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Title: To Your Dog and To My Dog
Author: Kinnicutt, Lincoln Newton
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
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.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "To Your Dog and To My Dog" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

  _Previous Publications_:

  _Indian Names of Places in Worcester County, Massachusetts_
  _Indian Names of Places in Plymouth, Middleborough
           Lakeville, and Carver
     With Interpretations of Some of Them_

  _To Your Dog And
  To My Dog_





  The Riverside Press Cambridge



  _Published December 1915_

  To him who has never called a dog his friend
  The full meaning of pure friendship is unknown

_Dear Dogs_:--

I have brought together in my library a few of the many proofs that show
how true is the affection which many of your masters have for you, and
some-time when I can read them to you privately, you will understand
more fully the place you hold in our lives. I use the word MASTER only
because our language is too poor to express in one word the real
relationship which exists between us, we the master, and you the devoted
slave and trusted servant, the most joyful of playfellows, and the best
of companions, the bravest defender, and the truest friend. I wish I
knew the word in your language which expresses all that you are to us. I
also wish I knew how much you know, and could learn the many things you
would gladly teach us.

You can see what we cannot see.

You can hear sounds we cannot hear.

You interpret signs we cannot read.

You scent the trails we cannot find.

You talk to us with your speaking eyes, and we cannot understand.

You are sometimes cruelly treated, and so are human beings, and
sometimes we have to punish you for you are not always good. You have a
certain amount of deviltry in your nature which we rather like, for it
makes you more human and lovable. Your sins, however, are mostly against
the laws we have made for you, not against your own, or those of nature,
which are the laws of a higher power than ours--the one who made you.

What glorious times have we enjoyed together tramping or riding through
the fields and woods, over the hills and by the streams and through the
swamps, or at the sea, on the sands and rocks, or over the salt marshes,
with gun or camera or botany box, or with nothing at all! We have shared
the best the world can give us, nature's gifts. And returning home,
tired and happy, we in the evening, before a bright wood fire, you close
by our side or at our feet only so that you can touch us, have lived
over what the day has given us. Or sometimes at night before a camp fire
with the quiet of the wood sounds all about us, have dreamed of the
ducks and the grouse and the partridges, or of rare flowers or a
beautiful landscape which the past day has brought, or of what the next
day will bring. And perhaps you have dreamed also, a little selfishly
(you are only selfish in your dreams) of the rabbits and squirrels and
the woodchucks which have been the greatest temptation for you to resist
all day long. They must have existed long ago in your garden of Eden.

No matter what our conditions or surroundings in life may be you accept
them gladly. King or peasant, palace or hovel, riches or poverty, plenty
or starvation, burning sun or ice and snow, if you have once given us
your affection, no matter who or what your master may be, you give him
all you have to give to the very end--even life itself. It would almost
seem that you were created only to serve us, for wherever man has been,
even in the far past where history is almost a myth, you have been also,
close by his side. Old Egypt, Persia, Greece, and ancient Rome have told
of your fidelity and of your devotion.

You know us in many ways as no human being knows us, for every hour of
your life you wish to be near, and often you are our most intimate
companion and the best friend we have in the world. We talk to you, more
than half believing, or trying to believe, that you understand, and I am
not sure but that to you alone we always tell the absolute truth, we
whisper to you our secrets, we confide to you our hopes and ambitions,
we tell you of our successes and our disappointments, and often in deep
grief you alone see what we think is weakness to show to the outside
world. Whatever happens to us we are sure of one friend, even if the
whole world is against us. We trust to you our greatest treasures, our
children, and we know with you they are safe.

When you go to the Happy Hunting Ground you are truly and deeply
mourned, and the great legacy you leave us is the memory of your
loyalty, your devotion, your trust, and memory of the many happy hours
and happy days you have given us in your too short life. And when we are
obliged to say "the King is dead," we do not complete the old saying
"long live the King" for many, many months--and sometimes never.

                    May we meet again,

                          Your masters, and

                                  Your FRIENDS.

To The Masters_

The blank space on the title cover is designed for a photograph, or any
picture, of your own dog.

This collection is composed almost entirely of verses that have been
written within the last twenty-five years. I know only too well that I
have omitted many poems that the Dogs should hear, but I have not
attempted a large anthology, for it has been done several times by far
abler hands. I also know you will ask why some of your favorite poems
are not found in this collection, but I have selected only a small
number, among the many that have appealed to me, for I promised to read
only a few to my friends, the Dogs, and I have left many blank half
pages on which you can copy your own favorite Dog Poems.

                                                                L. N. K.

To those to whom I am indebted_

I wish to thank the Authors for their kindness in permitting me to
reprint their poems and I also wish to acknowledge the courtesy of the
many Publishers who have given me permission to reprint selections from
their publications. To many friends I wish to express my obligation for
the use of their collections.

