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Title: War Dogs of the World War
Author: Anderson, John I.
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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[Illustration: Title Page]

                                War Dogs
                                _of the_
                               World War

                            Copyright, 1919
                          By John I. Anderson
                                New York


                                 MY DOG

            I have no dog, but it must be
            Somewhere there’s one belongs to me—
            A little chap with wagging tail,
            And dark brown eyes that never quail,
            But look you through, and through, and through,
            With love unspeakable, but true.

            Somewhere it must be, I opine,
            There is a little dog of mine
            With cold black nose that sniffs around
            In search of what things may be found
            In pocket or some nook hard by,
            Where I have hid them from his eye.

            Somewhere my doggie pulls and tugs
            The fringes of rebellious rugs,
            Chews all my shoes and slippers up,
            And when he’s done it to the core,
            With eyes all eager pleads for more.

            Somewhere upon his hinder legs,
            My little doggie sits and begs,
            And in a wistful minor tone
            Pleads for the pleasures of the bone—
            I pray it be his owner’s whim
            To yield and grant the same to him!

            Somewhere a little dog doth wait,
            It may be by some garden gate,
            With eyes alert, and tail attent—
            You know the kind of tail that’s meant—
            With stores of yelps of glad delight
            To bid me welcome home at night.
                                    —_John Kendrick Bangs._


                           To those who love
                         dogs, those faithful
                         friends of mankind, I
                         commend this booklet.

                                     The Author


[Illustration: Dogs trained at Neuilly-sur-Seine, near Paris, for
service in the French Army.]


                            War Dogs of the
                               World War

                             To The Reader:

In the city of Neuilly, just across the River Seine from Paris, lives a
remarkable woman, Countess Mary Yourkevitch, a Russian by birth, French
by adoption. She has for many years devoted her life and spent her
income in the interest of the friendless horse, dog and cat. No
provisions being made by the French Government and municipal
authorities, these homeless dumb animals are left to shift for
themselves in case of sickness or distress. She organized the Blue Cross
Society of France and for many years has been the President of this
Society. She secured grounds in a secluded spot of Neuilly and thereon
erected suitable buildings for the housing and care of her homeless and
suffering friends. Previously a social leader, she has during these
latter years relinquished all social functions and thrown heart and soul
into this commendable work of relief.

In 1914, when France was drawn into what was to become a world war, she
set about to aid her adopted country. Dogs of all breeds and
descriptions were gathered into the Refuge in Neuilly. A systematic
training school was organized to fit these dogs for war work, some for
the Red Cross, some for trench work, and still others to become
messengers to carry important documents and light burdens. It was most
essential that a dog for each division of this work should be thoroughly
trained, and after this was accomplished the work became one of routine
and practice. The trained dogs became the instructors, and it was a
stupid pupil indeed that did not become more or less proficient in the
work set for it in the course of a week or ten days. To watch this
training process is most interesting. A green dog, that is, one without
any training, is attached by a short lead to the dog instructor. The
command is given to perform a certain duty and at once the trained dog
is off on his mission, pulling the untrained dog with him. This is
repeated time and again until the pupil learns the word of command and
the execution of the same. It is but a question of a few days until the
green dog has learned his lessons, and he himself becomes an instructor
to some new arrival at the home.

Six hundred dogs were thus instructed for their various war duties and
sent to the front. The war is now at an end, and while many of these
faithful creatures paid the supreme sacrifice, hundreds are left, some
crippled for life, and all in need of proper care for the balance of
their lives. During my three months’ stay in Paris following the
armistice, dozens of these dogs were returned to the Countess to be
cared for. Knowing the burden placed upon her, both in a financial and
physical sense, I am writing this story of the heroic deeds of these
wonderful animals. Every penny derived from the sale of this booklet
will be devoted to assist this noble work of the Countess Yourkevitch of
Neuilly, France.


