      _Sir Edwin Arnold_            34

  Beau and the Water Lily             _William Cowper_              37

  Petronius                           _Frederic P. Ladd_            39

  My Dog                              _Joseph M. Anderson_          40

  Charity's Eye                       _William Rounseville Alger_   42

  To Blanco                           _J.G. Holland_                44

  The Ould Hound                      _Arthur Stringer_             46

  The Miser's Only Friend             _George Crabbe_               48

  Poor Dog Tray                       _Thomas Campbell_             51

  My Comforter                        _Anonymous_                   53

  The Little White Dog                _May Ellis Nichols_           54

  The Irish Greyhound                 _Katherine Phillips_          55

  The Vagabonds                       _J.T. Trowbridge_             57

  In Cineam                           _Sir John Davies_             62

  Old Matthew's Dog                   _Anonymous_                   63

  A Dog and a Man                     _Anonymous_                   67

  Rover-Dog                           _Marie Louise Tompkins_       68

  Horse, Dog and Man                  _S.E. Kiser_                  70

  The Best Dog                        _Anonymous_                   73

  Cæsar, King Edward's Dog            _O. Middleton_                75

  Just Our Dog                        _Anonymous_                   76

  Ragged Rover                        _Leslie Clare Manchester_     78

  To Flush, My Dog                    _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_  80

  Frances                             _Richard Wightman_            86

  To My Setter, Scout                 _Frank H. Selden_             88

  Why Strik'st Thou Me?               _Nathan Haskell Dole_
                                                     (_Translator_) 90

  Consolation                         _Howard C. Kegley_            92

  Argus                               _Alexander Pope_              93

  Chained in the Yard                 _Anonymous_                   94

  Why the Dog's Nose is Cold          _Margaret Eytinge_            95

  Dog Language                        _Marion Hovey Briggs_         97

  A Dog's Loyalty                     _Anonymous_                   98


  PART III
  THE DOG IN ACTION

  Told to the Missionary              _George R. Sims_             101

  The Dog of the Louvre               _Ralph Cecil_                106

  The Chase                           _Lord Somerville_            109

  The Under Dog                       _Anonymous_                  111

  The Shepherd and His Dog            _William Lisle Bowles_       112

  Beth Gelert                         _William Robert Spencer_     113

  The Flag and the Faithful           _William J. Lampton_         117

  A Guardian at the Gate              _John Clare_                 118

  A Tale of the Reign of Terror       _Caroline Bowles Southey_    119

  An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog  _Oliver Goldsmith_           126

  The Fusiliers' Dog                  _Francis Doyle_              128

  Fidelity                            _William Wordsworth_         131

  The Shepherd Dog of the Pyrenees    _Ellen Murray_               134

  The Dog Under the Wagon             _Anonymous_                  137

  Sal's Towser and My Trouser         _Anonymous_                  139

  Rover in Church                     _James Buckham_              141


  PART IV
  THE DOG'S HEREAFTER

  Billy                               _Lorenzo Sears_              145

  The Bond                            _George H. Nettle_           147

  To a Dog                            _Anonymous_                  148

  Canine Immortality                  _Robert Southey_             150

  A Friendly Welcome                  _Lord Byron_                 152

  Exemplary Nick                      _Sydney Smith_               153

  The Difference                      _Anonymous_                  154

  Laddie                              _Katherine Lee Bates_        155

  A Dog's Epitaph                     _Lord Byron_                 157

  The Passing of a Dog                _Anonymous_                  159

  My Dog                              _Anonymous_                  160

  Jack                                _H.P.W._                     161

  In Memory of "Don"                  _M.S.W._                     162

  Roderick Dhu                        _Helen Fitzgerald Sanders_   164

  Questions                           _William Hurrell Mallock_    166

  His Epitaph                         _William Watson_             167

  In Memoriam                         _Henry Willett_              168

  Questions                           _Oliver Wendell Holmes_      170

  Our Dog Jock                        _James Payn_                 171

  Tory, a Puppy                       _Mortimer Collins_           172

  On an Irish Retriever               _Fanny Kemble Butler_        173

  A Retriever's Epitaph               _Robert C. Lehmann_          174



  PART I

  PUPPYHOOD


  _"What other nature yours than of a child
  Whose dumbness finds a voice mighty to call,
  In wordless pity, to the souls of all,
  Whose lives I turn to profit, and whose mute
  And constant friendship links the man and brute?"_



  THE DOG'S BOOK OF VERSE

  WE MEET AT MORN


  Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear
  A patter coming nearer and more near,
  And then upon my chamber door
  A gentle tapping,
  For dogs, though proud, are poor,
  And if a tail will do to give command
  Why use a hand?
  And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping,
  And next a scuffle on the passage floor,
  And then I know the creature lies to watch
  Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch.
  And like a spring
  That gains its power by being tightly stayed,
  The impatient thing
  Into the room
  Its whole glad heart doth fling,
  And ere the gloom
  Melts into light, and window blinds are rolled,
  I hear a bounce upon the bed,
  I feel a creeping toward me--a soft head,
  And on my face
  A tender nose, and cold--
  This is the way, you know, that dogs embrace--
  And on my hand, like sun-warmed rose-leaves flung,
  The least faint flicker of the warmest tongue
  --And so my dog and I have met and sworn
  Fresh love and fealty for another morn.

    HARDWICKE DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.



  THE LOST PUPPY


  Say! little pup,
      What's up?
  Your tail is down
    And out of sight
  Between your legs;
    Why, that ain't right.
      Little pup,
        Brace up!

  Say! little pup,
      Look up!
  Don't hang your head
    And look so sad,
  You're all mussed up,
    But you ain't mad.
      Little pup,
        Cheer up!

  Say! little pup,
      Stir up!
  Is that a string
    Around your tail?
  And was it fast
    To a tin pail?
      Little pup,
        Git up.

  Say! little pup,
      Talk up.
  Were those bad boys
    All after you,
  With sticks and stones,
    And tin cans, too?
      Little pup,
        Speak up!

  Say! little pup,
      Stand up!
  Let's look at you;
    You'd be all right
  If you was scrubbed
    And shined up bright.
      Little pup,
        Jump up!

  Say! little pup,
      Bark up!
  Let's hear your voice.
    Say, you're a brick!
  Now try to beg
    And do a trick.
      Little pup,
        Sit up!

  Say! little pup,
      Chime up!
  Why, you can sing--
    Now come with me;
  Let's wash and eat
    And then we'll see,
      Little pup,
        What's up!

    HENRY FIRTH WOOD.



  A LAUGH IN CHURCH


  She sat on the sliding cushion,
  The dear, wee woman of four;
  Her feet, in their shiny slippers,
  Hung dangling over the floor.
  She meant to be good; she had promised,
  And so with her big, brown eyes,
  She stared at the meetinghouse windows
  And counted the crawling flies.

  She looked far up at the preacher,
  But she thought of the honeybees
  Droning away at the blossoms
  That whitened the cherry trees.
  She thought of a broken basket,
  Where curled in a dusky heap,
  Four sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears.
  Lay snuggled and fast asleep.

  Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle,
  Such queer little hearts to beat,
  Such swift round tongues to kiss,
  Such sprawling, cushiony feet;
  She could feel in her clasping fingers
  The touch of the satiny skin,
  And a cold, wet nose exploring
  The dimples under her chin.

  Then a sudden ripple of laughter
  Ran over the parted lips
  So quick that she could not catch it
  With her rosy finger-tips.
  The people whispered "Bless the child,"
  As each one waked from a nap,
  But the dear, wee woman hid her face
  For shame in her mother's lap.

    ANONYMOUS.



  TREASURES


  They got a bran' new baby
    At Bud Hicks' house, you see.
  You'd think Bud Hicks had somethin'
    The way he talks to me!
  He comes around a-braggin',
    An' when he wouldn't quit
  I said: "What good's a baby?
    You can't hunt fleas on it."

  Then Bud turned to me an' told me
    How loud that kid could yell,
  An' lots I can't remember,
    He had so much to tell.
  But I got tired o' hearin'
    An' so I ast him, quick,
  "If you wuz in a-swimmin'
    Could it go get a stick?"

  There is no use a-talkin',
    Bud thinks their baby's fine!
  Huh! I'd a whole lot rather
    Jest have a pup like mine.
  I'll bet it's not bald-headed!
    But if Bud doesn't fail
  To let me hear it yellin',
    I'll let him pull Spot's tail.

    ANONYMOUS.



  THAT THERE LONG DOG


  Funniest little feller
  You'd ever want to see!
  Browner 'an the brownest leaf
  In the autumn tree.
  Shortest little bow legs!
  Jes' barely touch the floor--
  And long--b'gosh, the longest dog
  I ever seen afore!

  But he's mighty amusin',
  For all 'at he's so queer,
  Eyes so mighty solemn,
  Askin' like an' clear,
  And when he puts his paws up,
  Head stuck on one side--
  Jes' naturally love every hair
  In his durn Dutch hide.

    ALICE GILL FERGUSON.



  MY FRIEND


  True and trustful, never doubting,
  Is my young and handsome friend;
              Always jolly,
              Full of fun,
              Bright eyes gleaming
              Like the sun--
  Never see him blue or pouting
  From the day's break to its end.

  Whether I am "flush" or "busted"
  Makes no difference to him!
              "Let's be gay, sir"--
              He would say, sir--
              "Won't have any
              Other way, sir!"
  Oh, he's never cross and crusted--
  Light of heart and full of vim!

  Often we go out together
  For a ramble far and wide--
              Catch the breezes
              Fresh and strong
              Down the mountain
              Swept along--
  For we never mind the weather
  When we two are side by side.

  But my friend is sometimes quiet,
  And I've caught his clear brown eye
              Gazing at me,
              Mute, appealing--
              Telling something,
              Yet concealing,
  Yes, he'd like to talk! Well, try it--
  "Bow, wow, wow," and that's his cry!

    ANONYMOUS.



  TED


  I have a little brindle dog,
  Seal-brown from tail to head.
  His name I guess is Theodore,
  But I just call him Ted.

  He's only eight months old to-day
  I guess he's just a pup;
  Pa says he won't be larger
  When he is all grown up.

  He plays around about the house,
  As good as he can be,
  He don't seem like a little dog,
  He's just like folks to me.

  And when it is my bed-time,
  Ma opens up the bed;
  Then I nestle down real cozy
  And just make room for Ted

  And oh, how nice we cuddle!
  He doesn't fuss or bite,
  Just nestles closely up to me
  And lays there still all night.

  We love each other dearly,
  My little Ted and me.
  We're just good chums together,
  And always hope to be.

    MAXINE ANNA BUCK.



  LITTLE LOST PUP


  He was lost!--Not a shade of doubt of that;
  For he never barked at a slinking cat,
  But stood in the square where the wind blew raw,
  With a drooping ear, and a trembling paw,
  And a mournful look in his pleading eye,
  And a plaintive sniff at the passer-by
  That begged as plain as a tongue could sue,
  "Oh, Mister, please may I follow you?"
  A lorn, wee waif of a tawny brown
  Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.
  Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin
  Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in!

  Well, he won my heart (for I set great store
  On my own red Bute, who is here no more)
  So I whistled clear, and he trotted up,
  And who so glad as that small lost pup?

  Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed,
  And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread.
  Then if things go wrong, as they sometimes do,
  And the world is cold, and I'm feeling blue,
  He asserts his right to assuage my woes
  With a warm, red tongue and a nice, cold nose,
  And a silky head on my arm or knee,
  And a paw as soft as a paw can be.

  When we rove the woods for a league about
  He's as full of pranks as a school let out;
  For he romps and frisks like a three-months colt,
  And he runs me down like a thunder-bolt.
  Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair
  Is a gay little pup with his tail in air!

    ANONYMOUS.



  MY BRINDLE BULL-TERRIER


  My brindle bull-terrier, loving and wise,
  With his little screw-tail and his wonderful eyes,
  With his white little breast and his white little paws
  Which, alas! he mistakes very often for claws;
  With his sad little gait as he comes from the fight
  When he feels that he hasn't done all that he might;
  Oh, so fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog,
  My near little, queer little, dear little dog!

  He shivers and shivers and shakes with the cold;
  He huddles and cuddles, though three summers old.
  And forsaking the sunshine, endeavors to rove
  With his cold little worriments under the stove!

  At table, his majesty, dying for meat,--
  Yet never despising a lump that is sweet,--
  Sits close by my side with his head on my knee
  And steals every good resolution from me!
  How can I withhold from those worshipping eyes
  A small bit of something that stealthily flies
  Down under the table and into his mouth
  As I tell my dear neighbor of life in the South.

  My near little, queer little, dear little dog,
  So fearless of man, yet afraid of a frog!
  The nearest and queerest and dearest of all
  The race that is loving and winning and small;
  The sweetest, most faithful, the truest and best
  Dispenser of merriment, love and unrest!

    COLETTA RYAN.



  LAUTH


  He was a gash and faithfu' tyke
  As ever lapt a sheugh or dyke.
  His honest, sawnsie, bawsint face
  Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
  His breast was white, his towsie back
  Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black.
  His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
  Hung ower his hurdies wi' a swurl.

    ROBERT BURNS.



  THE DROWNED SPANIEL


    The day-long bluster of the storm was o'er,
  The sands were bright; the winds had fallen asleep,
  And, from the far horizon, o'er the deep
    The sunset swam unshadowed to the shore.

    High up, the rainbow had not passed away,
  When, roving o'er the shingle beach, I found
  A little waif, a spaniel newly drowned;
    The shining waters kissed him as he lay.