                                                                L. N. K.


LUFRA                                     _Sir Walter Scott_        1

FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB                         _Henry Newbolt_        5

LEO                                  _Richard Watson Gilder_       13

GEIST'S GRAVE                               _Matthew Arnold_       17

THE POWER OF THE DOG                       _Rudyard Kipling_       25

TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL                          _R. C. Lehmann_       31

TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER                          _W. M. Letts_       39

TO A TERRIER                           _Patrick R. Chalmers_       43

RHAPSODY ON A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE            _Burges Johnson_       47

FRANCES                                   _Richard Wightman_       53

ROGER AND I                               _Julian S. Cutler_       59

"SIR BAT-EARS"                                   _Mrs. Eden_       65

CLUNY                               _William Croswell Doane_       71

LADDIE                                 _Katharine Lee Bates_       75

DAVY                                  _Louise Imogen Guiney_       79

A FRIEND                                     _Zitella Cocke_       83

THE BATH                                     _R. C. Lehmann_       87

SIX FEET                                         _Anonymous_       93

WILHELM                                _Patrick R. Chalmers_       97

AN OLD DOG                                    _Celia Duffin_      101

REMARKS TO MY GROWN-UP PUP                  _Burges Johnson_      105

OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG                           _Lord Byron_      109

TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER                       _W. M. Letts_      113

MY DOG                               _Anna Hadley Middlemas_      117

"WITHOUT ARE DOGS"                        _Edward A. Church_      121

YOU'RE A DOG                                  _C. L. Gilman_      125

A GENTLEMAN                                      _Anonymous_      129

MY DOG                                      _St. John Lucas_      133

TO SCOTT, A COLLIE                             _W. M. Letts_      137

'DODO,' 1903-1913                    _Arthur Austin-Jackson_      141

EPITAPH                                   _Sir Walter Scott_      143

"HAMISH," A SCOTCH TERRIER                 _C. Hilton Brown_      145



  _The Lady of the Lake_


  The Monarch saw the gambols flag,
  And bade let loose a gallant stag,
  Whose pride, the holiday to crown,
  Two favorite greyhounds should pull down,
  That venison free, and Bordeaux wine,
  Might serve the archery to dine.
  But Lufra,--whom from Douglas' side
  Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide,
  The fleetest hound in all the North,--
  Brave Lufra saw and darted forth.
  She left the royal hounds mid way,
  And dashing on the antlered prey,
  Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank,
  And deep the flowing life-blood drank.
  The King's stout huntsman saw the sport
  By strange intruder broken short,
  Came up, and with his leash unbound,
  In anger struck the noble hound.
  --The Douglas had endured, that morn,
  The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn,
  And last, and worst to spirit proud,
  Had borne the pity of the crowd;
  But Lufra had been fondly bred,
  To share his board, to watch his bed,
  And oft would Ellen, Lufra's neck,
  In maiden glee with garlands deck;
  They were such playmates, that with name
  Of Lufra, Ellen's image came.
  His stifled wrath is brimming high,
  In darkened brow and flashing eye;
  As waves before the bark divide,
  The crowd gave way before his stride;
  Needs but a buffet and no more,
  The groom lies senseless in his gore.
  Such blow no other hand could deal
  Though gauntleted in glove of steel.


  _The Island Race_


  By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers


  The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
  His eyes were alive and clear of care,
  But well he knew that the hour was come
  To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

  He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
  He looked on the lake, sunny and still;
  The last of earth that his eyes could see
  Was the island church of Orchardleigh.

  The last that his heart could understand
  Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
  "Bury the dog at my feet," he said,
  And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.

  Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
  Staunch to love and strong at need:
  He had dragged his master safe to shore
  When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.

  From that day forth, as reason would,
  He was named "Fidele," and made it good:
  When the last of the mourners left the door
  Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.

  They buried him there at his master's feet,
  And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
  The story went the round for years,
  Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.

  Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
  Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
  And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
  That Bishop may write or Parson read.

  The sum of it was that a soulless hound
  Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
  From scandal sore the Church to save
  They must take the dog from his master's grave.

  The heir was far in a foreign land,
  The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
  He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
  A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.

  The Sexton sat by the water's brink
  Where he used to sit when he used to think:
  He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
  And his argument left him free from doubt.

  "A Bishop," he said, "is the top of his trade:
  But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
  Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
  And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more."

  The grave was dug; the mason came
  And carved on stone Fidele's name:
  But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
  Was a dog that never had lived or died.

  So the Parson was praised, and the scandal stayed,
  Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
  And, laying the floor anew, they found
  In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.

  As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells,
  No more of him the story tells;
  Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
  And died and was buried a century since.

  And whether his view was right or wrong
  Has little to do with this my song;
  Something we owe him, you must allow;
  And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.

  The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
  The marble still his memory keeps:
  Remember, when the name you spell,
  There rest Fidele's bones as well.

  For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
  'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
  An ignorant fellow, of humble lot--
  But he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.