                    THE DOG’S MANIFOLD DUTIES AT THE
                              BATTLE FRONT

The stories of the devotion of dogs to their masters under the most
trying conditions of the battlefront form one of the epics of the great

It is said that there were about ten thousand dogs employed at the
battle front at the time of the signing of the armistice. They ranged
from Alaskan malamute to St. Bernard, and from Scotch collie to fox
terrier. Many of them were placed on the regimental rosters like
soldiers. In the trenches they shared all the perils and hardships of
the soldiers themselves, and drew their turns in the rest camps in the
same fashion. But they were always ready to go back and it is not
recorded that a single one of them ever failed when it came to “going
over the top.”

The Red Cross dogs rendered invaluable service in feeding and aiding the
wounded. Each one carried a first-aid kit either strapped to its collar
or in a small saddle pouch. When they found a soldier who was
unconscious, they were taught to bring back his helmet, handkerchief or
some other small article as a token of discovery. Many of them learned
wholly to ignore the dead, but to bark loudly whenever they came upon a
wounded man.

Not only did the dog figure gloriously as a messenger of mercy in the
war, but did his bit nobly as a sentinel in the trenches. Mounting guard
at a listening post for long hours at a stretch, ignoring danger with
all the stolidness of a stoic, yet alert every moment, he played an
heroic role.

Full many a time it was the keen ear of a collie that first caught the
sound of the approaching raiding party. And did he bark? How natural it
would have been for him to do so! But no, a bark or a growl might have
told the raiders they were discovered, and thus have prevented the
animal’s own forces from giving the foe a counter-surprise. So he wagged
his tail nervously—a canine adaptation of the wig-wag system which his
master interpreted and acted upon, to the discomfiture of the enemy.

Often whole companies were saved because the dog could reach further
into the distance with his senses than could the soldiers themselves.

It was found that many dogs would do patrol and scout duty with any
detachment. But there was another type of dog worker needed in the
trenches—the liason dog, trained to seek his master whenever turned
loose. Amid exploding shells, through veritable fields of hell, he would
crawl and creep, with only one thought—to reach his master. Nor would he
stop until the object of his search was attained. Many a message of
prime importance he thus bore from one part of the field to another, and
nought but death or overcoming wound could turn him aside.—The National
Geographic Magazine.


                             THE MESSENGER

Early in the war the Germans realized the importance of gaining
possession of the French Coast of the English Channel, and thus cut off
communications with England and prevent the landing of English soldiers
on French soil.

The Germans selected Ypres as the point of their offensive and the
English were strongly resisting the drive. Men on both sides were being
mowed down by shell and shrapnel. For many hours the incessant conflict
raged, at one time the Germans gaining vantage positions but to give way
before the bull-dog tenacity of the English. The strong reinforcements
on the German side convinced the commanding officer of the English
defensive that it must be a question of short duration until the Germans
would achieve the desired objective, and they (the English) would be
compelled to retreat. The situation was a critical one and unless the
English were reinforced, the day would be lost and the enemy would have
a clear way to Calais.

Lying four miles to the rear were two divisions of the English army
ready to march to their assistance if required. Quick action was
necessary, as every moment was golden. For a courier to cover this
distance of four miles and reach the commanding officer of the reserves,
close to an hour must be required, and no one could tell what this hour
might mean to the ever weakening defensive. A message was quickly
written and a messenger dog called. The urgent call for assistance was
placed in the bag attached to the dog’s collar and he was given the word
to go. Just twenty minutes elapsed from the time the dog was entrusted
with the message until the officer in command of the reserves had read
the hurried call. The camp resounded with the bugle call “To Arms” and
in ninety minutes from the time the message was despatched, the front
formation of the reinforcing divisions was in active work. The Germans
were driven back with terrible slaughter, and the day was won for the

An English journal in telling this story comments on the event as
follows: “Who can tell what might have been the outcome of a victory for
the enemy at this crucial moment.” Hundreds of other instances could be
recited to show the vital importance of the war dogs’ work.



At the breaking out of the war there lived in the little town of Méru,
twenty-five miles distant from Paris, a man named Jacques Thallant. He
had for a daily companion a dog called Bijou, just a common every-day
dog of the French poodle breed.