  In some kind heart thy gentle memory dwells,
  I said, and, though thy latest aspect tells
    Of drowning pains and mortal agony,
    Thy master's self might weep and smile to see
  His little dog stretched on these rosy shells,
    Betwixt the rainbow and the rosy sea.

    CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.



  PART II

  THE HUMAN RELATIONSHIP


  _"A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in
  health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where
  the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he
  can be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no
  food to offer, he will lick the wounds and sores that come in
  encounter with the roughness of the world. When all other
  friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and
  reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the
  sun in its journey through the heavens."_

    SENATOR GEORGE GRAHAM VEST.



  CLUNY


  I am quite sure he thinks that I am God--
  Since he is God on whom each one depends
  For life, and all things that his bounty sends--
  My dear old dog, most constant of all friends;

  Not quick to mind, but quicker far than I
  To him whom God I know and own; his eye,
  Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod;
  He is more patient underneath the rod

  Than I, when God his wise corrections sends.
  He looks love at me deep as words e'er spake,
  And from me never crumb or sup will take
  But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail.

  And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear
  He is content and quiet if I'm near,
  Secure that my protection will prevail!

  So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he
  Tells me what I unto my God should be.

    WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE.



  THE BEST FRIEND


  If I was sad, then he had grief, as well--
  Seeking my hands with soft insistent paw,
  Searching my face with anxious eyes that saw
  More than my halting, human speech could tell;
  Eyes wide with wisdom, fine, compassionate--
  Dear, loyal one, that knew not wrong nor hate.

  If I made merry--then how he would strive
  To show his joy; "Good master, let's to play,
  The world is ours," that gladsome bark would say;
  "Just yours and mine--'tis fun to be alive!"
  Our world ... four walls above the city's din,
  My crutch the bar that ever held us in.

  Whate'er my mood--the fretful word, or sweet,
  The swift command, the wheedling undertone,
  His faith was fixed, his love was mine, alone,
  His heaven was here at my slow crippled feet:
  Oh, friend thrice-lost; oh, fond heart unassailed,
  Ye taught me trust when man's dull logic failed.

    MERIBAH ABBOTT.



  MY DOG AND I


  When living seems but little worth
  And all things go awry,
  I close the door, we journey forth--
  My dog and I!

  For books and pen we leave behind,
  But little careth he,
  His one great joy in life is just
  To be with me.

  He notes by just one upward glance
  My mental attitude,
  As on we go past laughing stream
  And singing wood.

  The soft winds have a magic touch
  That brings to care release,
  The trees are vocal with delight,
  The rivers sing of peace.

  How good it is to be alive!
  Nature, the healer strong,
  Has set each pulse with life athrill
  And joy and song.

  Discouragement! 'Twas but a name,
  And all things that annoy,
  Out in the lovely world of June
  Life seemeth only joy!

  And ere we reach the busy town,
  Like birds my troubles fly,
  We are two comrades glad of heart--
  My dog and I!

    ALICE J. CLEATOR.



  MY GENTLEMAN


  I own a dog who is a gentleman;
  By birth most surely, since the creature can
  Boast of a pedigree the like of which
  Holds not a Howard nor a Metternich.

  By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod
  He never wagged an unkind tale abroad,
  He never snubbed a nameless cur because
  Without a friend or credit card he was.

  By pride. He looks you squarely in the face
  Unshrinking and without a single trace
  Of either diffidence or arrogant
  Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt.

  By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear
  With absolute impunity his hair,
  And pinch his silken, flowing ears, the while
  He smiles upon her--yes, I've seen him smile.

  By loyalty. No truer friend than he
  Has come to prove his friendship's worth to me.
  He does not fear the master--knows no fear--
  But loves the man who is his master here.

  By countenance. If there be nobler eyes,
  More full of honor and of honesties,
  In finer head, on broader shoulders found,
  Then have I never met the man or hound.

  Here is the motto on my lifeboat's log:
  "God grant I may be worthy of my dog!"

    ANONYMOUS.



  THE DEAD BOY'S PORTRAIT
  AND HIS DOG


  Day after day I have come and sat
  Beseechingly upon the mat,
  Wistfully wondering where you are at.

  Why have they placed you on the wall,
  So deathly still, so strangely tall?
  You do not turn from me, nor call.

  Why do I never hear my name?
  Why are you fastened in a frame?
  You are the same, and not the same.

  Away from me why do you stare
  So far out in the distance where
  I am not? I am here! Not there!

  What has your little doggie done?
  You used to whistle me to run
  Beside you, or ahead, for fun!

  You used to pat me, and a glow
  Of pleasure through my life would go!
  How is it that I shiver so?

  My tail was once a waving flag
  Of welcome. Now I cannot wag
  It for the weight I have to drag.

  I know not what has come to me.
  'Tis only in my sleep I see
  Things smiling as they used to be.

  I do not dare to bark; I plead
  But dumbly, and you never heed;
  Nor my protection seem to need.

  I watch the door, I watch the gate;
  I am watching early, watching late,
  Your doggie still!--I watch and wait.

    GERALD MASSEY.



  ADVICE TO A DOG PAINTER


  Happiest of the spaniel race,
  Painter, with thy colors grace,
  Draw his forehead large and high,
  Draw his blue and humid eye;
  Draw his neck, so smooth and round,
  Little neck with ribands bound;
  And the musely swelling breast
  Where the Loves and Graces rest;
  And the spreading, even back,
  Soft, and sleek, and glossy black;
  And the tail that gently twines,
  Like the tendrils of the vines;
  And the silky twisted hair,
  Shadowing thick the velvet ear;
  Velvet ears which, hanging low,
  O'er the veiny temples flow.

    JONATHAN SWIFT.



  MERCY'S REWARD


                    Hast seen
  The record written of Salah-ud-Deen,
  The Sultan--how he met, upon a day,
  In his own city on the public way,
  A woman whom they led to die? The veil
  Was stripped from off her weeping face, and pale
  Her shamed cheeks were, and wild her fixed eye,
  And her lips drawn with terror at the cry
  Of the harsh people, and the rugged stones
  Borne in their hands to break her flesh and bones;
  For the law stood that sinners such as she
  Perish by stoning, and this doom must be;
  So went the adult'ress to her death.
  High noon it was, and the hot Khamseen's breath
  Blew from the desert sands and parched the town.
  The crows gasped, and the kine went up and down
  With lolling tongues; the camels moaned; a crowd
  Pressed with their pitchers, wrangling high and loud
  About the tank; and one dog by a well,
  Nigh dead with thirst, lay where he yelped and fell,
  Glaring upon the water out of reach,
  And praying succour in a silent speech,
  So piteous were its eyes.
                    Which, when she saw,
  This woman from her foot her shoe did draw,
  Albeit death-sorrowful, and, looping up
  The long silk of her girdle, made a cup
  Of the heel's hollow, and thus let it sink
  Until it touched the cool black water's brink;
  So filled th' embroidered shoe, and gave a draught
  To the spent beast, which whined, and fawned, and quaffed
  Her kind gift to the dregs; next licked her hand,
  With such glad looks that all might understand
  He held his life from her; then, at her feet
  He followed close, all down the cruel street,
  Her one friend in that city.
                    But the King,
  Riding within his litter, marked this thing,
  And how the woman, on her way to die
  Had such compassion for the misery
  Of that parched hound: "Take off her chain, and place
  The veil once more about the sinner's face,
  And lead her to her house in peace!" he said.
  "The law is that the people stone thee dead
  For that which thou hast wrought; but there is come
  Fawning around thy feet a witness dumb,
  Not heard upon thy trial; this brute beast
  Testifies for thee, sister! whose weak breast
  Death could not make ungentle. I hold rule
  In Allah's stead, who is 'the Merciful,'
  And hope for mercy; therefore go thou free--
  I dare not show less pity unto thee."

    As we forgive--and more than we--
    Ya Barr! Good God, show clemency.

    SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.



  BEAU AND THE WATER LILY


  The noon was shady, and soft airs
    Swept Ouse's silent tide,
  When 'scaped from literary cares
    I wandered on his side.

  My spaniel, prettiest of his race,
    And high in pedigree
  (Two nymphs adorned with every grace
    That spaniel found for me)

  Now wantoned, lost in flags and reeds,
    Now starting into sight,
  Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
    With scarce a slower flight.

  It was the time that Ouse displayed
    His lilies newly blown;
  Their beauties I intent surveyed,
    And one I wished my own.

  With cane extended far I sought
    To steer it close to land;
  But still the prize, though nearly caught,
    Escaped my eager hand.

  Beau marked my unsuccessful pains
    With fixed, considerate face,
  And puzzling, set his puppy brains
    To comprehend the case.

  But with a chirrup clear and strong
    Dispersing all his dream,
  I thence withdrew, and followed long
    The windings of the stream.

  My ramble ended, I returned;
    Beau trotting far before
  The floating wreath again discerned,
    And, plunging, left the shore.

  I saw him, with that lily cropped,
    Impatient swim to meet
  My quick approach, and soon he dropped
    The treasure at my feet.

  Charmed with the sight, "The world," I cried,
    "Shall hear of this thy deed;
  My dog shall mortify the pride
    Of man's superior breed:

  "But chief myself I will enjoin
    Awake at duty's call,
  To show a love as prompt as thine
    To Him who gives me all."

    WILLIAM COWPER.



  PETRONIUS


  A dog there was, Petronius by name--
  A cur of no degree, yet which the same
  Rejoiced him; because so worthless he
  That in his worthlessness remarkably
  He shone, th' example de luxe of how a cur
  May be the very limit of a slur
  Upon the honored name of dog; a joke
  He was, a satire blasphemous; he broke
  The records all for sheer insulting "bunk;"
  No dog had ever breathed who was so punk!

  And yet that cur, Petronius by name,
  Enkindled in his master's heart a flame
  Of love, affection, reverence, so rare
  That had he been an angel bright and fair
  The homage paid him had been less; you see
  The red-haired boy who owned him had a bee--
  There was no other dog on land or sea.
  Petronius was solid; he just was
  The dog, the only dog on earth, because--
  Because a red-haired boy who likes his dog,
  He likes that dog so much no other dog
  Exists--and that, my friends, is loyalty,
  Than which there is no grander ecstasy.

    FREDERIC P. LADD.



  MY DOG


  Here is a friend who proves his worth
  Without conceit or pride of birth.
  Let want or plenty play the host,
  He gets the least and gives the most--
              He's just a dog.

  He's ever faithful, kind and true;
  He never questions what I do,
  And whether I may go or stay,
  He's always ready to obey
              'Cause he's a dog.

  Such meager fare his want supplies!
  A hand caress, and from his eyes
  There beams more love than mortals know;
  Meanwhile he wags his tail to show
              That he's my dog.

  He watches me all through the day,
  And nothing coaxes him away;
  And through the night-long slumber deep
  He guards the home wherein I sleep--
              And he's a dog.

  I wonder if I'd be content
  To follow where my master went,
  And where he rode--as needs he must--
  Would I run after in his dust
              Like other dogs.

  How strange if things were quite reversed--
  The man debased, the dog put first.
  I often wonder how 'twould be
  Were he the master 'stead of me--
              And I the dog.

  A world of deep devotion lies
  Behind the windows of his eyes;
  Yet love is only half his charm--
  He'd die to shield my life from harm.
              Yet he's a dog.

  If dogs were fashioned out of men
  What breed of dog would I have been?
  And would I e'er deserve caress,
  Or be extolled for faithfulness
              Like my dog here?

  As mortals go, how few possess
  Of courage, trust, and faithfulness
  Enough from which to undertake,
  Without some borrowed traits, to make
              A decent dog!

    JOSEPH M. ANDERSON.



  CHARITY'S EYE


  One evening Jesus lingered in the marketplace,
  Teaching the people parables of truth and grace,
  When in the square remote a crowd was seen to rise,
  And stop with loathing gestures and abhorring cries.
  The Master and his meek disciples went to see
  What cause for this commotion and disgust could be,
  And found a poor dead dog beside the gutter laid--
  Revolting sight! at which each face its hate betrayed.

  One held his nose, one shut his eyes, one turned away,
  And all among themselves began to say:
  "Detested creature! he pollutes the earth and air!"
  "His eyes are blear!" "His ears are foul!" "His ribs are bare!"
  "In his torn hide there's not a decent shoestring left,
  No doubt the execrable cur was hung for theft."
  Then Jesus spake, and dropped on him the saving wreath:
  "Even pearls are dark before the whiteness of his teeth."

  The pelting crowd grew silent and ashamed, like one
  Rebuked by sight of wisdom higher than his own;
  And one exclaimed: "No creature so accursed can be
  But some good thing in him a loving eye will see."

    WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER.



  TO BLANCO


  My dear, dumb friend, low-lying there,
    A willing vassal at my feet,
  Glad partner of my home and fare,
    My shadow in the street,

  I look into your great, brown eyes,
    Where love and loyal homage shine,
  And wonder where the difference lies
    Between your soul and mine.

  For all of good that I have found
    Within myself, or human kind,
  Hath royally informed and crowned
    Your gentle heart and mind.

  I scan the whole broad earth around
    For that one heart which, leal and true,
  Bears friendship without end or bound,
    And find the prize in you.

  I trust you as I trust the stars;
    Nor cruel loss, nor scoff, nor pride,
  Nor beggary, nor dungeon bars,
    Can move you from my side.

  As patient under injury
    As any Christian saint of old,
  As gentle as a lamb with me,
    But with your brothers bold.

  More playful than a frolic boy,
    More watchful than a sentinel,
  By day and night your constant joy
    To guard and please me well.