  From _The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder_

  By permission of the Publishers, HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY


  Over the roofs of the houses I hear the barking of Leo--
  Leo the shaggy, the lustrous, the giant, the gentle Newfoundland.
  Dark are his eyes as the night, and black is his hair as the midnight;
  Large and slow is his tread till he sees his master returning,
  Then how he leaps in the air, with motion ponderous, frightening!
  Now, as I pass to my work, I hear o'er the roar of the city--
  Far over the roofs of the houses, I hear the barking of Leo;
  For me he is moaning and crying, for me in measure sonorous
  He raises his marvelous voice, for me he is wailing and calling.
  None can assuage his grief, tho' but for a day is the parting,
  Tho' morn after morn 'tis the same, tho' home every night comes his
  Still will he grieve when we sever, and wild will be his rejoicing
  When at night his master returns and lays but a hand on his forehead.
  No lack will there be in the world of faith, of love, and devotion,
  No lack for me and for mine, while Leo alone is living--
  While over the roofs of the houses I hear the barking of Leo.


  From _Poems by Matthew Arnold
  Dramatic and Later Poems_

  By permission of the Publishers, THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, New York


  Four years!--and didst thou stay above
  The ground, which hides thee now, but four?
  And all that life, and all that love,
  Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

  Only four years those winning ways,
  Which make me for thy presence yearn,
  Call'd us to pet thee or to praise,
  Dear little friend! at every turn?

  That loving heart, that patient soul,
  Had they indeed no longer span,
  To run their course, and reach their goal,
  And read their homily to man?

  That liquid, melancholy eye,
  From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs
  Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,[A]
  The sense of tears in mortal things--

  That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled
  By spirits gloriously gay,
  And temper of heroic mould--
  What, was four years their whole short day?

  Yes, only four!--and not the course
  Of all the centuries yet to come,
  And not the infinite resource
  Of Nature, with her countless sum

  Of figures, with her fulness vast
  Of new creation evermore,
  Can ever quite repeat the past,
  Or just thy little self restore.

  Stern law of every mortal lot!
  Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,
  And builds himself I know not what
  Of second life I know not where.

  But thou, when struck thine hour to go,
  On us, who stood despondent by,
  A meek last glance of love didst throw,
  And humbly lay thee down to die.

  Yet would we keep thee in our heart--
  Would fix our favourite on the scene,
  Nor let thee utterly depart
  And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

  And so there rise these lines of verse
  On lips that rarely form them now;
  While to each other we rehearse:
  _Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!_

  We stroke thy broad brown paws again,
  We bid thee to thy vacant chair,
  We greet thee by the window-pane,
  We hear thy scuffle on the stair.

  We see the flaps of thy large ears
  Quick raised to ask which way we go;
  Crossing the frozen lake, appears
  Thy small black figure on the snow!

  Nor to us only art thou dear
  Who mourn thee in thine English home;
  Thou hast thine absent master's tear,
  Dropt by the far Australian foam.

  Thy memory lasts both here and there,
  And thou shalt live as long as we.
  And after that--thou dost not care!
  In us was all the world to thee.

  Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame,
  Even to a date beyond our own
  We strive to carry down thy name,
  By mounded turf, and graven stone.

  We lay thee, close within our reach,
  Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,
  Between the holly and the beech,
  Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,

  Asleep, yet lending half an ear
  To travellers on the Portsmouth road;--
  There build we thee, O guardian dear,
  Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode!

  Then some, who through this garden pass,
  When we too, like thyself, are clay,
  Shall see thy grave upon the grass,
  And stop before the stone, and say:

  _People who lived here long ago
  Did by this stone, it seems, intend
  To name for future times to know
  The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend._

[A] _Sunt lacrimæ rerum!_


  _Actions and Reactions_


  By permission of the Publishers, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
  Garden City


  There is sorrow enough in the natural way
  From men and women to fill our day;
  But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
  Why do we always arrange for more?
  _Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
  Of giving your heart to a dog to tear._

  Buy a pup and your money will buy
  Love unflinching that cannot lie--
  Perfect passion and worship fed
  By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
  _Nevertheless it is hardly fair
  To risk your heart for a dog to tear._

  When the fourteen years which Nature permits
  Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
  And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
  To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
  _Then you will find--it's your own affair
  But ... you 've given your heart to a dog to tear._

  When the body that lived at your single will
  When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)
  When the spirit that answered your every mood
  Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
  _You will discover how much you care,
  And will give your heart to a dog to tear!_

  We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
  When it comes to burying Christian clay.
  Our loves are not given, but only lent,
  At compound interest of cent per cent.
  Though it is not always the case, I believe,
  That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
  For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
  A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
  _So why in Heaven (before we are there!)
  Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?_


  From _Crumbs of Pity_


  By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers, WILLIAM
  BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh & London


  Rufus, a bright New Year! A savoury stew,
  Bones, broth and biscuits, is prepared for you.
  See how it steams in your enamelled dish,
  Mixed in each part according to your wish.
  Hide in your straw the bones you cannot crunch--
  They'll come in handy for to-morrow's lunch;
  Abstract with care each tasty scrap of meat,
  Remove each biscuit to a fresh retreat
  (A dog, I judge, would deem himself disgraced
  Who ate a biscuit where he found it placed);
  Then nuzzle round and make your final sweep,
  And sleep, replete, your after-dinner sleep.
  High in our hall we've piled the fire with logs
  For you, the _doyen_ of our corps of dogs.
  There, when the stroll that health demands is done,
  Your right to ease by due exertion won,
  There shall you come, and on your long-haired mat,
  Thrice turning round, shall tread the jungle flat,
  And, rhythmically snoring, dream away
  The peaceful evening of your New Year's day.