Jacques was among the first to offer his services to his country and was
accepted. He requested the privilege of taking Bijou with him and his
request was granted. Jacques was sent into active service and Bijou soon
accustomed himself to trench life, and with the soldiers shared their
army privations. Frequently Jacques was placed on picket duty and Bijou
was company for him during the long tedious nights of watching.

Picket duty is one of the most hazardous duties for the soldier. During
the day the enemy locates the picket posts and it requires but little
practice for a sharpshooter to so train his gun as to do most effective
and fatal work at night by shooting at random. A cold, dismal night
found Jacques at a picket post with Bijou at his feet, imparting warmth
as well as companionship. This night proved to be the last for poor
Jacques, as my story will tell. A shot rang out—a bullet sped on its
deadly errand—Jacques fell fatally wounded. His life blood was flowing
rapidly, and his mind turned to his wife and children in far away Méru.
He searched for paper and pencil and found in his pocket a letter he had
that day received from his loved companion at home. Hastily he scrawled
on the envelope the story of his condition, and with weakening hands he
placed the same in the pouch attached to Bijou’s collar, and in failing
voice commanded him to go home to his mistress. In the morning Jacques
was found cold in death, still grasping the pencil in his hand. Search
was made for the dog but he could not be found, and the record was made
“Jacques Thallant shot while on duty.”

Three hundred and more kilometers covered the distance between Verdun
and Méru. Early in the morning of the third day after the soul of
Jacques had passed beyond, Mme. Thallant heard a noise without the house
and hurriedly dressing, reached the door just in time to see the
faithful dog’s death-glazing eyes brighten for an instant, and then with
a convulsive quiver his limbs relaxed in death. On examination a bullet
wound was found in his groin and then they knew the agony he must have
endured in fulfilling his master’s last command. A stray bullet
doubtlessly dealt the death blow as he sped to do his master’s bidding.
For two days and three nights he dragged himself onward with the
entrusted message, without food, without rest, true to the trust imposed
in him, until his work was accomplished and then——

My old friend Hildevert Labrosse told me the story with tears in his
eyes, and together we walked down the narrow street leading to the home
of Widow Thallant. He showed me the gate through which the dog had
dragged himself and up the walk to the house, and the threshold of the
door on which he died. They buried the faithful creature in the corner
of the yard near a shed where he was wont to sleep at night and where
his ever faithful eyes could watch over the safety of his master’s
house. A small headboard with the simple inscription “Bijou, Faithful
Unto Death” marks the last resting place of Jacques’ friend.


[Illustration: Monte, the Picket.]

                           “MONTE” THE PICKET

Thousands of soldiers have suffered from shell shock, which proved to be
one of the most trying conditions for the hospital nurses—nerves keyed
to the highest tension for days at a time snapped under the whizzing and
bursting shells which rained destruction in their midst. Horses
frequently suffered from the ill effects of this trying ordeal, but it
was a rare occurrence for the dog to be affected by these conditions.

In the month of January following the armistice, two French soldiers
appeared at the Refuge accompanied by a collie dog. This dog’s home had
been in Montreuil, a small town near Paris, and the soldiers had
nicknamed him “Monte.” For four years Monte had served at the front as a
picket dog. His nightly service was to accompany a soldier assigned to
picket duty, and there through the long night he remained, ever alert to
impending dangers. His keen scent and hearing enabled him to detect the
slightest suspicious movement on the part of the enemy, and many a brave
soldier’s life was saved by his timely warning. The bristling hairs on
his body, his erect ears, the swishing of his tail, quietly conveyed to
his master the approach of the enemy. The whistling, deadly bullet was
beyond his ken and fourteen times in six weeks Monte returned to the
lines alone. Each time they found the picket either killed or wounded.

After four years of this nerve-racking service, Monte was mustered out
and returned with the two surviving soldiers of the original company. He
was suffering from shell shock and returned to the Refuge as a patient.
It was really pitiful to watch him in his sufferings. Worn out from
physical weariness he would drop off into a light sleep, when suddenly
he would bound to his feet, ears pointed and every individual hair on
his body standing erect. This was followed by severe trembling
indicative of shattered nerves.