  I clasp your head upon my breast,
    The while you whine, and lick my hand;
  And thus our friendship is confessed,
    And thus we understand.

  Ah, Blanco! Did I worship God
    As truly as you worship me,
  Or follow where my Master trod
    With your humility,

  Did I sit fondly at His feet,
    As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,
  And watch Him with a love as sweet,
    My life would grow divine.

    J.G. HOLLAND.



  THE OULD HOUND


  When Shamus made shift wid a turf-hut
    He'd naught but a hound to his name;
  And whither he went thrailed the ould friend,
    Dog-faithful and iver the same!

  And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time,
    He'd eat thro' a wall or a door,
  He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther,
    To be wid his master wanst more!

  And the two, faith, would share their last bannock;
    They'd share their last collop and bone;
  And deep in the starin' ould sad eyes
    Lean Shamus would stare wid his own!

  And loose hung the flanks av the ould hound
    When Shamus lay sick on his bed--
  Ay, waitin' and watchin' wid sad eyes
    He'd eat not av bone or av bread!

  But Shamus be springtime grew betther,
    And a trouble came into his mind;
  And he'd take himself off to the village,
    And be leavin' his hound behind!

  And deep was the whine of the ould dog
    Wid a love that was deeper than life--
  But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered
    That Shamus was takin' a wife!

  A wife and a fine house he got him;
    In a shay he went drivin' around;
  And I met him be chance at the cross-roads,
    And I says to him, "How's the ould hound?"

  "My wife never took to that ould dog,"
    Says he, wid a shrug av his slats,
  "So we've got us a new dog from Galway,
    _And och, he's the divil for rats!"_

    ARTHUR STRINGER.



  THE MISER'S ONLY FRIEND


  There watched a cur before the miser's gate--
  A very cur, whom all men seemed to hate;
  Gaunt, shaggy, savage, with an eye that shone
  Like a live coal; and he possessed but one.
  His bark was wild and eager, and became
  That meager body and that eye of flame;
  His master prized him much, and Fang his name,
  His master fed him largely, but not that
  Nor aught of kindness made the snarler fat.
  Flesh he devoured, but not a bit would stay--
  He barked, and snarled, and growled it all away.
  His ribs were seen extended like a rack,
  And coarse red hair hung roughly o'er his back.
  Lamed in one leg, and bruised in wars of yore,
  Now his sore body made his temper sore.
  Such was the friend of him who could not find,
  Nor make him one, 'mong creatures of his kind.
  Brave deeds of Fang his master often told,
  The son of Fury, famed in deeds of old,
  From Snatch and Rabid sprung; and noted they
  In earlier times--each dog will have his day.

  The notes of Fang were to his master known
  And dear--they bore some likeness to his own;
  For both conveyed, to the experienced ear,
  "I snarl and bite because I hate and fear."
  None passed ungreeted by the master's door,
  Fang railed at all, but chiefly at the poor;
  And when the nights were stormy, cold and dark,
  The act of Fang was a perpetual bark.
  But though the master loved the growl of Fang
  There were who vowed the ugly cur to hang,
  Whose angry master, watchful for his friend,
  As strongly vowed his servant to defend.

  In one dark night, and such as Fang before
  Was ever known its tempests to outroar,
  To his protector's wonder now expressed,
  No angry notes--his anger was at rest.
  The wond'ring master sought the silent yard,
  Left Phoebe sleeping, and his door unbarred,
  Nor more returned to that forsaken bed--
  But lo! the morning came, and he was dead.
  Fang and his master side by side were laid
  In grim repose--their debt to nature paid.
  The master's hand upon the cur's cold chest
  Was now reclined, and had before been pressed,
  As if he sought how deep and wide the wound
  That laid such spirit in a sleep so sound;
  And when he found it was the sleep of death
  A sympathizing sorrow stopped his breath.
  Close to his trusty servant he was found,
  As cold his body, and his sleep as sound.

    GEORGE CRABBE.



  POOR DOG TRAY


  On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
  No blithe Irish lad was as happy as I;
  No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
  And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

  When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
  She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart)
  "Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away,
  And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."

  Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
  And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
  When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
  I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

  When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
  And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
  How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,
  And he licked me for kindness--my poor dog Tray.

  Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
  Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
  But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day,
  And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.

  Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken and blind?
  Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?
  To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
  I can ne'er more return with my poor dog Tray.

    THOMAS CAMPBELL.



  MY COMFORTER


  The world had all gone wrong that day
    And tired and in despair,
  Discouraged with the ways of life,
    I sank into my chair.

  A soft caress fell on my cheek,
    My hands were thrust apart.
  And two big sympathizing eyes
    Gazed down into my heart.

  I had a friend; what cared I now
    For fifty worlds? I knew
  One heart was anxious when I grieved--
    My dog's heart, loyal, true.

  "God bless him," breathed I soft and low,
    And hugged him close and tight.
  One lingering lick upon my ear
    And we were happy--quite.

    ANONYMOUS.



  THE LITTLE WHITE DOG


  Little white dog with the meek brown eyes,
  Tell me the boon that most you prize.
  Would a juicy bone meet your heart's desire?
  Or a cozy rug by a blazing fire?
  Or a sudden race with a truant cat?
  Or a gentle word? Or a friendly pat?
  Is the worn-out ball you have always near
  The dearest of all the things held dear?
  Or is the home you left behind
  The dream of bliss to your doggish mind?
  But the little white dog just shook his head
  As if "None of these are best," he said.

  A boy's clear whistle came from the street;
  There's a wag of the tail and a twinkle of feet,
  And the little white dog did not even say,
  "Excuse me, ma'am," as he scampered away;
  But I'm sure as can be his greatest joy
  Is just to trot behind that boy.

    MAY ELLIS NICHOLS.



  THE IRISH GREYHOUND


  Behold this creature's form and state;
  Which nature therefore did create,
  That to the world might be exprest
  What mien there can be in a beast;
  And that we in this shape may find
  A lion of another kind.
  For this heroic beast does seem
  In majesty to rival him,
  And yet vouchsafes to man to show
  Both service and submission, too.
  From whence we this distinction have,
  That beast is fierce, but this is brave.
  This dog hath so himself subdued
  That hunger cannot make him rude,
  And his behavior does confess
  True courage dwells with gentleness.
  With sternest wolves he dares engage,
  And acts on them successful rage.
  Yet too much courtesy may chance
  To put him out of countenance.
  When in his opposer's blood
  Fortune hath made his virtue good,
  This creature from an act so brave
  Grows not more sullen, but more brave.
  Man's guard he would be, not his sport,
  Believing he hath ventured for't;
  But yet no blood, or shed or spent,
  Can ever make him insolent.
    Few men of him to do great things have learned,
    And when they're done to be so unconcerned.

    KATHERINE PHILLIPS.



  THE VAGABONDS


  We are two travellers, Roger and I.
  Roger's my dog.--Come here, you scamp!
  Jump for the gentleman,--mind your eye!
  Over the table,--look out for the lamp!
  The rogue is growing a little old;
  Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,
  And slept out-doors when nights were cold,
  And ate and drank--and starved--together.

  We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!
  A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,
  A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
  The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
  Plenty of catgut for my fiddle
  (This out-door business is bad for strings),
  Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,
  And Roger and I set up for kings!

  No, thank ye, Sir,--I never drink;
  Roger and I are exceedingly moral,--
  Aren't we, Roger?--See him wink!--
  Well, something hot, then,--we won't quarrel.
  He's thirsty, too,--see him nod his head?
  What a pity, Sir, that dogs can't talk!
  He understands every word that's said,--
  And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

  The truth is, Sir, now I reflect,
  I've been so sadly given to grog,
  I wonder I've not lost the respect
  (Here's to you, Sir!) even of my dog.
  But he sticks by, through thick and thin;
  And this old coat with its empty pockets,
  And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
  He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

  There isn't another creature living
  Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,
  So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving,
  To such a miserable, thankless master!
  No, Sir!--see him wag his tail and grin!
  By George! it makes my old eyes water!
  That is, there's something in this gin
  That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

  We'll have some music, if you're willing,
  And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, Sir!)
  Shall march a little--Start, you villain!
  Paws up! Eyes front! Salute your officer!
  'Bout face! Attention! Take your rifle!
  (Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your
  Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,
  To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

  March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
  When he stands up to hear his sentence.
  Now tell us how many drams it takes
  To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
  Five yelps,--that's five; he's mighty knowing!
  The night's before us, fill the glasses!--
  Quick, Sir! I'm ill,--my brain is going!--
  Some brandy,--thank you,--there!--it passes!

  Why not reform? That's easily said;
  But I've gone through such wretched treatment,
  Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,
  And scarce remembering what meat meant,
  That my poor stomach's past reform;
  And there are times when, mad with thinking,
  I'd sell out heaven for something warm
  To prop a horrible inward sinking.

  Is there a way to forget to think?
  At your age, Sir, home, fortune, friends,
  A dear girl's love,--but I took to drink,--
  The same old story; you know how it ends.
  If you could have seen these classic features,--
  You needn't laugh, Sir; they were not then
  Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
  I was one of your handsome men!

  If you had seen _her_, so fair and young,
  Whose head was happy on this breast!
  If you could have heard the songs I sung
  When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed
  That ever I, Sir, should be straying
  From door to door, with fiddle and dog,
  Ragged and penniless, and playing
  To you to-night for a glass of grog!

  She's married since,--a parson's wife:
  'Twas better for her that we should part,--
  Better the soberest, prosiest life
  Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
  I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
  On the dusty road: a carriage stopped:
  But little she dreamed, as on she went,
  Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

  You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry:
  It makes me wild to think of the change!
  What do you care for a beggar's story?
  Is it amusing? You find it strange?
  I had a mother so proud of me!
  'Twas well she died before.--Do you know
  If the happy spirits in heaven can see
  The ruin and wretchedness here below?

  Another glass, and strong, to deaden
  This pain; then Roger and I will start.
  I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
  Aching thing in place of a heart?
  He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
  No doubt remembering things that were,--
  A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
  And himself a sober, respectable cur.

  I'm better now; that glass was warming.--
  You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
  We must be fiddling and performing
  For supper and bed, or starve in the street.--
  Not a very gay life to lead, you think?
  But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
  And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink:--
  The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

    J.T. TROWBRIDGE.



  IN CINEAM


  Thou dogged Cineas, hated like a dog,
  For still thou grumblest like a masty dog,
  Compar'st thyself to nothing but a dog;
  Thou say'st thou art as weary as a dog,
  As angry, sick, and hungry as a dog,
  As dull and melancholy as a dog,
  As lazy, sleepy, idle as a dog.
  But why dost thou compare thee to a dog
  In that for which all men despise a dog?
  I will compare thee better to a dog;
  Thou art as fair and comely as a dog,
  Thou art as true and honest as a dog,
  Thou art as kind and liberal as a dog,
  Thou art as wise and valiant as a dog,
  But, Cineas, I have often heard thee tell
  Thou art as like thy father as may be:
  'Tis like enough; and, faith, I like it well;
  But I am glad thou art not like to me.

    SIR JOHN DAVIES.



  OLD MATTHEW'S DOG


  I am only a dog, and I've had my day;
    So, idle and dreaming, stretched out I lay
  In the welcome warmth of the summer sun,
    A poor old hunter whose work is done.

  Dream? Yes, indeed; though I am but a dog.
    Don't I dream of the partridge I sprung by the log?
  Of the quivering hare and her desperate flight,
    Of the nimble gray squirrel secure in his height,

  Far away in the top of the hickory tree,
    Looking down safe and saucy at Matthew and me,
  Till the hand, true and steady, a messenger shot,
    And the creature upbounded, and fell, and was not?

  Old Matthew was king of the wood-rangers then;
    And the quails in the stubble, the ducks in the fen,
  The hare on the common, the birds on the bough,
    Were afraid. They are safe enough now,

  For all we can harm them, old master and I.
    We have had our last hunt, the game must go by,
  While Matthew sits fashioning bows in the door,
    For a living. We'll never hunt more.

  For time, cold and hardship have stiffened his knee,
    And since little Lottie died, often I see
  His hands tremble sorely, and go to his eyes,
    For the lost baby daughter, so pretty and wise.

  Oh, it's sad to be old, and to see the blue sky
    Look far away to the dim, fading eye;
  To feel the fleet foot growing weary and sore
    That in forest and hamlet shall lag evermore.

  I am going--I hear the great wolf on my track;
    Already around me his shadow falls black.
  One hunting cry more! Oh, master, come nigh,
    And lay the white paw in your own as I die!

  Oh, come to me, master; the last hedge is passed--
    Our tramps in the wildwood are over at last;
  Stoop lower, and lay my head on your knee.
    What! Tears for a useless old hunter like me?

  You will see little Lottie again by and by.
    I shan't. They don't have any dogs in the sky.
  Tell her, loving and trusty, beside you I died,
    And--bury me, master, not far from her side.

  For we loved little Lottie so well, you and I.
    Ha, master, the shadow! Fire low--it is nigh--
  There was never a sound in the still morning heard,
    But the heart of the hunter his old jacket stirred.

  As he flung himself down on the brute's shaggy coat,
    And watched the faint life in its quivering throat
  Till it stopped quite at last. The black wolf had won,
    And the death-hunted hound into cover had run.

  But long ere the snow over graves softly fell,
    Old Matthew was resting from labor as well;
  While the cottage stood empty, yet back from the hill
    The voice of the hound in the morn echoed still.

    ANONYMOUS.