  Rufus! there are who hesitate to own
  Merits, they say, your master sees alone.
  They judge you stupid, for you show no bent
  To any poodle-dog accomplishment.
  Your stubborn nature never stooped to learn
  Tricks by which mumming dogs their biscuits earn.
  Men mostly find you, if they change their seat,
  Couchant obnoxious to their blundering feet;
  Then, when a door is closed, you steadily
  Misjudge the side on which you ought to be;
  Yelping outside when all your friends are in,
  You raise the echoes with your ceaseless din,
  Or, always wrong, but turn and turn about,
  Howling inside when all the world is out.
  They scorn your gestures and interpret ill
  Your humble signs of friendship and goodwill;
  Laugh at your gambols, and pursue with jeers
  The ringlets clustered on your spreading ears;
  See without sympathy your sore distress
  When Ray obtains the coveted caress,
  And you, a jealous lump of growl and glare,
  Hide from the world your head beneath a chair.
  They say your legs are bandy--so they are:
  Nature so formed them that they might go far;
  They cannot brook your music; they assail
  The joyful quiverings of your stumpy tail--
  In short, in one anathema confound
  Shape, mind and heart, and all, my little hound.
  Well, let them rail. If, since your life began,
  Beyond the customary lot of man
  Staunchness was yours; if of your faithful heart
  Malice and scorn could never claim a part;
  If in your master, loving while you live,
  You own no fault or own it to forgive;
  If, as you lay your head upon his knee,
  Your deep-drawn sighs proclaim your sympathy;
  If faith and friendship, growing with your age,
  Speak through your eyes and all his love engage;
  If by that master's wish your life you rule--
  If this be folly, Rufus, you're a fool.

  Old dog, content you; Rufus, have no fear:
  While life is yours and mine your place is here.
  And when the day shall come, as come it must,
  When Rufus goes to mingle with the dust
  (If Fate ordains that you shall pass before
  To the abhorred and sunless Stygian shore),
  I think old Charon, punting through the dark,
  Will hear a sudden friendly little bark;
  And on the shore he'll mark without a frown
  A flap-eared doggie, bandy-legged and brown.
  He'll take you in: since watermen are kind,
  He'd scorn to leave my little dog behind.
  He'll ask no obol, but instal you there
  On Styx's further bank without a fare.
  There shall you sniff his cargoes as they come,
  And droop your head, and turn, and still be dumb--
  Till one fine day, half joyful, half in fear,
  You run and prick a recognising ear,
  And last, oh, rapture! leaping to his hand,
  Salute your master as he steps to land.


  From _Songs from Leinster_


  By permission of the Author, and of the Publisher
  DAVID MCKAY, Philadelphia


  It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now:
  Small as a flea or large as a cow;
  But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet
  By any dog that ever he met.
  "Come on," says he, "for I'm not kilt yet."

  No matter the size of the dog he'll meet,
  Tim trails his coat the length o' the street.
  D'ye mind his scars an' his ragged ear,
  The like of a Dublin Fusilier?
  He's a massacree dog that knows no fear.

  But he'd stick to me till his latest breath;
  An' he'd go with me to the gates of death.
  He'd wait for a thousand years, maybe,
  Scratching the door an' whining for me
  If myself were inside in Purgatary.

  So I laugh when I hear thim make it plain
  That dogs and men never meet again.
  For all their talk who'd listen to thim,
  With the soul in the shining eyes of him?
  Would God be wasting a dog like Tim?


  From _Green Days and Blue Days_


  By permission of the Author. Published by MAUNSEL & CO., Ltd.


  Crib, on your grave beneath the chestnut boughs
  To-day no fragrance falls nor summer air,
  Only a master's love who laid you there
  Perchance may warm the earth 'neath which you drowse
  In dreams from which no dinner gong may rouse,
  Unwakeable, though close the rat may dare,
  Deaf, though the rabbit thump in playful scare,
  Silent, though twenty tabbies pay their vows.
  And yet, mayhap, some night when shadows pass,
  And from the fir the brown owl hoots on high,
  That should one whistle 'neath a favoring star
  Your small white shade shall patter o'er the grass,
  Questing for him you loved o' days gone by,
  Ere Death the Dog-Thief carried you afar!


  From _Rhymes of Home_


  By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers
  G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York


  Dear dog, that seems to stand and gravely brood
  Upon the broad veranda of our home
  With soulful eyes that gaze into the gloam--
  With speaking tail that registers thy mood,--
  Men say thou hast no ratiocination;
  Methinks there is a clever imitation.