I made many attempts to photograph Monte, but with futile results. I
finally hit upon a plan to place him on a park bench and was partially
successful in obtaining a fairly good likeness, as you will note by the
above picture.


[Illustration: “Watchful Waiting.”]

                           “TOBY” THE RATTER

Of the many annoyances and discomforts of camp and trench life, the rat
is the most unwelcome. This species of the rodent family infests these
places and not only becomes a pest, but a menace to the health of the
soldier. Many a brave man has lost his life from the poisonous bite of
these pesky and annoying creatures. Every effort is made to rid the camp
of their presence. Of all breeds of dogs, the fox terrier has been found
the most effective in the destruction of rats, and many of these dogs
have earned wonderful reputations as “ratters.”

In the Refuge in Neuilly there is a dog named Toby, who has passed into
the professional rat-killer class. During his three years’ service at
the front, four thousand or more “dead ones” have been marked up to his
credit, and all previous records have been smashed.

That the rat was not the only enemy that Toby encountered during his
service for his country, is evidenced by his _gimp_. A stray bullet
snipped one of his front feet off just below the knee, and now Toby is
listed as “wounded but not inactive.” He is the most agile three-footed
tyke I ever saw, and sets the pace for all the other dogs in their
gambols about the grounds.

The soldiers taught Toby many tricks, and on command he says his
prayers, rolls over, plays dead, speaks (barks), sings and performs
other “stunts” that are truly wonderful.

[Illustration: Toby, Ready for the Onslaught.]


[Illustration: Dick, the Guide.]

                            “DICK” THE GUIDE

Just a short distance from the Refuge for War Dogs in Neuilly, is
located the Soldiers’ Home for the Blind. This is a spacious building
surrounded by ample grounds containing shrubbery, trees and flowers.
Under the spreading trees are comfortable benches for the accommodation
of the occupants of the Home. Hundreds of soldiers, rendered totally
blind during the war, are cared for, and spend the days wandering
through the grounds and enjoying the comforts that such conditions

For two years, Dick, the subject of this sketch, has served as a guide
for these soldiers. He is a fine specimen of the French poodle, large in
size, gentle in disposition and perfectly familiar with the duties
expected of him. Early in the morning he reports for duty, and from then
on until the close of day he carefully leads and cares for the sightless
subjects delegated to his charge. It is no unusual sight to see two men
or more, arm in arm, being guided by Dick through various parts of the
grounds. Sometimes you meet them picking their way through the adjacent
streets, Dick always on the alert for their safety.

I had on frequent occasions to pass Dick on my way to and from the dog
hospital on Rue Chauveau, and in time we became great friends. Just
before leaving for my home in America, I paid a final visit to my dog
friends in Neuilly, and was surprised to find Dick in the hospital
recovering from some temporary dog ailment. He joyfully welcomed me as
an old friend, and I expressed a wish to the Countess that I might bring
him to America. She replied that Dick had certainly done his bit for his
country and that it was high time he enjoyed a little of real dog life,
and willingly consented that I should have him. The short time until my
departure prevented me from obtaining the necessary permit to land him
in the United States. The Countess generously offered to care for him
until such time as proper arrangements could be made for his trip from
Paris to New York. Before leaving I requested the Countess’ lady
secretary to instruct Dick in the English language, so that he would be
familiar with the speech of his adopted country. Shortly afterwards I
received the following card from this young lady: “I told Dick a few
days ago that his master in America wished him to learn English, and
Dick replied, ‘Tell my master to learn French, as I am a French dog.’”—a
very clever reply from either lady or dog.


[Illustration: Leon, a Red Cross Dog.]


Perhaps the most striking dog in the Home was Leon, a wonderful mastiff,
who towered head and shoulders above his companions and was really
majestic when strolling around the grounds. He seemed to realize that he
occupied a position just a few points above the ordinary dog, and his
associates seemed to think the same. Leon was a Red Cross dog, and his
work during the war was wholly in the line of Red Cross work. He had
been awarded the War Cross Star for his work in this capacity.