  A DOG AND A MAN


  He was a dog,
        But he stayed at home
        And guarded the family night and day.
  He was a dog
        That didn't roam.
        He lay on the porch or chased the stray--
        The tramps, the burglar, the hen, away;
        For a dog's true heart for that household beat
        At morning and evening, in cold and heat.
  He was a dog.

  He was a man,
        And didn't stay
        To cherish his wife and his children fair.
  He was a man.
        And every day
        His heart grew callous, its love-beats rare,
        He thought of himself at the close of day,
        And, cigar in his fingers, hurried away
        To the club, the lodge, the store, the show.
        But--he had a right to go, you know.
  He was a man.

    ANONYMOUS.



  ROVER-DOG


  Old Rover-Dog, he toasts his toes
    Right by th' chimney-fire wif me.
  I turned his long ear wrong side out
    An' he was s'rprised as he could be!
  An' nen he reached right out an' took
    An' int'rest in my lolly-pop--
  That's w'y I shook my finger hard
    At him, 'cause he jus' better stop.

  I ast him which his sweet toof was,
    An' he jus' laffed an' showed me where
  He keeps um, up an' down his mouf--
    (I guess there's mos' a hundred there).
  He's got a cunning little house,
    But you can't climb right in, at all--
  Ain't hardly big enough for him;
    I guess it is a size too small.

  'Cause when he is "at home" his head
    Stays looking out of his front door;
  His paws hang out convenient like,
    So's folks they will shake hands some more.
  Old Rover-Dog, w'en he likes folks,
    He thumps th' floor hard wif his tail--
  Where 'tis you've heard that sound before
    Is w'en your pa, he drives a nail.

  One time my Uncle Fred p'tend
    He's "tramp-mans" an' will come right in;
  I put my ear on Rover's back
    So's I could hear th' growl begin.
  An' oncet he thought he'd try his nap
    Right in my grampa's big armchair.
  My grampa, he sat down on him,
    'Cause "he wa'n't 'spectin' dogs was there."

  'N Rover walked off dignified
    An' curled his back up 'gainst th' wall--
  If grampas ain't got manners, w'y,
    He isn't goin' to care at all.
  That's w'y I went an' 'xplained to him
    How grampas, they ain't imperlite,
  A grampa has th' bestest chair
    Because his hair is very white.

  Nen Rover-Dog raise up one ear
    An' lift his nose fum off his paw,
  An' say his feelin's aren't all hurt
    If that was _candy_ that he saw!
  'N w'en he'd et my choc'late cream
    He went an' finished up his dream.

    MARIE LOUISE TOMPKINS.



  HORSE, DOG AND MAN


  The horse and the dog had tamed a man and
        fastened him to a fence:
  Said the horse to the dog: "For the life of
        me, I don't see a bit of sense
  In letting him have the thumbs that grow at
        the sides of his hands. Do you?"
  And the dog looked solemn and shook his head,
        and said: "I'm a goat if I do!"

  The poor man groaned and tried to get loose,
        and sadly he begged them, "Stay!
  You will rob me of things for which I have
        use by cutting my thumbs away!
  You will spoil my looks, you will cause me
        pain; ah, why would you treat me so?
  As I am, God made me, and He knows best!
        Oh, masters, pray let me go!"

  The dog laughed out, and the horse replied,
        "Oh, the cutting won't hurt you, see?
  We'll have a hot iron to clap right on, as you
        did in your docking of me!
  God gave you your thumbs and all, but still,
        the Creator, you know, may fail
  To do the artistic thing, as he did in the
        furnishing me with a tail."

  So they bound the man and cut off his thumbs,
        and were deaf to his pitiful cries,
  And they seared the stumps, and they viewed
        their work through happy and dazzled eyes.
  "How trim he appears," the horse exclaimed,
        "since his awkward thumbs are gone!
  For the life of me I cannot see why the Lord
        ever put them on!"

  "Still it seems to me," the dog replied, "that
        there's something else to do;
  His ears look rather too long for me, and how
        do they look to you?"
  The man cried out: "Oh, spare my ears!
        God fashioned them as you see,
  And if you apply your knife to them, you'll
        surely disfigure me."

  "But you didn't disfigure me, you know," the
        dog decisively said,
  "When you bound me fast and trimmed my
        ears down close to the top of my head!"
  So they let him moan and they let him groan
        while they cropped his ears away,
  And they praised his looks when they let him
        up, and proud indeed were they.

  But that was years and years ago, in an
        unenlightened age!
  Such things are ended, now, you know; we've
        reached a higher stage.
  The ears and thumbs God gave to man are his
        to keep and wear,
  And the cruel horse and dog look on, and
        never appear to care.

    S.E. KISER.



  THE BEST DOG


  Yes, I went to see the bow-wows, and I looked at every one,
  Proud dogs of each breed and strain that's underneath the sun;
  But not one could compare with--you may hear it with surprise--
  A little yellow dog I know that never took a prize.

  Not that they would have skipped him when they gave the ribbons out,
  Had there been a class to fit him--though his lineage is in doubt.
  No judge of dogs could e'er resist the honest, faithful eyes
  Of that plain little yellow dog that never took a prize.

  Suppose he wasn't trained to hunt, and never killed a rat,
  And isn't much on tricks or looks or birth--well, what of that?
  That might be said of lots of folks whom men call great and wise,
  As well as of that yellow dog that never took a prize.

  It isn't what a dog can do, or what a dog may be,
  That hits a man. It's simply this--does he believe in me?
  And by that test I know there's not the compeer 'neath the skies
  Of that plain little yellow dog that never took a prize.

  Oh, he's the finest little pup that ever wagged a tail,
  And followed man with equal joy to Congress or to jail.
  I'm going to start a special show--'Twill beat the world for size--
  For faithful little yellow dogs, and each shall have a prize.

    ANONYMOUS.



  CÆSAR, KING EDWARD'S DOG


  No deeper, truer love could spring
    Spontaneously from human breast
  Than Cæsar's, who has loved the king
    With all a dear dog's silent zest.

  A dog's dumb way may not impart
    The grief that mortals can express,
  But who shall say that Cæsar's heart
    Mourns his beloved king the less?

  Since ours the faith, "Love lives in space,"
    His love, whene'er his soul takes wing,
  May be ordained, by Heaven's grace,
    To reach the spirit of the king.

    O. MIDDLETON.



  JUST OUR DOG


  He was just a dog, mister--that's all;
  And all of us boys called him Bub;
  He was curly and not very tall
  And he hadn't a tail--just a stub.
  His tail froze one cold night, you see;
  We just pulled the rest of him through.
  No--he didn't have much pedigree--
  Perhaps that was frozen off, too.

  He always seemed quite well behaved,
  And he never had many bad fights;
  In summer he used to be shaved
  And he slept in the woodshed o' nights.
  Sometimes he would wake up too soon
  And cry, if his tail got a chill;
  Some nights he would bark at the moon,
  But some nights he would sleep very still.

  He knew how to play hide-and-seek
  And he always would come when you'd call;
  He would play dead, roll over and speak,
  And learned it in no time at all.
  Sometimes he would growl, just in play,
  But he never would bite, and his worst
  Was to bark at the postman one day,
  But the postman, he barked at him first.

  He used to chase cats up a tree,
  But that was just only in fun;
  And a cat was as safe as could be--
  Unless it should start out to run;
  Sometimes he'd chase children and throw
  Them down, just while running along,
  And then lick their faces to show
  He didn't mean anything wrong.

  He was chasing an automobile
  When the wheel hit him right in the side,
  So he just gave a queer little squeal
  And curled up and stretched out and died.
  His tail it was not very long,
  He was curly and not very tall;
  But he never did anything wrong--
  He was just our dog, mister--that's all.

    ANONYMOUS.



  RAGGED ROVER


  I have still a vision of him
  Ragged Rover, as he lay
  In the sunshine of the morning
  On the door-stone worn and gray;
  Where the honeysuckle trellis
  Hung its tinted blossoms low,
  And the well-sweep with its bucket
  Swung its burden to and fro;
  Where the maples were a-quiver
  In the pleasant June-time breeze;
  And where droned among the phloxes
  Half a hundred golden bees.

  Yes, I have a vision with me
  Of a home upon a hill;
  And my heart is sad with longing
  And my eyes with tear-drops fill.
  I would be the care-free urchin
  That I was so long ago
  When across the sun-lit meadows
  Rover with me used to go
  Yonder where the graceful lindens
  Threw their shadows far and cool,
  And the waters waited for me
  In the brimming swimming pool.

  I can see him drive the cattle
  From the pasture through the lane
  With their mellow bells a-tinkle,
  Sending out a low refrain;
  I can see him drive them homeward,
  Speckle, Brindle, Bess and Belle;
  All the herd from down the valley
  As the shades of even fell.
  Thus, I wander like a pilgrim--
  Slow the steps that once were strong;
  Back to greet him, Ragged Rover,
  And my childhood's ceaseless song.

    LESLIE CLARE MANCHESTER.



  TO FLUSH, MY DOG


  I

  Loving friend, the gift of one
  Who her own true faith has run
  Through thy lower nature,
  Be my benediction said
  With my hand upon thy head,
  Gentle fellow-creature!

  II

  Like a lady's ringlets brown,
  Flow thy silken ears adown
  Either side demurely
  Of thy silver-suited breast,
  Shining out from all the rest
  Of thy body purely.

  III

  Darkly brown thy body is,
  Till the sunshine striking this
  Alchemize its dulness,
  When the sleek curls manifold
  Flash all over into gold
  With a burnished fulness.

  IV

  Underneath my stroking hand.
  Startled eyes of hazel bland
  Kindling, growing larger,
  Up thou leanest with a spring,
  Full of prank and curvetting,
  Leaping like a charger.

  V

  Leap! thy broad tail waves a light,
  Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
  Canopied in fringes;
  Leap! those tasselled ears of thine
  Flicker strangely, fair and fine
  Down their gold inches.

  VI

  Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
  Little is't to such an end
  That I praise thy rareness:
  Other dogs may be thy peers
  Happy in these drooping ears
  And this glossy fairness.

  VII

  But of _thee_ it shall be said,
  This dog watched beside a bed
  Day and night unweary,--
  Watched within a curtained room
  Where no sunbeam brake the gloom,
  Round the sick and dreary.

  VIII

  Roses, gathered for a vase,
  In that chamber died space,
  Beam and breeze resigning:
  This dog only waited on,
  Knowing, that, when light is gone,
  Love remains for shining.

  IX

  Other dogs in thymy dew
  Tracked the hares, and followed through
  Sunny moor or meadow:
  This dog only crept and crept
  Next a languid cheek that slept,
  Sharing in the shadow.

  X

  Other dogs of loyal cheer
  Bounded at the whistle clear,
  Up the woodside hieing:
  This dog only watched in reach
  Of a faintly uttered speech,
  Or a louder sighing.

  XI

  And if one or two quick tears
  Dropped upon his glossy ears,
  Or a sigh came double,
  Up he sprang in eager haste,
  Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
  In a tender trouble.

  XII

  And this dog was satisfied
  If a pale, thin hand would glide
  Down his dewlaps sloping,--
  Which he pushed his nose within,
  After,--platforming his chin
  On the palm left open.

  XIII

  This dog, if a friendly voice
  Call him now to blither choice
  Than such chamber-keeping,
  "Come out!" praying from the door,
  Presseth backward as before,
  Up against me leaping.

  XIV

  Therefore to this dog will I,
  Tenderly, not scornfully,
  Render praise and favor:
  With my hand upon his head,
  Is my benediction said
  Therefore and forever.

  XV

  And because he loves me so,
  Better than his kind will do
  Often man or woman,
  Give I back more love again
  Than dogs often take of men,
  Leaning from my human.

  XVI

  Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
  Pretty collars make thee fine,
  Sugared milk may fat thee!
  Pleasures wag on in thy tail,
  Hands of gentle motion fail
  Nevermore to pat thee!

  XVII

  Downy pillow take thy head,
  Silken coverlet bestead,
  Sunshine help thy sleeping!
  No fly's buzzing wake thee up,
  No man break thy purple cup
  Set for drinking deep in!

  XVIII

  Whiskered cats aroynted flee,
  Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
  Cologne distillations;
  Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
  And thy feast-day macaroons
  Turn to daily rations!

  XIX

  Mock I thee, in wishing weal?
  Tears are in my eyes to feel
  Thou art made so straitly:
  Blessings need must straiten too,--
  Little canst thou joy or do
  Thou who lovest _greatly_.

  XX

  Yet be blessed to the height
  Of all good and all delight
  Pervious to thy nature;
  Only _loved_ beyond that line,
  With a love that answers thine,
  Loving fellow-creature!

    ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.



  FRANCES


  You were a friend, Frances, a friend,
  With feeling and regard and capable of woe.
  Oh, yes, I know you were a dog, but I was just a man.
  I did not buy you; no, you simply came,
  Lost, and squatted on my doorstep.
  The place was strange--you quivered, but stayed on,
  And I had need of you.
  No other fellow could make you follow him,
  For you had chosen me to be your pal.
  My whistle was your law,
  You put your paw
  Upon my palm,
  And in your calm, deep eyes was writ
  The promise of long comradeship.
  When I came home from work,
  Late and ill-tempered,
  Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs;
  Your nose was at the door-crack;
  And whether I'd been bad or good that day
  You fawned, and loved me just the same.
  It was your way to understand.
  And if I struck you, my harsh hand
  Was met with your caresses.
  You took my leavings, crumb and bone,
  And stuck by me through thick and thin--
  You were my kin.
  And then one day you died
  And were put deep.
  But though you sleep, and ever sleep,
  I sense you at my heels.

    RICHARD WIGHTMAN.