  Men say again thy kindred have no souls,
  And sin is but an attribute of men;
  Say, is it chance alone that bids thee,then,
  Choose only garden spots for digging holes?
  Why dost thou filch some fragment of the cooking
  At times when no one seemeth to be looking?

  Was there an early Adam of thy race,
  And brindled Eve, the mother of thy house,
  Who shared some purloined chicken with her spouse,
  Thus causing all thy tribe to fall from grace?
  If fleas dwelt in the garden of that Adam
  Perhaps thy sinless parents never had 'em.

  This morn thou cam'st a-slinking through the door,
  Avoiding eyes, and some dark corner sought,
  And though no accusation filled our thought,
  Thy tail, apologetic, thumped the floor.
  Who claims thou hast no conscience, argues vainly,
  For I have seen its symptoms very plainly.

  What leads thee to forsake thy board and bed
  On days that are devoted to thy bath?
  For if it is not reason yet it hath
  Appearance of desire to plan ahead!
  The sage who claims thy brain and soul be wizen
  Would do quite well to swap thy head for his'n.



  By permission of the Author and from
  _The American Magazine_


  You were a dog, Frances, a dog,
  And I was just a man.
  The Universal Plan,--
  Well, 'twould have lacked something
  Had it lacked you.
  Somehow you fitted in like a far star
  Where the vast spaces are;
  Or like a grass-blade
  Which helps the meadow
  To be a meadow;
  Or like a song which kills a sigh
  And sings itself on and on
  Till all the world is full of it.
  You were the real thing, Frances, a soul!
  Encarcassed, yes, but still a soul
  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 door-step
  With that wide strap about your neck,--
  A worn one with a huge buckle.
  When bigger dogs pitched onto you
  You stood your ground and gave them all you had
  And took your wounds unwhimpering, but hid them.
  My, but you were game!
  You were fine-haired
  And marked with Princeton colors,
  Black and deep yellow.
  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 wet 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,
  At least that's what they said.
  There was a box and
  You were in it, still,
  With a sprig of myrtle and your leash and blanket,
  And put deep;
  But though you sleep and ever sleep
  I sense you at my heels!



  From _The Boston Evening Transcript_

  By permission of the Author and of _The Boston Evening Transcript_


  Well, Roger, my dear old doggie, they say that your race is run;
  And our jolly tramps together up and down the world are done;
  You're only a dog, old fellow, a dog, and you've had your day;
  But never a friend of all my friends has been truer than you alway.

  We've had glorious times together in the fields and pastures fair;
  In storm and sunny weather we have romped without a care;
  And however men have treated me, though foul or fair their deal--
  However many the friends that failed, I've found you true as steel.

  That's right, my dear old fellow, look up with your knowing eye,
  And lick my hand with your loving tongue that never has told a lie;
  And don't be afraid, old doggie, if your time has come to go,
  For somewhere out in the great Unknown there's a place for you,
    I know.

  Then don't you worry, old Comrade; and don't you fear to die;
  For out in that fairer country I will find you by and by;
  And I'll stand by you, old fellow, and our love will surely win,
  For never a heaven shall harbor me where they won't let Roger in.

  When I reach that city glorious, behind the waiting dark,
  Just come and stand outside the gate, and wag your tail and bark--
  I'll hear your voice, and I'll know it, and I'll come to the gate
    and say:
  "Saint Peter, that's my dog out there, you must let him come this

  And then if the saint refuses, I'll go to the One above,
  And say: "Old Roger is at the gate, with his heart brim full of love;
  And there isn't a shining angel, of all the heavenly band,
  Who ever lived a nobler life than he in the earthly land."

  Then I know the gate will open, and you will come frisking in,
  And we'll roam fair fields together, in that country free from sin.
  So never you mind, old Roger, if your time has come to go;
  You've been true to me, I'll be true to you--and the Lord is good, we

  You're only a dog, old fellow; a dog, and you've had your day--
  Well, I'm getting there myself, old boy, and I haven't long to stay;
  But you've stood by me, old Comrade, and I'm bound to stand by you;
  So don't you worry, old Roger, for our love will pull us through.




  By permission of the Author, and special permission of the
  Proprietors of London _Punch_


  Sir Bat-ears was a dog of birth
  And bred in Aberdeen,
  But he favoured not his noble kin
  And so his lot is mean,
  And Sir Bat-ears sits by the almshouses
  On the stones with grass between.

  Under the ancient archway
  His pleasure is to wait
  Between the two stone pineapples
  That flank the weathered gate;

  And old, old alms-persons go by,
  All rusty, bent and black,
  "Good-day, good-day, Sir Bat-ears,"
  They say and stroke his back.

  And old, old alms-persons go by,
  Shaking and well-nigh dead,
  "Good-night, good-night, Sir Bat-ears!"
  They say and pat his head.

  So courted and considered
  He sits out hour by hour,
  Benignant in the sunshine
  And prudent in the shower.