He is possessed of what is known as a “glass eye,” frequently seen in
the horse, but rarely found in other animals. One eye is the ordinary
brown color, while the other is a light blue color, together producing a
very striking effect.

Only dogs of more than ordinary intelligence are fitted for the varied
branches of Red Cross work. Not only are they required to carry first
relief to the wounded, but also to report back to headquarters, bringing
with them evidences of wounded soldiers in distress. When they found a
soldier who was unconscious, they were taught to bring back some article
of the wearing apparel of the man as evidence of his discovery.
Sometimes it would be a handkerchief or his helmet, or in cases where
these could not be obtained, the dog has been known to gnaw off a button
from the unconscious man’s coat and offer this in evidence of his find.
Bursting shells and whistling bullets were wholly ignored by these
animal heroes as they went about their mission.

The following story was told me by Mrs. Rose Chilton, a Red Cross nurse
from New Orleans, La., which illustrates the surprising intelligence and
sagacity of these dogs. “All day long a destructive battle had raged and
our boys had suffered severely from the raining shot. Leon was busy here
and there with his kit bag stored with first aid supplies. Frequently he
had returned to headquarters for fresh supplies, or to bring back some
token of a wounded man in distress. Late in the night he returned
carrying in his mouth a soiled photograph. The picture showed a splendid
young man in khaki. On either knee he held a lovely, smiling child, the
younger about two years of age, the elder four, while at his side sat a
sweet faced woman, with one hand resting lovingly on the boy soldier’s
shoulder. These three represented the sacrifice the boy had made when he
enlisted in a cause to make his home sacred and safe for all time to
come. A searching party was at once despatched to bring back the wounded
soldier. Leon, with unerring instinct, led the way and shortly brought
the rescuing party to the object of their search. The boy had been
severely wounded in the head, and was in an unconscious condition. He
had evidently wandered some distance from the point where the accident
had happened, as he was without a helmet and his uniform was soiled by
mud and earth. Leon, finding no ready token for his identification, had
torn open his blouse and from an inner pocket extracted the identifying
photograph. Everything was done for the sorely wounded boy, but a few
hours later his spirit took its flight to the unknown shores beyond. Out
in the State of Illinois a widowed wife and two fatherless children
mourn the loss of husband and father.”


[Illustration: Wolf, Police Dog.]


The advisability of using dogs in the war was under consideration by the
United States War Department for many months. Provision had been made
for the training of these dogs, and in fact many had been mustered into
service, when a final decision was reached to eliminate their use.

In 1914, just a few weeks before war was declared, I purchased in the
city of Neuremberg, Bavaria, a fine specimen of the German Police dog.
The reader can see by the picture of this animal that he was by no means
an ordinary dog, but one of the finest specimens of this famous breed.
Wolf stood 28½ inches from fore feet to shoulder blades and weighed 170

Through a fellow member of the Police Dog Club of America, who had been
commissioned by the U. S. Government as official trainer, I had Wolf
enlisted for war service and he was sent to Athens, Georgia, to complete
his training. After the War Department concluded to debar war dog
service, he was turned over to the French War Department, and in
December, 1917, was sent to France. In June, 1918, I received a picture
of Wolf, showing him in camp in company with two French soldiers,
apparently enjoying the novel experience of fighting with the enemies of
his native land.

During my stay in France following the armistice, I spent many days and
dollars in my efforts to discover the whereabouts of my old friend Wolf,
but all without avail. Great difficulties were encountered in locating
missing men, and naturally my task to find a dog was much greater. On my
return to France I shall continue my efforts and still hope to meet with
success. When I find him—and I pray that I may—Wolf shall spend his
declining days in the enjoyment of everything a dog likes best, and when
his days are ended, he shall have bestowed upon him a decent burial and
the lasting memories of his master.


[Illustration: Huskie, Alaskan Dog.]

                              THE “HUSKIE”

During the summer of 1918 I spent two months in Alaska, and while there
became familiar with the characteristics of the Alaskan Eskimo dog.