  TO MY SETTER, SCOUT


  You are a tried and loyal friend;
          The end
  Of life will find you leal, unweary
    Of tested bonds that naught can rend,
  And e'en if years be sad and dreary,
    Our plighted friendship will extend.

  A truer friend man never had;
          'Tis sad
  That 'mongst all earthly friends the fewest
    Unfaithful ones should thus be clad
  In canine lowliness; yet truest
    They, be their treatment good or bad.

  Within your eyes methinks I find
          A kind
  And thoughtful look of speechless feeling
    That mem'ry's loosened cords unbind,
  And let the dreamy past come stealing
    Through your dumb, reflective mind.

  Scout, my trusty friend, can it be
          You see
  Again, in retrospective dreaming,
    The run, the woodland, and the lea,
  With past autumnal sunshine streaming
    O'er ev'ry frost-dyed field and tree?

  Or do you see now once again
          The glen
  And fern, the highland, and the thistle?
    And do you still remember when
  We heard the bright-eyed woodcock whistle
    Down by the rippling, shrub-edged fen?

  I see you turn a listening ear
          To hear
  The quail upon the flower-pied heather;
    But, doggie, wait till uplands sere,
  And then the autumn's waning weather
    Will bring the sport we hold so dear.

  Then we will hunt the loamy swale
          And trail
  The snipe, their cunning wiles o'ercoming;
    And oft will flush the bevied quail,
  And hear the partridge slowly drumming
    Dull echoes in the leaf-strewn dale.

  When wooded hills with crimson light
          Are bright,
  We'll stroll where trees and vines are growing,
    And see birds warp their southern flight
  At sundown, when the Day King's throwing
    Sly kisses to the Queen of Night.

    FRANK H. SELDEN.



  WHY STRIK'ST THOU ME?


  Why dost thou strike me?--Ever faithful
    In service to thee do I live;
  And often when thou wert in peril
    My very utmost would I give;
    My life I would lay down for thee!
          Why strik'st thou me?

  In blustering storm and cruel Winter,
    In murky night or through the day,
  Obedient I have trotted by thee
    And guarded thee along the way.
    I've watched thee and protected thee:
          Why strik'st thou me?

  When flashed the robber's steel against thee,
    When thou wert threatened by his arm,
  And thou didst call for aid and rescue,
    Who saved thee then from mortal harm?
    My blood flowed on the sand for thee:
          Why strik'st thou me?

  When down the sheer walls of the chasm
    That glooms the torrent thou didst slide,
  Thou there had perished maimed and helpless
    Had I not sought thee far and wide.
    Myself forgetting, sought I thee:
          Why strik'st thou me?

  When on the furious billows drifting
    Thou heldest up a beckoning hand,
  And no man dared attempt to save thee,
    I brought thee safely to the land.
    From certain death I rescued thee:
          Why strik'st thou me?

  Oh doom me not to starve and perish;
    The poor old Sultan do not slay!
  For thee, too, will the days soon darken
    In which thy strength will fade away.
    Then thou wilt beg as I beg thee:--
          Why strik'st thou me?

    NATHAN HASKELL DOLE (_Translator_).



  CONSOLATION


  Full dismal blows the wind
  Without my cabin, here,
  And many times I find
  Myself possessed of fear.

  I often hear a sound
  As if a stranger tried
  To enter here, but found
  The door made fast inside.

  The nights are filled with dread,
  And fancy even scrolls
  Gray visions of the dead--
  Ghosts of departed souls.

  But never near me creeps
  What fancy oft invites.
  My dog a vigil keeps
  Throughout the awful nights.

    HOWARD C. KEGLEY.



  ARGUS


  When wise Ulysses, from his native coast
  Long kept by wars, and long by tempests tost,
  Arrived at last--poor, old, despised, alone,
  To all his friends, and e'en his queen, unknown,
  Changed as he was, with age, and toils, and cares,
  Furrowed his rev'rend face, and white his hairs,
  In his own palace forced to ask his bread,
  Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed,
  Forgot of all his own domestic crew,
  His faithful dog his rightful master knew!

  Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay
  Like an old servant, now cashiered, he lay;
  And though ev'n then expiring on the plain,
  Touched with resentment of ungrateful man,
  And longing to behold his ancient lord again,
  Him when he saw, he rose, and crawled to meet
  ('Twas all he could), and fawned, and kissed his feet,
  Seized with dumb joy; then falling by his side,
  Owned his returning lord, looked up, and died.

    ALEXANDER POPE.



  CHAINED IN THE YARD


  'Twas only a dog in a kennel
    And little noise he made,
  But it seemed to me as I heard it
    I knew what that old dog said.

  "Another long month to get over;
    Will nobody loosen my chain?
  Just for a run 'round the meadow,
    Then fasten me up again.

  "Give me my old life of freedom,
    Give me a plunge and a swim,
  A dash and a dive in the river,
    A shake and a splash on the brim."

  I patted his head and spoke kindly,
    I thought that his case was hard,
  Oh, give him a run in the open,
    Your dog chained up in the yard!

    ANONYMOUS.



  WHY THE DOG'S NOSE IS COLD


  "What makes the dog's nose always cold?"
  I'll try to tell you, curls of gold,
  If you will sit upon my knee
  And very good and quiet be.

  Well, years and years and years ago--
  How many I don't really know--
  There came a rain on sea and shore;
  Its like was never seen before
  Or since. It fell unceasing down
  Till all the world began to drown.

  But just before it down did pour,
  An old, old man--his name was Noah--
  Built him an ark, that he might save
  His family from a watery grave;
  And in it also he designed
  To shelter two of every kind
  Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done,
  And heavy clouds obscured the sun,
  The Noah folks to it quickly ran,
  And then the animals began
  To gravely march along in pairs.

  The leopards, tigers, wolves and bears,
  The deer, the hippopotamuses,
  The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walruses,
  The camels, goats, and cats, and donkeys,
  The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys,
  The rats, the big rhinoceroses,
  The dromedaries and the horses,
  The sheep, the mice, the kangaroos,
  Hyenas, elephants, koodoos,
  And many more--'twould take all day,
  My dear, the very names to say--
  And at the very, very end
  Of the procession, by his friend
  And master, faithful dog was seen.

  The lifelong time he'd helping been
  To drive the crowd of creatures in;
  And now, with loud, exultant bark,
  He gayly sprang aboard the bark.

  Alas! So crowded was the space
  He could not in it find a place;
  So, patiently, he turned about,--
  Stood half-way in, and half-way out,
  And those extremely heavy showers
  Descended through nine hundred hours
  And more; and, darling, at their close
  Most frozen was his honest nose;
  And never could it lose again
  The dampness of that dreadful rain.

  And that is what, my curls of gold,
  Made all the doggies' noses cold.

    MARGARET EYTINGE.



  DOG LANGUAGE


  Our Towser is the finest dog that ever wore a collar,
  We wouldn't sell him--no, indeed--not even for a dollar!
  I understand his language now, 'cause honest, it appears
  That dogs can talk, and say a lot, with just their tails and ears.

  When I come home from school he meets me with a joyous bound,
  And shakes that long tail sideways, down and up, and round and round.
  Pa says he's going to hang a rug beside the door to see
  If Towser will not beat it while he's busy greeting me.

  Then when he sees me get my hat, but thinks he cannot go,
  His ears get limp, his tail drops down, and he just walks off--slow;
  Though if I say the magic words: "Well, Towser, want to come?"
  Why, say! You'd know he answered "Yes," although at speech he's dumb.

    MARION HOVEY BRIGGS.



  A DOG'S LOYALTY


                      Many a good
  And useful quality, and virtue, too.
  Attachment never to be weaned or changed
  By any change of fortune; proof alike
  Against unkindness, absence, and neglect;
  Fidelity that neither bribe nor threat
  Can move or warp; and gratitude for small
  And trivial favors lasting as the life,
  And glistening even in the dying eye.

    ANONYMOUS.



  PART III

  THE DOG IN ACTION


  _Course, hunt, in hills, in valley or in plain--
    He joys to run and stretch out every limb,
  To please but thee he spareth for no pain,
    His hurt (for thee) is greatest good to him.

  In fields abroad he looks unto thy flocks,
    Keeping them safe from wolves and other beasts;
  And oftentimes he bears away the knocks
    Of some odd thief that many a fold infests._



  TOLD TO THE MISSIONARY


  Just look 'ee here, Mr. Preacher, you're a-goin' a bit too fur;
  There isn't the man as is livin' as I'd let say a word agen her.
  She's a rum-lookin' bitch, that I own to, and there is a fierce look in her eyes,
  But if any cove says as she's vicious, I sez in his teeth he lies.
  Soh! Gently, old 'ooman; come here, now, and set by my side on the bed;
  I wonder who'll have yer, my beauty, when him as you're all to 's dead.
  There, stow yer palaver a minit; I knows as my end is nigh;
  Is a cove to turn round on his dog, like, just 'cos he's goin' to die?

  Oh, of course, I was sartin you'd say it. It's allus the same with you.
  Give it us straight, now, guv'nor--what would you have me do?
  Think of my soul? I do, sir. Think of my Saviour? Right!
  Don't be afeard of the bitch, sir; she's not a-goin' to bite.
  Tell me about my Saviour--tell me that tale agen,
  How he prayed for the coves as killed him, and died for the worst of men.
  It's a tale as I always liked, sir; and bound for the 'ternal shore,
  I thinks it aloud to myself, sir, and I likes it more and more.

  I've thumbed it out in the Bible, and I know it now by heart,
  And it's put the steam in my boiler, and made me ready to start.
  I ain't not afraid to die now; I've been a bit bad in my day,
  But I know when I knock at them portals there's one as won't say me nay.
  And it's thinkin' about that story, and all as he did for us,
  As make me so fond o' my dawg, sir; especially now I'm wus;
  For a-savin' o' folks who'd kill us is a beautiful act, the which
  I never heard tell on o' no one, 'cept o' him and o' that there bitch.

  'Twas five years ago come Chrismus, maybe you remember the row,
  There was scares about hydryphoby--same as there be just now;
  And the bobbies came down on us costers--came in a reggerlar wax,
  And them as 'ud got no license was summerned to pay the tax.
  But I had a friend among 'em, and he come in a friendly way,
  And he sez, 'You must settle your dawg, Bill, unless you've a mind to pay.'
  The missus was dyin' wi' fever--I'd made a mistake in my pitch,
  I couldn't afford to keep her, so I sez, 'I'll drownd the bitch.'

  I wasn't a-goin' to lose her, I warn't such a brute, you bet,
  As to leave her to die by inches o' hunger, and cold, and wet;
  I never said now't to the missus--we both on us liked her well--
  But I takes her the follerin' Sunday down to the Grand Canell.
  I gets her tight by the collar--the Lord forgive my sin!
  And, kneelin' down on the towpath, I ducks the poor beast in.
  She gave just a sudden whine like, then a look comes into her eyes
  As 'ull last forever in mine, sir, up to the day I dies.

  And a chill came over my heart then, and thinkin' I heard her moan,
  I held her below the water, beating her skull with a stone.
  You can see the mark of it now, sir--that place on the top of 'er 'ed--
  And sudden she ceased to struggle, and I fancied as she was dead.
  I shall never know how it happened, but goin' to lose my hold,
  My knees slipped over the towpath, and into the stream I rolled;
  Down like a log I went, sir, and my eyes were filled with mud,
  And the water was tinged above me with a murdered creeter's blood.

  I gave myself up for lost then, and I cursed in my wild despair,
  And sudden I rose to the surfis, and a su'thing grabbed at my hair,
  Grabbed at my hair and loosed it, and grabbed me agin by the throat,
  And she was a-holdin' my 'ed up, and somehow I kep' afloat.
  I can't tell yer 'ow she done it, for I never knowed no more
  Till somebody seized my collar, and give me a lug ashore;
  And my head was queer and dizzy, but I see as the bitch was weak,
  And she lay on her side a-pantin', waitin' for me to speak.

  What did I do with her, eh? You'd a-hardly need to ax,
  But I sold my barrer a Monday, and paid the bloomin' tax.

  That's right, Mr. Preacher, pat her--you ain't not afeared of her now!--
  Dang this here tellin' of stories--look at the muck on my brow.

  I'm weaker, an' weaker, an' weaker; I fancy the end ain't fur,
  But you know why here on my deathbed I think o' the Lord and her,
  And he who, by men's hands tortured, uttered that prayer divine,
  'Ull pardon me linkin' him like with a dawg as forgave like mine.
  When the Lord in his mercy calls me to my last eternal pitch,
  I know as you'll treat her kindly--promise to take my bitch!

    GEORGE R. SIMS.



  THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE


  With gentle tread, with uncovered head,
    Pass by the Louvre gate,
  Where buried lie the "men of July,"
  And flowers are hung by the passers-by,
    And the dog howls desolate.

  That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught,
    Had rushed with his master on,
  And both fought well;
  But the master fell,
    And behold the surviving one!

  By his lifeless clay,
  Shaggy and gray,
    His fellow-warrior stood;
  Nor moved beyond,
  But mingled fond
    Big tears with his master's blood.

  Vigil he keeps
  By those green heaps
    That tell where heroes lie.
  No passer-by
  Can attract his eye,
    For he knows it is not He!

  At the dawn, when dew
  Wets the garlands new
    That are hung in this place of mourning,
  He will start to meet
  The coming feet
    Of him whom he dreamt returning.

  On the grave's wood-cross
  When the chaplets toss,
    By the blast of midnight shaken,
  How he howleth! hark!
  From that dwelling dark
    The slain he would fain awaken.