  (Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm
  And stiffly breast the rain,
  That rising when the cloud is gone
  He leaves a circle of dry stone
  Whereon to sit again.)

  A dozen little door steps
  Under the arch are seen,
  A dozen aged alms-persons
  To keep them bright and clean:

  Two wrinkled hands to scour each step
  With a square of yellow stone--
  But print-marks of Sir Bat-ears' paws
  Bespeckle every one.

  And little eats an alms-person,
  But, though his board be bare,
  There never lacks a bone of the best
  To be Sir Bat-ears' share.

  Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose,
  He quests from door to door;
  Their grace they say--his shadow gray
  Is instant on the floor,
  Humblest of all the dogs there be,
  A pensioner of the poor.



  From _The Boston Evening Transcript_

  By permission


  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.

  May 24-25, 1902.

  He had lived out his life, but not his love;
  Daily up steep and weary stair he came,
  His big heart bursting with the strain, to prove
  His loneliness without me. Just the same
  Old word of greeting beamed in his deep eye,
  With a new look of wonder in it, asking why
  "The whole creation groans and travails." He
  And I there faced the mystery of pain.
  Finding me dumb and helpless, down again
  He went, unanswered, with the dawn to die,
  And find the mystery opened with the key,
  "The creature from corruption's bondage free."


  From _America the Beautiful
  and Other Poems_


  By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers


  Lowly the soul that waits
  At the white, celestial gates,
  A threshold soul to greet
  Belovèd 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?_



  _Century Magazine_

  By permission of the Author, and of THE CENTURY COMPANY
  New York


  Davy, her knight, her dear, was dead:
  Low in dust was the silken head.
      "Isn't there heaven,"
      (She was but seven)
  "Isn't there" (sobbing) "for dogs?" she said.

  "Man is immortal, sage or fool:
      Animals end, by different rule."
      So had they prated
  Of things created,
  An hour before, in her Sunday-school.

  Trusty and glad and true, who could
  Match her hero of hardihood,
      Rancorless, selfless,
      Prideless, pelfless?--
  How I should like to be half so good!

  Firebrand eye and icicle nose;
  Ear inwrought like a guelder-rose;
      All the sweet wavy
      Beauty of Davy;--
  Sad, not to answer whither it goes!

  "Isn't there heaven for dogs that's dead?
  God made Davy, out of His head:
      If He unmake him,
      Doesn't He take him?
  Why should He throw him away?" she said.

  The birds were busy, the brook was gay,
  But the little hand was in mine all day.
      Nothing could bury
      That infinite query:
  "Davy,--_would_ God throw him away?"



  From _The Youth's Companion_

  By permission of the Author and of _The Youth's Companion_


  "Your invitation, sir, to dine
  With you to-night I must decline
  Because to-day I lost a friend--
  A friend long known and loved;" thus penned
  The good Sir Walter, aptly named
  The Wizard of the North, and famed
  For truest, gentlest heart, among
  The homes that love the English tongue.
  Great heart, that felt the soul of things
  In all its high imaginings,
  And showed, mid vexing stress and strife
  Of worldly cares, a hero's life!
  An humble friend it was he loved,
  And oft together they had roved
  The heather hills and sweet brae side,
  Or braved the rushing river's tide,
  And many a frosty winter night
  Sat musing by the warm firelight--
  A faithful friend, whom chance and change
  Of fleeting years could ne'er estrange.
  For he who once has gained the love
  And friendship of a dog shall prove
  Thro' joy and sorrow to the end
  The deep devotion of a friend.
  What is it? More than instinct fine,
  This something man cannot divine,
  Which speaks from eyes where lips are mute,
  Which makes the creature we name brute
  The noblest pattern we may see
  Of loving, lasting loyalty.
  We dare not call it mind or soul,
  We know not what or where its goal,
  But aye we know its little span
  Of life spells large--Friendship to man;
  Nor wonder Scott, in grief, should say,
  "I lost a much-loved friend to-day!"




  By permission of the Author, and special permission of the
  Proprietors of London _Punch_


  Hang garlands on the bathroom door;
    Let all the passages be spruce;
  For, lo, the victim comes once more,
    And, ah, he struggles like the deuce!

  Bring soaps of many scented sorts;
    Let girls in pinafores attend,
  With John, their brother, in his shorts,
    To wash their dusky little friend,

  Their little friend, the dusky dog,
    Short-legged and very obstinate,
  Faced like a much-offended frog,
    And fighting hard against his fate.

  No Briton he! From palace-born
    Chinese patricians he descends;
  He keeps their high ancestral scorn;
    His spirit breaks, but never bends.

  Our water-ways he fain would 'scape;
    He hates the customary bath
  That thins his tail and spoils his shape,
    And turns him to a fur-clad lath;

  And, seeing that the Pekinese
    Have lustrous eyes that bulge like buds,
  He fain would save such eyes as these,
    Their owner's pride, from British suds.