  When the snow comes fast
  On the chilly blast,
    Blanching the bleak church-yard,
  With limbs outspread
  On the dismal bed
    Of his liege, he still keeps guard.

  Oft in the night,
  With main and might,
    He strives to raise the stone;
  Short respite takes:
  "If master wakes,
    He'll call me," then sleeps on.

  Of bayonet blades,
  Of barricades,
    And guns he dreams the most;
  Starts from his dream,
  And then would seem
    To eye a pleading ghost.

  He'll linger there
  In sad despair
    And die on his master's grave.
  His home?--'tis known
  To the dead alone,--
    He's the dog of the nameless brave!

  Give a tear to the dead,
  And give some bread
    To the dog of the Louvre gate!
  Where buried lie the men of July,
  And flowers are hung by the passers-by,
    And the dog howls desolate.

    RALPH CECIL.



  THE CHASE


  Huntsman, take heed; they stop in full career.
  Yon crowding flock, that at a distance gaze,
  Have haply foil'd the turf. See that old hound!
  How busily he works, but dares not trust
  His doubtful sense; draws yet a wider ring.
  Hark! Now again the chorus fills. As bells,
  Sally'd awhile, at once their paean renew,
  And high in air the tuneful thunder rolls,
  See how they toss, with animated rage
  Recovering all they lost! That eager haste
  Some doubling wile foreshows. Ah! Yet once more

  They're checked, hold back with speed--on either hand
  They flourish round--e'en yet persist--'tis right.
  Away they spring. The rustling stubbles bend
  Beneath the driving storm. Now the poor chase
  Begins to flag, to her last shifts reduced.
  From brake to brake she flies, and visits all
  Her well-known haunts, where once she ranged secure,
  With love and plenty blest. See! There she goes,
  She reels along, and by her gait betrays
  Her inward weakness. See how black she looks!
  The sweat, that clogs the obstructed pores, scarce leaves
  A languid scent. And now in open view
  See! See! She flies! Each eager hound exerts
  His utmost speed, and stretches every nerve;
  How quick she turns! Their gaping jaws eludes,
  And yet a moment lives--till, round enclosed
  By all the greedy pack, with infant screams
  She yields her breath, and there, reluctant, dies.

    LORD SOMERVILLE.



  THE UNDER DOG


  I know that the world, the great big world,
    Will never a moment stop
  To see which dog may be in the fault,
    But will shout for the dog on top.
  But for me, I shall never pause to ask
    Which dog may be in the right,
  For my heart will beat, while it beats at all,
    For the under dog in the fight.

    ANONYMOUS.



  THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG


  My dog and I are both grown old;
    On these wild downs we watch all day;
  He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,
    And thus methinks I hear him say:

  The gray stone circlet is below,
    The village smoke is at our feet;
  We nothing hear but the sailing crow,
    And wandering flocks that roam and bleat.

  Far off, the early horseman hies,
    In shower or sunshine rushing on;
  Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;
    The distant coach is seen and gone.

  Though solitude around is spread,
    Master, alone thou shalt not be;
  And when the turf is on thy head,
    I only shall remember thee.

  I marked his look of faithful care,
    I placed my hand on his shaggy side;
  "There is a sun that shines above,
    A sun that shines on both," I cried.

    WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.



  BETH GELERT


  The spearman heard the bugle sound,
    And cheerily smiled the morn;
  And many a brach, and many a hound,
    Attend Llewellyn's horn:

  And still he blew a louder blast,
    And gave a louder cheer:
  "Come, Gelert! Why art thou the last
    Llewellyn's horn to hear?

  "Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
    The flower of all his race!
  So true, so brave, a lamb at home,
    A lion in the chase!"

  In sooth, he was a peerless hound,
    The gift of royal John,
  But now no Gelert could be found,
    And all the chase rode on.

  And now, as over rocks and dells,
    The gallant chidings rise,
  All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
    With many mingled cries.

  That day Llewellyn little loved
    The chase of hart or hare,
  And small and scant the booty proved,
    For Gelert was not there.

  Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
    When near the portal-seat,
  His truant Gelert he espied,
    Bounding his lord to meet.

  But when he gained the castle door,
    Aghast the chieftain stood;
  The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
    His lips and fangs ran blood.

  Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
    Unused such looks to meet;
  His favorite checked his joyful guise,
    And crouched and licked his feet.

  Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
    And on went Gelert, too,
  And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
    Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view.

  O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
    The blood-stained covert rent;
  And all around, the walls and ground,
    With recent blood besprent.

  He called the child--no voice replied;
    He searched, with terror wild;
  Blood! Blood! He found on every side,
    But nowhere found the child!

  "Hell-hound! By thee my child's devoured!"
    The frantic father cried;
  And to the hilt his vengeful sword
    He plunged in Gelert's side.

  His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
    No pity could impart,
  But still his Gelert's dying yell
    Passed heavy o'er his heart.

  Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
    Some slumberer wakened nigh;
  What words the parent's joy can tell
    To hear his infant cry!

  Concealed beneath a mangled heap
    His hurried search had missed,
  All glowing from his rosy sleep,
    His cherub-boy he kissed.

  Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,
    But, the same couch beneath,
  Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead--
    Tremendous still in death.

  Ah! What was then Llewellyn's pain!
    For now the truth was clear:
  The gallant hound the wolf had slain
    To save Llewellyn's heir.

  Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
    "Best of thy kind, adieu!
  The frantic deed which laid thee low
    This heart shall ever rue!"

  And now a gallant tomb they raise,
    With costly sculpture decked,
  And marbles, storied with his praise,
    Poor Gelert's bones protect.

  Here never could the spearman pass,
    Or forester, unmoved!
  Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
    Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

  And here he hung his horn and spear,
    And oft, as evening fell,
  In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
    Poor Gelert's dying yell.

    WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER.



  THE FLAG AND THE
  FAITHFUL

  (A Washington woman has made a loud outcry to the Secretary of
  War to reprimand the soldiers at the Government Aviation Station
  for burying their faithful dog, Muggsie, wrapped in the Stars
  and Stripes.)


  Ah, Muggsie, good and faithful dog,
            Gone to your rest!
  You served your country and your flag
            The very best
  That lay within your humble power,
            And in that far
  Have been much better than some men
            And women are.
  As you had lived, good dog, you died,
            And it is meet
  The flag you served your best should be
            Your winding sheet.

    WILLIAM J. LAMPTON.



  A GUARDIAN AT THE GATE


  The dog beside the threshold lies,
  Mocking sleep with half-shut eyes--
  With head crouched down upon his feet,
  Till strangers pass his sunny seat--
  Then quick he pricks his ears to hark
  And bustles up to growl and bark;
  While boys in fear stop short their song,
  And sneak in startled speed along;
  And beggar, creeping like a snail,
  To make his hungry hopes prevail
  O'er the warm heart of charity,
  Leaves his lame halt and hastens by.

    JOHN CLARE.



  A TALE OF THE REIGN
  OF TERROR


  'Twas in a neighboring land what time
    The Reign of Terror triumphed there,
  And every horrid shape of crime
    Stalked out from murder's bloody lair.

  'Twas in those dreadful times there dwelt
    In Lyons, the defiled with blood,
  A loyal family that felt
    The earliest fury of the flood.

  Wife, children, friends, it swept away
    From wretched Valrive, one by one,
  Himself severely doomed to stay
    Till everything he loved was gone.

  A man proscribed, whom not to shun
    Was danger, almost fate, to brave,
  So all forsook him, all save one--
    One faithful, humble, powerless slave.

  His dog, old Nina. She had been,
    When they were boys, his children's mate,
  His gallant Claude, his mild Eugene,
    Both gone before him to their fate.

  They spurned her off--but evermore,
    Surmounting e'en her timid nature,
  Love brought her to the prison door,
    And there she crouched, fond, faithful creature!

  Watching so long, so piteously,
    That e'en the jailor--man of guilt,
  Of rugged heart--was moved to cry,
    "Poor wretch, there enter if thou wilt."

  And who than Nina more content
    When she had gained that dreary cell
  Where lay in helpless dreariment
    The master loved so long and well?

  And when into his arms she leapt
    In her old fond, familiar way,
  And close into his bosom crept,
    And licked his face--a feeble ray

  Of something--not yet comfort--stole
    Upon his heart's stern misery,
  And his lips moved, "Poor loving fool!
    Then all have not abandoned me."

  The hour by grudging kindness spared
    Expired too soon--the friends must part--
  And Nina from the prison gazed,
    With lingering pace and heavy heart.

  Shelter, and rest, and food she found
    With one who, for the master's sake,
  Though grim suspicion stalked around,
    Dared his old servant home to take.

  Beneath that friendly roof, each night
    She stayed, but still returning day--
  Ay, the first beam of dawning light
    Beheld her on her anxious way.

  Towards the prison, there to await
    The hour when through that dismal door
  The keeper, half compassionate,
    Should bid her enter as before.

  And well she seemed to comprehend
    The time appointed for her stay,
  The little hour that with her friend
    She tarried there was all her day.

  At last the captive's summons came;
    They led him forth his doom to hear;
  No tremor shook his thrice-nerved frame
    Whose heart was dead to hope and fear.

  So with calm step he moved along,
    And calmly faced the murderous crew,
  But close and closer for the throng,
    Poor Nina to her master drew.

  And she has found a resting place
    Between his knees--her old safe home--
  And she looks round in every face
    As if to read his written doom.

  'Twas but a step in those dread days
    From trial to the guillotine;
  A moment, and Valrive surveys
    With steadfast eye the fell machine.

  He mounts the platform, takes his stand
    Before the fatal block, and kneels
  In preparation--but his hand
    A soft warm touch that moment feels.

  His eyes glance downward, and a tear--
    The last tear they shall ever shed--
  Falls as he utters, "Thou still here!"
    Upon his faithful servant's head.

  Yes, she is there; that hellish shout,
    That deadly stroke, she hears them plain,
  And from the headless trunk starts out
    Even over her the bloody rain.

  Old faithful Nina! There lies she,
    Her cold head on the cold earth pressed,
  As it was wont so lovingly
    To lie upon her master's breast.

  And there she stayed the livelong day,
    Mute, motionless, her sad watch keeping;
  A stranger who had passed that way
    Would have believed her dead or sleeping.

  But if a step approached the grave
    Her eye looked up with jealous care,
  Imploringly, as if to crave
    That no rude foot should trample there.

  That night she came not, as of late,
    To her old, charitable home;
  The next day's sun arose and set,
    Night fell--and still she failed to come.

  Then the third day her pitying host
    Went kindly forth to seek his guest,
  And found her at her mournful post,
    Stretched quietly as if at rest.

  Yet she was not asleep nor dead,
    And when her master's friend she saw,
  The poor old creature raised her head,
    And moaned, and moved one feeble paw.

  But stirred not thence--and all in vain
    He called, caressed her, would have led--
  Tried threats--then coaxing words again--
    Brought food--she turned away her head.

  So with kind violence at last
    He bore her home with gentle care;
  In her old shelter tied her fast,
    Placed food beside and left her there.

  But ere the hour of rest, again
    He visited the captive's shed,
  And there the cord lay, gnawed in twain--
    The food untasted--she was fled.

  And, vexed, he cried, "Perverse old creature!
    Well, let her go. I've done my best."
  But there was something in his nature,
    A feeling that would not let him rest.

  So with the early light once more
    Toward the burial ground went he;
  And there he found her as before,
    But not, as then, stretched quietly.

  For she had worked the long night through,
    In the strong impulse of despair,
  Down, down into the grave--and now,
    Panting and weak, still laboured there.

  But death's cold, stiffening frost benumbs
    Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye--
  And hark! her feeble moan becomes
    A shriek of human agony.

  As if before her task was over
    She feared to die in her despair.
  But see! those last faint strokes uncover
    A straggling lock of thin grey hair.

  One struggle, one convulsive start,
    And there the face beloved lies--
  Now be at peace, thou faithful heart!
    She licks the livid lips, and dies.

    CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.



  AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH
  OF A MAD DOG


  Good people all, of every sort,
    Give ear unto my song,
  And if you find it wond'rous short,
    It cannot hold you long.

  In Islington there was a man
    Of whom the world might say
  That still a godly race he ran
    Whene'er he went to pray.

  A kind and gentle heart he had,
    To comfort friends and foes;
  The naked every day he clad
    When he put on his clothes.

  And in that town a dog was found,
    As many dogs there be,
  Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound,
    And curs of low degree.

  The dog and man at first were friends,
    But when a pique began,
  The dog, to gain some private ends,
    Went mad, and bit the man.

  Around from all the neighboring streets
    The wondering neighbors ran,
  And swore the dog had lost his wits,
    To bite so good a man.

  The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
    To every Christian eye;
  And while they swore the dog was mad,
    They swore the man would die.

  But soon a wonder came to light,
    That showed the rogues they lied;
  The man recover'd of the bite,
    The dog it was that died.

    OLIVER GOLDSMITH.



  THE FUSILIERS' DOG


  Go lift him gently from the wheels,
    And soothe his dying pain,
  For love and care e'en yet he feels
    Though love and care be vain;
  'Tis sad that, after all these years,
    Our comrade and our friend,
  The brave dog of the Fusiliers,
    Should meet with such an end.

  Up Alma's hill, among the vines,
    We laughed to see him trot,
  Then frisk along the silent lines
    To chase the rolling shot;
  And, when the work waxed hard by day,
    And hard and cold by night,
  When that November morning lay
    Upon us, like a blight;

  And eyes were strained, and ears were bent,
    Against the muttering north,
  Till the gray mist took shape and sent
    Gray scores of Russians forth--
  Beneath that slaughter wild and grim
    Nor man nor dog would run;
  He stood by us, and we by him,
    Till the great fight was done.