  Vain are his protests--in he goes.
    His young barbarians crowd around;
  They soap his paws, they soap his nose;
    They soap wherever fur is found.

  And soon, still laughing, they extract
    His limpness from the darkling tide;
  They make the towel's roughness act
    On back and head and dripping side.

  They shout and rub and rub and shout--
    He deprecates their odious glee--
  Until at last they turn him out,
    A damp gigantic bumble-bee.

  Released, he barks and rolls, and speeds
    From lawn to lawn, from path to path,
  And in one glorious minute needs
    More soapsuds and another bath.


  From a friend


  "My little rough dog and I
  Live a life that is rather rare.
  We have so many good walks to take
  And so few hard things to bear;
  So much that gladdens and recreates,
  So little of wear and tear."

  "Sometimes it blows and rains,
  But still the six feet ply
  No care at all to the following four
  If the leading two know why.
  'Tis a pleasure to have six feet, we think,
  My little rough dog and I."

  "And we travel all one way;
  'Tis a thing we should never do,
  To reckon the two without the four,
  Or the four without the two.
  It would not be right if anyone tried,
  Because it would not be true."

  "And who shall look up and say
  That it ought not so to be,
  Tho' the earth is Heaven enough for him,
  Is it less than that to me?
  For a little rough dog can make
  A joy that enters eternity!"




  By permission of the Author, and special permission of the
  Proprietors of London _Punch_


  "No good thing comes from out of Kaiserland,"
  Says Phyllis; but beside the fire I note
  One Wilhelm, sleek in tawny gold of coat,
  Most satin-smooth to the caresser's hand.

  A velvet mien; an eye of amber, full
  Of that which keeps the faith with us for life;
  Lover of meal times; hater of yard-dog strife;
  Lordly, with silken ears most strokeable.

  Familiar on the hearth, refuting her,
  He sits, the antic-pawed, the proven friend,
  The whimsical, the grave and reverend--
  Wilhelm the Dachs from out of Hanover.



  _The Spectator_

  By permission of the Author, _The London Spectator_, and


  Now that no shrill hunting horn
  Can arouse me at the morn,
  Deaf I lie the long day through,
  Dreaming firelight dreams of you;
  Waiting, patient through it all,
  Till the greater Huntsman call.

  If we are, as people say,
  But the creatures of a day,
  Let me live, when we must part,
  A little longer in your heart.
  You were all the God I knew,
  I was faithful unto you.


  From _Rhymes of Home_


  By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers
  G. P. PUTNAM'S Sons, New York


  By rules of fitness and of tense,
  By all old canine precedents,
  Oh, Adult Dog, the time is up
  When I may fondly call you Pup.
  The years have sped since first you stood
  In straddle-legged puppyhood,--
  A watch-pup, proud of your renown,
  Who barked so hard you tumbled down.
  In Age's gain and Youth's retreat
  You've found more team-work for your feet,
  You drool a soupçon less, and hark!
  There's fuller meaning to your bark.
  But answer fairly, whilom pup,
  Are these full proof of growing up?

  I heard an elephantine tread
  That jarred the rafters overhead:
  _Who_ leaped in mad abandon there
  And tossed my slippers in the air?
  _Who_, sitting gravely on the rug,
  Espied a microscopic bug
  And stalked it, gaining bit by bit,--
  Then leapt in air and fell on it?
  _Who_ gallops madly down the breeze
  Pursuing specks that no one sees,
  Then finds some ancient boot instead
  And worries it till it is dead?
  _I_ have no adult friends who choose
  To gnaw the shoe-strings from my shoes,--
  Who eat up twine and paper scraps
  And bark while they are taking naps.
  Oh Dog, you offer every proof
  That stately age yet holds aloof.
  Grown up? There's meaning in the phrase
  Of dignity as well as days.
  Oh why such size, beloved pup?--
  You've grown enough, but not grown up.




  ... "In life the firmest friend,
  The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
  Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
  Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone."

            "Near this spot
  Are deposited the Remains of one
  Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
      Strength without Insolence,
      Courage without Ferocity,
  And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
  This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
      If inscribed over human ashes,
    Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
            BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
  Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
  And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."



  By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London


  O jewel of my heart, I sing your praise,
  Though you who are, alas! of middle age
  Have never been to school, and cannot read
  The weary printed page.

  I sing your eyes, two pools in shadowed streams,
  Where your soul shines in depths of sunny brown,
  Alertly raised to read my every mood
  Or thoughtfully cast down.

  I sing the little nose, so glossy wet,
  The well-trained sentry to your eager mind,
  So swift to catch the delicate glad scent
  Of rabbits on the wind.

  Ah, fair to me your wheaten-coloured coat,
  And fair the darker velvet of your ear,
  Ragged and scarred with old hostilities
  That never taught you fear.

  But oh! your heart, where my unworthiness
  Is made perfection by love's alchemy,
  How often does your doghood's faith cry shame
  To my inconstancy.

  At last I know the hunter Death will come
  And whistle low the call you must obey.
  So you will leave me, comrade of my heart,
  To take a lonely way.

  Some tell me, Tim, we shall not meet again,
  But for their loveless logic need we care?--
  If I should win to Heav'n's gate I know
  _You_ will be waiting there.



  By permission of the Author and of _The Boston
  Evening Transcript_


  He's just plain yellow: no "blue-ribbon" breed.
  In disposition--well, a trifle gruff
  Outside his "tried and true." His coat is rough.
  To bark at night and sleep by day, his creed.
  Yet, when his soft brown eyes so dumbly plead
  For one caress from my too-busy hand,
  I wonder from what far and unknown land
  Came the true soul, which in his gaze I read.
  Whence all his loyalty and faithful zeal?
  Why does he share my joyous mood, and gay?
  Why mourn with me, when I perchance do mourn?
  When hunger-pressed, why scorn a bounteous meal
  That by my side he may pursue his way?
  Whence came his noble soul, and where its bourn?



  By permission of the Author and of the _Century Magazine_


  If, through some wondrous miracle of grace,
  To the Celestial City I might win,
  And find upon the golden pavement place,
  The gates of pearl within;

  In some sweet pausing of the immortal song
  To which the choiring Seraphim give birth,
  Should I not for that humbler greeting long
  Known in the dumb companionships of earth?

  Friends whom the softest whistle of my call
  Brought to my side in love that knew no doubt,
  Would I not seek to cross the jasper wall
  If haply I might find you there "without"?



  By permission of the Author and of OUTING PUBLISHING CO., N. Y.


  At the kennel where they bred you they were raising fancy pets,
    Yellow didn't matter, so the blood was blue.
  But the Red Gods mixed a medicine that cancelled all their bets--
    Make your tail say "thanks," they've made a dog of you.

  You have heard the wolf-pack howling and have barked a full defiance;
    You have chased the moose and routed out the deer;
  You have worked and played and lived with man in honorable alliance,
    You have shared his tent and campfire as his peer.

  When you might have copped the ribbon you have worn the
    Pulling thrice your weight through brush and slush and bog.
  Sure, you might have been a "champion," without value save the dollar,
    But the Red Gods made you priceless--YOU'RE A DOG!


  _New Orleans Times-Picayune_

  By permission of _New Orleans Times-Picayune_


  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 or a Metternich.

  By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod,
  He never wagged an unkind talk 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 of my lifeboat's log:
  "God grant I may be worthy of 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 fulfil:
  That when I pass the flood 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.


(_A collie, for nine years our friend_)


  By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London


(_A collie, for nine years our friend_)

  Old friend, your place is empty now. No more
  Shall we obey the imperious deep-mouthed call
  That begged the instant freedom of our hall.
  We shall not trace your foot-fall on the floor
  Nor hear your urgent paws upon the door.
  The loud-thumped tail that welcomed one and all,
  The volleyed bark that nightly would appal
  Our tim'rous errand boys--these things are o'er.

  But always yours shall be a household name,
  And other dogs must list' your storied fame;
  So gallant and so courteous, Scott, you were,
  Mighty abroad, at home most debonair.
  Now God Who made you will not count it blame
  That we commend your spirit to His care.




  _The Spectator_

  By permission of _The London Spectator_



  Here lies a little dog who now
  Asks nothing more of man's goodwill
  Than the grey stone that tells you how
  She loved the friends who love her still.

_Sir Walter Scott's translation of Lockhart's
epitaph for "Maida's grave"_

  "Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore
  Sleep soundly Maida, at your master's door."



  From _The London Spectator_



  Little lad, little lad, and who's for an airing,
  Who's for the river and who's for a run;
  Four little pads to go fitfully faring,
  Looking for trouble and calling it fun?
  Down in the sedges the water-rats revel,
  Up in the wood there are bunnies at play
  With a weather-eye wide for a Little Black Devil:
  But the Little Black Devil won't come to-day.

  To-day at the farm the ducks may slumber,
  To-day may the tabbies an anthem raise;
  Rat and rabbit beyond all number
  To-day untroubled may go their ways:
  To-day is an end of the shepherd's labour,
  No more will the sheep be hunted astray;
  And the Irish terrier, foe and neighbour,
  Says, "What's old Hamish about to-day?"

  Ay, what indeed? In the nether spaces
  Will the soul of a Little Black Dog despair?
  Will the Quiet Folk scare him with shadow-faces?
  And how will he tackle the Strange Beasts there?
  Tail held high, I'll warrant, and bristling,
  Marching stoutly if sore afraid,
  Padding it steadily, softly whistling;--
  That's how the Little Black Devil was made.

  Then well-a-day for a "cantie callant,"
  A heart of gold and a soul of glee,--
  Sportsman, gentleman, squire and gallant,--
  Teacher, maybe, of you and me.
  Spread the turf on him light and level,
  Grave him a headstone clear and true--
  "Here lies Hamish, the Little Black Devil,
  And half of the heart of his mistress too."

The Riverside Press


U . S . A


  Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_.

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