  And right throughout the snow and frost
    He faced both shot and shell;
  Though unrelieved, he kept his post,
    And did his duty well.
  By death on death the time was stained,
    By want, disease, despair;
  Like autumn leaves our army waned,
    But still the dog was there.

  He cheered us through those hours of gloom;
    We fed him in our dearth;
  Through him the trench's living tomb
    Rang loud with reckless mirth;
  And thus, when peace returned once more,
    After the city's fall,
  That veteran home in pride we bore,
    And loved him, one and all.

  With ranks re-filled, our hearts were sick,
    And to old memories clung;
  The grim ravines we left glared thick
    With death-stones of the young.
  Hands which had patted him lay chill,
    Voices which called were dumb,
  And footsteps that he watched for still
    Never again could come.

  Never again; this world of woe
    Still hurries on so fast;
  They come not back; 'tis he must go
    To join them in the past.
  There, with brave names and deeds entwined,
    Which Time may not forget,
  Young Fusiliers unborn shall find
    The legend of our pet.

  Whilst o'er fresh years and other life
    Yet in God's mystic urn
  The picture of the mighty strife
    Arises sad and stern--
  Blood all in front, behind far shrines
    With women weeping low,
  For whom each lost one's fane but shines,
    As shines the moon on snow--

  Marked by the medal, his of right,
    And by his kind, keen face,
  Under that visionary light
    Poor Bob shall keep his place;
  And never may our honored Queen
    For love and service pay
  Less brave, less patient, or more mean
    Than his we mourn today!

    FRANCIS DOYLE.



  FIDELITY


  A barking sound the shepherd hears,
  A cry as of a dog or fox;
  He halts, and searches with his eyes
  Among the scattered rocks;
  And now at distance can discern
  A stirring in a brake of fern,
  And instantly a dog is seen,
  Glancing through that covert green.

  The dog is not of mountain breed,
  Its motions, too, are wild and shy,
  With something, as the shepherd thinks,
  Unusual in its cry.
  Nor is there anyone in sight,
  All round, in hollow or on height,
  Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear.
  What is the creature doing here?

  It was a cove, a huge recess
  That keeps, till June, December's snow;
  A lofty precipice in front,
  A silent tarn below.
  Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
  Remote from public road or dwelling,
  Pathway, or cultivated land,
  From trace of human foot or hand.

  There sometimes doth a leaping fish
  Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
  The crags repeat the raven's croak
  In symphony austere;
  Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud,
  And mists that spread the flying shroud,
  And sunbeams, and the sounding blast,
  That, if it could, would hurry past,
  But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

  Not free from boding thoughts, a while
  The shepherd stood; then makes his way
  Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones,
  As quickly as he may;
  Nor far had gone before he found
  A human skeleton on the ground;
  The appalled discoverer, with a sigh,
  Looks round, to learn the history

  From whose abrupt and perilous rocks
  The man had fallen, that place of fear!
  At length upon the shepherd's mind
  It breaks, and all is clear:
  He instantly recalled the name
  And who he was, and whence he came;
  Remembered, too, the very day
  On which the traveller passed this way.

  But hear a wonder, for whose sake
  This lamentable tale I tell!
  A lasting monument of words
  This wonder merits well.
  The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
  Repeating the same timid cry--
  This dog had been through three months' space
  A dweller in that savage place.

  Yes, proof was plain that since the day
  When this ill-fated traveller died,
  The dog had watched about the spot
  Or by his master's side;
  How nourished here through such long time
  He knows who gave that love sublime,
  And gave that strength of feeling, great
  Above all human estimate.

    WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.



  THE SHEPHERD DOG OF
  THE PYRENEES


  _Traveler._ Begone, you, sir! Here, shepherd, call your dog.
  _Shepherd._     Be not affrighted, madame. Poor Pierrot
    Will do no harm. I know his voice is gruff,
    But then, his heart is good.
  _Traveler._             Well, call him, then.
    I do not like his looks. He's growling now.
  _Shepherd._ Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot,
    He is as good a Christian as myself
    And does not like a stick.
  _Traveler._                    Such a fierce look!
    And such great teeth!
  _Shepherd_.        Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth!
    Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth.
    Come here, my Pierrot. Would you like to hear,
    Madame, what Pierrot's teeth have done for me?
  _Traveler._     Torn a gaunt wolf, I'll warrant.
  _Shepherd._                           Do you see
    On that high ledge a cross of wood that stands
    Against the sky?
  _Traveler._   Just where the cliff goes down
    A hundred fathoms sheer, a wall of rock
    To where the river foams along its bed?
    I've often wondered who was brave to plant
    A cross on such an edge.
  _Shepherd._                       Myself, madame,
    That the good God might know I gave him thanks.
    One night, it was November, black and thick,
    The fog came down, when as I reached my house
    Marie came running out; our little one,
    Our four year Louis, so she cried, was lost.
    I called Pierrot: "Go, seek him, find my boy,"
    And off he went. Marie ran crying loud
    To call the neighbors. They and I, we searched
    All that dark night. I called Pierrot in vain;
    Whistled and called, and listened for his voice;
    He always came or barked at my first word,
    But now, he answered not. When day at last
    Broke, and the gray fog lifted, there I saw
    On that high ledge, against the dawning light.
    My little one asleep, sitting so near
    That edge that as I looked his red barette
    Fell from his nodding head down the abyss.
    And there, behind him, crouched Pierrot; his teeth,
    His good, strong teeth, clenching the jacket brown,
    Holding the child in safety. With wild bounds
    Swift as the gray wolf's own I climbed the steep,
    And as I reached them Pierrot beat his tail,
    And looked at me, so utterly distressed,
    With eyes that said: "Forgive, I could not speak,"
    But never loosed his hold till my dear rogue
    Was safe within my arms.
                    Ah, ha, Pierrot,
    Madame forgives your barking and your teeth;
    I knew she would.
  _Traveler._           Come here, Pierrot, good dog,
    Come here, poor fellow, faithful friend and true,
    Come, come, be friends with me.

    ELLEN MURRAY.



  THE DOG UNDER THE WAGON


  "Come, wife," said good old farmer Gray,
  "Put on your things, 'tis market day,
  And we'll be off to the nearest town,
  There and back ere the sun goes down.
  Spot? No, we'll leave old Spot behind,"
  But Spot he barked and Spot he whined,
  And soon made up his doggish mind
              To follow under the wagon.

  Away they went at a good round pace
  And joy came into the farmer's face,
  "Poor Spot," said he, "did want to come,
  But I'm awful glad he's left at home--
  He'll guard the barn, and guard the cot,
  And keep the cattle out of the lot."
  "I'm not so sure of that," thought Spot,
              The dog under the wagon.

  The farmer all his produce sold
  And got his pay in yellow gold:
  Home through the lonely forest. Hark!
  A robber springs from behind a tree;
  "Your money or else your life," says he;
  The moon was up, but he didn't see
              The dog under the wagon.

  Spot ne'er barked and Spot ne'er whined
  But quickly caught the thief behind;
  He dragged him down in the mire and dirt,
  And tore his coat and tore his shirt,
  Then held him fast on the miry ground;
  The robber uttered not a sound,
  While his hands and feet the farmer bound,
              And tumbled him into the wagon.

  So Spot he saved the farmer's life,
  The farmer's money, the farmer's wife,
  And now a hero grand and gay,
  A silver collar he wears today;
  Among his friends, among his foes--
  And everywhere his master goes--
  He follows on his horny toes,
              The dog under the wagon.

    ANONYMOUS.



  SAL'S TOWSER AND MY
  TROUSER

  A RUSTIC IDYL BY A RUSTIC IDLER


  But yestere'en I loved thee whole,
  Oh, fashionable and baggy trouser!
  And now I loathe and hate the hole
  In thee, I do, I trow, sir.

  I sallied out to see my Sal,
  Across yon round hill's brow, sir;
  I didn't know she, charming gal,
  Had a dog,--a trouser-browser.

  I'd sauntered in quite trim and spruce,
  When on a sudden, oh, my trouser,
  I felt thee seized where thou'rt most loose,--
  I tarried there with Towser.

  I on the fence, he down below,
  And thou the copula, my trouser,
  I thought he never would let go,--
  This gentle Towser.

  They say that fashion cuts thee loose,
  But not so fashioned is Sal's Towser;
  Thou gavest away at last, no use
  To tarry, tearèd trouser.

  Miss Sarah, she is wondrous sweet,
  And I'd have once loved to espouse her,
  But my calling trouser has no seat,--
  I left it there with Towser.

  So all unseated is my suit;
  I must eschew Miss Sarah now, sir;
  He's chewed my trouser; 'twouldn't suit
  Me to meet Towser.

    ANONYMOUS.



  ROVER IN CHURCH


  'Twas a Sunday morning in early May,
  A beautiful, sunny, quiet day,
  And all the village, old and young,
  Had trooped to church when the church bell rung.
  The windows were open, and breezes sweet
  Fluttered the hymn books from seat to seat.
  Even the birds in the pale-leaved birch
  Sang as softly as if in church!

  Right in the midst of the minister's prayer
  There came a knock at the door. "Who's there,
  I wonder?" the gray-haired sexton thought,
  As his careful ear the tapping caught.
  Rap-rap, rap-rap--a louder sound,
  The boys on the back seats turned around.
  What could it mean? for never before
  Had any one knocked at the old church door.

  Again the tapping, and now so loud,
  The minister paused (though his head was bowed).
  Rappety-rap! This will never do,
  The girls are peeping, and laughing too!
  So the sexton tripped o'er the creaking floor,
  Lifted the latch and opened the door.

  In there trotted a big black dog,
  As big as a bear! With a solemn jog
  Right up the centre aisle he pattered;
  People might stare, it little mattered.
  Straight he went to a little maid,
  Who blushed and hid, as though afraid,
  And there sat down, as if to say,
  "I'm sorry that I was late today,
  But better late than never, you know;
  Beside, I waited an hour or so,
  And couldn't get them to open the door
  Till I wagged my tail and bumped the floor.
  Now little mistress, I'm going to stay,
  And hear what the minister has to say."

  The poor little girl hid her face and cried!
  But the big dog nestled close to her side,
  And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly,
  Wondering what the matter could be!
  The dog being large (and the sexton small),
  He sat through the sermon, and heard it all,
  As solemn and wise as any one there,
  With a very dignified, scholarly air!
  And instead of scolding, the minister said,
  As he laid his hand on the sweet child's head,
  After the service, "I never knew
  Two better list'ners than Rover and you!"

    JAMES BUCKHAM.



  PART IV

  THE DOG'S HEREAFTER


  _Oh, Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through;
  Let it go with me into Heaven, for my soul is full of compassion._



  BILLY


  Dear Billy, of imperious bark
    When stranger's step fell on thy ear;
    Who oft inspired with wholesome fear
  A prowling boy in shadows dark:

  But oftener hailed with joyous cry
    Some friendly face returning home,
    Or, wild with glee, the fields to roam--
  Now still and cold thou here dost lie!

  Frail vines that from the garden wall
    Crept blooming o'er thy lowly bed,
    Elm branches drooping overhead,
  And dying leaves that wavering fall,

  In other forms of life enrolled
    Shall live in ages yet to be;
    And shall a mind from body free
  Lie buried dark beneath the mold?

  He loved us all, and none forgot,
    He guessed whate'er was done or told,
    Dreamed of adventures free and bold--
  For him is there no future lot?

  If love is life and thought is mind,
    And all shall last beyond the years,
    And memory live in other spheres,
  My steadfast friend may I not find?

    LORENZO SEARS.



  THE BOND


  When I call my terrier by his name,
    Or join him at evening play;
  His eyes will flash with a human flame
    And he looks what he cannot say;
  For the bond between us two
  Is that between me and you!

  Should a seraph sing in my ear tonight,
    Or a sweet voiced angel come.
  Would poor speech prove my soul's delight,
    Or ecstasy drive me dumb?
  For the link 'twixt them and me
  Is long as Eternity.

  Wide leagues our sentient forms divide
    The loftier from the mean;
  But soul to soul all planes are tied
    When sympathy lies between;
  And who shall say that the brute
  Is soulless, though mean and mute?

    GEORGE H. NETTLE.



  TO A DOG


  On every side I see your trace;
    Your water-trough's scarce dry;
  Your empty collar in its place
    Provokes the heavy sigh.

  And you were here two days ago.
    There's little changed, I see.
  The sun is just as bright, but oh!
    The difference to me!

  The very print of your small pad
    Is on the whitened stone.
  Where, by what ways, or sad or glad,
    Do you fare on alone?

  Oh, little face, so merry-wise,
    Brisk feet and eager bark!
  The house is lonesome for your eyes,
    My spirit somewhat dark.

  Now, small, invinc'ble friend, your love
    Is done, your fighting o'er,
  No more your wandering feet will rove
    Beyond your own house-door.

  The cats that feared, their hearts are high,
    The dogs that loved will gaze
  Long, long ere you come passing by
    With all your jovial ways.

  Th' accursed archer who has sent
    His arrow all too true,
  Would that his evil days were spent
    Ere he took aim at you!

  Your honest face, your winsome ways
    Haunt me, dear little ghost,
  And everywhere I see your trace,
    Oh, well-beloved and lost!

    ANONYMOUS.



  CANINE IMMORTALITY


  And they have drowned thee then at last! poor Phillis!
  The burden of old age was heavy on thee,
  And yet thou shouldst have lived! What though thine eye
  Was dim, and watched no more with eager joy
  The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk
  With fruitless repetition, the warm sun
  Might still have cheered thy slumber; thou didst love
  To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past
  Youth's active season, even life itself
  Was comfort. Poor old friend! How earnestly
  Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been
  Still the companion of my childish sports:
  And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs,
  From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark
  Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled
  Often the melancholy hours at school,
  Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought
  Of distant home, and I remembered then
  Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy,
  Returning at the pleasant holidays,
  I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively
  Sometimes have I remarked the slow decay,
  Feeling myself changed, too, and musing much,
  On many a sad vicissitude of life!
  Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last
  Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate
  Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose
  Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead
  For the old age of brute fidelity!
  But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed;
  And He who gave thee being did not frame
  The mystery of life to be the sport
  Of merciless man! There is another world
  For all that live and move--a better one!
  Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine
  Infinite goodness to the little bounds
  Of their own charity, may envy thee!

    ROBERT SOUTHEY.



  A FRIENDLY WELCOME


  'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
    Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
  'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
    Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

    LORD BYRON.



  EXEMPLARY NICK


  Here lies poor Nick, an honest creature,
  Of faithful, gentle, courteous nature;
  A parlor pet unspoiled by favor,
  A pattern of good dog behavior,
  Without a wish, without a dream,
  Beyond his home and friends at Cheam.
  Contentedly through life he trotted,
  Along the path that faith allotted,
  Till time, his aged body wearing,
  Bereaved him of his sight and hearing,
  Then laid him down without a pain
  To sleep, and never wake again.

    SYDNEY SMITH.



  THE DIFFERENCE


  My dog! The difference between thee and me
  Knows only our Creator--only he
  Can number the degrees in being's scale
  Between th' Instinctive lamp, ne'er known to fail,
  And that less steady light, of brighter ray,
  The soul which animates thy master's clay;
  And he alone can tell by what fond tie
  My look thy life, my death thy sign to die.

  No, when that feeling quits thy glazing eye
  'Twill live in some blest world beyond the sky.

    ANONYMOUS.



  LADDIE


  Lowly the soul that waits
  At the white, celestial gates,
  A threshold soul to greet
  Belovéd feet.

  Down the streets that are beams of sun
  Cherubim children run;
  They welcome it from the wall;
  Their voices call.

  But the Warder saith: "Nay, this
  Is the City of Holy Bliss.
  What claim canst thou make good
  To angelhood?"

  "Joy," answereth it from eyes
  That are amber ecstasies,
  Listening, alert, elate,
  Before the gate.

          Oh, how the frolic feet
          On lonely memory beat!
          What rapture in a run
          'Twixt snow and sun!

  "Nay, brother of the sod,
  What part hast thou in God?
  What spirit art thou of?"
  It answers: "Love."

  Lifting its head, no less
  Cajoling a caress,
  Our winsome collie wraith,
  Than in glad faith.

  The door will open wide,
  Or kind voice bid: "Abide,
  A threshold soul to greet
  The longed-for feet."

          Ah, Keeper of the Portal,
          If Love be not immortal,
          If Joy be not divine,
          What prayer is mine?

    KATHERINE LEE BATES.



  A DOG'S EPITAPH


  When some proud son of man returns to earth,
  Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
  The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
  And storied urns record who rests below;
  When all is done, upon the tomb is seen
  Not what he was, but what he should have been,
  But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
  The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
  Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
  Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

  Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
  Denied in Heaven the soul he held in earth;
  While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
  And claims himself a sole, exclusive Heaven.
  Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
  Debased by slavery or corrupt by power,
  Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
  Degraded mass of animated dust!

  Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
  Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
  By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
  Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
  Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
  Pass on--it honors none you wish to mourn;
  To mark a friend's remains these stones arise--
  I never knew but one, and here he lies.

    LORD BYRON.



  THE PASSING OF A DOG


  This kindly friend of mine who's passed
    Beyond the realm of day,
  Beyond the realm of darkling night,
    To unknown bourne away

  Was one who deemed my humble home
    A palace grand and fair;
  Whose fullest joy it was to find
    His comrade ever there.

  Ah! He has gone from out my life
    Like some dear dream I knew.
  A man may own a hundred dogs,
    But one he loves, and true.

    ANONYMOUS.



  MY DOG


  The curate thinks you have no soul!
    I know that he has none. But you,
  Dear friend! whose solemn self-control
    In our four-square, familiar pew,

  Was pattern to my youth--whose bark
    Called me in summer dawns to rove--
  Have you gone down into the dark
    Where none is welcome, none may love?

  I will not think those good brown eyes
    Have spent their light of truth so soon;
  But in some canine Paradise
    Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,

  And quarters every plain and hill
    Seeking its master. As for me,
  This prayer at least the gods fulfill--
    That when I pass the floor, and see

  Old Charon by the Stygian coast
    Take toll of all the shades who land,
  Your little, faithful, barking ghost
    May leap to lick my phantom hand.

    ANONYMOUS.



  JACK


  Dog Jack has gone on the silent trail,
    Wherever that may be;
  But well I know, when I whistle the call,
    He will joyfully answer me.

  That call will be when I, myself,
    Have passed through the Gates of Gold;
  He will come with a rush, and his soft brown eyes
    Will glisten with love as of old.

  Oh, Warder of Gates, in the far-away land,
    This little black dog should you see,
  Throw wide your doors that this faithful friend
    May enter, and wait for me.

    H.P.W.



  IN MEMORY OF "DON"


  Our Don--only a dog!
  Yes, only a dog, you say;
  With a large, warm heart,
  And a bright, brown eye,
  With an earnest bark
  And a warm caress

  For you and me and
  The friends he loved best.
  Oh, how we shall
  Miss him, you and I,
  His noisy welcome, and
  Rough good-bye!

  Some time, somewhere,
  Some day, I trust,
  We shall meet again;
  Oh, yes, we must!
  And the joy of that meeting
  I dare not say.

  Ay, mock, ye skeptics,
  And laugh to scorn
  The faith I hold
  Of all life that's born;
  It cannot be wasted,
  Nor can it be lost.

  And oh, for the faith,
  And the Indian's trust,
  That Don and his mistress
  Will meet some day--
  Just over the river
  Not far away!

    M.S.W.



  RODERICK DHU


  You are just a poor dumb brute, my Roderick Dhu,
  And our scientific brethren scoff at you.
  They "reason" and they "think,"
  Then they set it down in ink,
  And clinch it with their learned "point of view."

  Even some divines deny you have a soul,
  And reject you from Man's final heav'nly goal:
  Your presence isn't wanted
  You're not of the anointed.
  You're not upon the mighty Judgment Roll.

  Yet the truth shines from your eyes, my faithful friend,
  And your faithfulness doth that of men transcend;
  You would lie right down and die,
  Without even wond'ring why,
  To save the man you loved--and meet your end.

  When my heart was almost breaking, Roderick Dhu,
  Who was it gave me sympathy, but you!
  You crept so close to me,
  And you licked me tenderly,
  And not a human friend was half so true.

  And would I, reasoning wisely, pronounce you just a beast?
  Your actions "automatic," not "conscious" in the least?
  Set myself so high above you,
  As not to know and love you,
  And toss you but a bone while I shall feast?

  My bonnie Collie, such wrong there shall not be,
  Not for me to grasp at Heav'n and leave the Dark for thee,
  You're nothing but a dog,
  Not in Heaven's Catalogue--
  But whatsoe'er thy fate, the same for me.

    HELEN FITZGERALD SANDERS.



  QUESTIONS


    Where are you now, little wandering
  Life, that so faithfully dwelt with us,
  Played with us, fed with us, felt with us,
    Years we grew fonder and fonder in?

    You who but yesterday sprang to us,
  Are we forever bereft of you?
  And is this all that is left of you--
    One little grave, and a pang to us?

    WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK.



  HIS EPITAPH


  His friends he loves. His fellest earthly foes--
  Cats--I believe he did but feign to hate.
  My hand will miss the insinuated nose,
  Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.

    WILLIAM WATSON.



  IN MEMORIAM


  I miss the little wagging tail;
  I miss the plaintive, pleading wail;
  I miss the wistful, loving glance;
  I miss the circling welcome-dance.

  I miss the eyes that, watching, sued;
  I miss her tongue of gratitude
  That licked my hand, in loving mood,
  When we divided cup or food.

  I miss the pertinacious scratch
  (Continued till I raised the latch
  Each morning), waiting at my door;
  Alas, I ne'er shall hear it more.

  "What folly!" hints the cynic mind,
  "Plenty of dogs are left behind
  To snap and snarl, to bark and bite,
  And wake us in the gloomy night.

  "You should have sought a human friend,
  Whose life eternal ne'er could end--
  Whose gifts of intellect and grace
  Bereavement never could efface."

  Plenty of snarling things are left,
  But I am of a friend bereft;
  I seek not intellect, but heart--
  'Tis not my head that feels the smart.

  While loving sympathy is cherished,
  While gratitude is not quite perished;
  While patient, hopeful, cheerful meeting
  At our return is pleasant greeting;

  So long my heart will feel a void--
  Grieving, my mind will be employed--
  When I, returning to my door,
  Shall miss what I shall find no more.

  When we, at last, shall pass away,
  And see no more the light of day,
  Will many hearts as vacant mourn--
  As truly wish for our return?

  Yet love that's true will ever know
  The pain of parting. Better so!
  "Better to love and lose" than cold,
  And colder still, let hearts grow old.

  So let the cynic snarl or smile,
  And his great intellect beguile;
  My little dog, so true to me,
  Will dear to heart and memory be.

    HENRY WILLETT.



  QUESTIONS


  Is there not something in the pleading eye
  Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns
  The law that bids it suffer? Has it not
  A claim for some remembrance in the book
  That fills its pages with the idle words
  Spoken of man? Or is it only clay,
  Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand,
  Yet all his own to treat it as he will,
  And when he will to cast it at his feet,
  Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore?
  My dog loves me, but could he look beyond
  His earthly master, would his love extend
  To Him who--hush! I will not doubt that He
  Is better than our fears, and will not wrong
  The least, the meanest of created things.

    OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.



  OUR DOG JOCK


  A rollicksome, frolicsome, rare old cock
  As ever did nothing was our dog Jock;
  A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast,
  As slow at a fight as swift at a feast;
  A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail,
  One couldn't but see the old wag in his tail,
  When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim,
  And his course of bark could not strengthen him.
  Never more now shall our knees be pressed
  By his dear old chops in their slobbery rest,
  Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks,
  As wise, and as dull, as divinity books.
  Our old friend's dead, but we all well know
  He's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go,
  Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be,
  And his old head never need turn for a flea.

    JAMES PAYN.



  TORY, A PUPPY


  He lies in the soft earth under the grass,
  Where they who love him often pass,
  And his grave is under a tall young lime,
  In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb;
  But his spirit--where does his spirit rest?
  It was God who made him--God knows best.

    MORTIMER COLLINS.



  ON AN IRISH RETRIEVER


  Ten years of loving loyalty
    Unthankéd should not go to earth,
  And I, who had no less from thee,
    Devote this tribute to thy worth.

  For thou didst give to me, old friend,
    Thy service while thy life did last;
  Thy life and service have an end,
    And here I thank thee for the past.

  Trusted and faithful, tried and true,
    Watchful and swift to do my will,
  Grateful for care that was thy due,
    To duty's call obedient still,

  From ill thou knew'st thou didst refrain,
    The good thou knew'st thou strove to do,
  Nor dream of fame, nor greed of gain,
    Man's keenest spurs, urged thee thereto.

  Brute, with a heart of human love,
    And speechless soul of instinct fine!
  How few by reason's law who move
    Deserve an epitaph like thine!

    FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER.



  A RETRIEVER'S EPITAPH


  Beneath this turf, that formerly he pressed
  With agile feet, a dog is laid to rest;
  Him, as he sleeps, no well-known sound shall stir,
  The rabbit's patter, or the pheasant's whir;
  The keeper's "Over"--far, but well defined,
  That speeds the startled partridge down the wind;
  The whistled warning as the winged ones rise
  Large and more large upon our straining eyes,
  Till with a sweep, while every nerve is tense,
  The chattering covey hurtles o'er the fence;
  The double crack of every lifted gun,
  The dinting thud of birds whose course is done--
  These sounds, delightful to his listening ear,
  He heeds no longer, for he cannot hear.
  None stauncher, till the drive was done, defied
  Temptation, rooted to his master's side;
  None swifter, when his master gave the word,
  Leapt on his course to track the running bird,
  And bore it back--ah, many a time and oft--
  His nose as faultless as his mouth was soft.
  How consciously, how proudly unconcerned,
  Straight to his master's side he then returned,
  Wagged a glad tail, and deemed himself repaid
  As in that master's hand the bird he laid,
  If, while a word of praise was duly said,
  The hand should stroke his smooth and honest head.
  Through spring and summer, in the sportless days,
  Cheerful he lived a life of simpler ways;
  Chose, since official dogs at times unbend,
  The household cat for confidante and friend;
  With children friendly, but untaught to fawn,
  Romped through the walks and rollicked on the lawn,
  Rejoiced, if one the frequent ball should throw,
  To fetch it, scampering gaily to and fro,
  Content through every change of sportive mood
  If one dear voice, one only, called him good.

  Such was my dog, who now, without my aid,
  Hunts through the shadowland, himself a shade,
  Or crouched intent before some ghostly gate,
  Waits for my step, as here he used to wait.

    ROBERT C. LEHMANN.


  THE END

  Transcriber's note:

  My dog and I: Author is Alice J. Chester in the Table
  of contents and Alice J. Cleator in the text.





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