Travel during the long sunless winter season would be next to impossible
were it not for these tireless sled dogs. Summer is their vacation
period and they wander through the villages, camps and mountains, much
as the ordinary farm or country dog, spending the long hours of constant
sunshine playing and sleeping. From the moment of the first fall of
snow, play and sleep, become—if a dog ever thinks—but a thing of memory,
as work is then the order of the day and dogs instead of horses
transport burdens of every description. To the hustling Alaskan, a team
of sled dogs is the most important asset in his possession.

With the approach of winter, the armies of the Allies were confronted
with a very serious problem, namely, how to supply the troops in the
mountain camps and trenches with sufficient food supply. Motors and
horses were alike powerless to overcome these conditions. Falling snows
and howling blizzards made the work of provisioning these soldiers an
impossibility. Hundreds of dogs were sent from Alaska and Labrador, and
these hitched to sleds loaded with food and munitions made their way
through the mountain passes and over pinnacles, relieving the threatened
destruction of thousands by starvation.

Ernest Harold Baynes, in the National Geographic Magazine, has this to
say relative to the work accomplished by these dogs. “One woman brought
back to America a Croix de Guerre awarded by France to her intrepid
teams of sled dogs. The occasion that won them that honor was their
salvation of a stormbound, foe pressed outpost in the French Alps.
Despatch bearers had been sent back repeatedly, but no succoring answer
came, for the messengers were overwhelmed as they passed through the
blinding blizzard. At last matters became desperate. The foe was
pressing his advantage with dash and courage, and nothing but quick
action could save the situation. So Lieutenant Rene Haas hitched his
dogs to a light sled and started through a blizzard before which human
flesh, in spite of the ‘urge’ of a consecrated patriotism, had failed.
In ‘sweepstakes racing time’ they covered the trip down the mountain and
over a perilous pass to the main army post. There twenty-eight dogs were
hitched to fourteen light sleds, and these were loaded with ammunition.
Back over the forbidding trail they went, under an artillery fire,
facing a bitter wind, and plowing through blinding clouds of snow. On
the fifth day at sunrise the panting malamutes reached the outpost,
their burden of ammunition was rushed to the gunners, and the mountain
was saved from the foe.”

We must all agree that the “Huskie” takes his place of honor among the
many other species of dogdom who did his bit in the World War, and if it
is true that he is a lineal descendant of the timber wolf, we must even
have a higher respect for this much maligned animal.


                         AN INTERESTING LETTER

During my stay in France I wrote a number of letters to the press
relating to the work of the Blue Cross Society of France, and in return
received many interesting letters from America, and in many instances
donations for the Refuge.

One of the most pleasing was the following, which demonstrates the heart
and spirit of the boys and girls of our great and generous country.

                   Livingston Avenue, Dobbs Ferry, N. Y.

               John I. Anderson,

                   Continental Hotel, Paris, France.

               Dear Sir:

               Your appeal for the wounded dogs now being
               cared for in the hospital in Neuilly,
               France, which appeared in the New York
               Globe, was brought to the attention of the
               children of the Presbyterian Church of
               this town, and they decided to do
               something themselves to raise a little

               Five youngsters equipped their dogs with
               white blankets and collection boxes and
               spent Saturday asking dog lovers to give
               something for the little war sufferers.
               When the boxes were opened they found
               $18.00, which I am forwarding to you. A
               donation of $2.50 was made by the Dramatic
               Club of the Presbyterian Church, bringing
               the total to $20.50, for which amount my
               check is drawn to your order.

               The children would very much appreciate
               any particulars which you can furnish them
               regarding these “little soldiers.”

                                   Very truly yours,

                                       Margaret M. Link.

               February 25, 1919.

This help from America has wonderfully encouraged the Countess in her
philanthropic work among the crippled, sick and needy dumb animals, and
it is her desire to extend the work to other parts of France, where
inestimable good can be accomplished.


                    SENATOR VEST’S ADDRESS TO A JURY

A poor man in the State of Missouri owned a dog, his constant companion.
A churlish neighbor, without provocation, killed the dog. Too poor to
prosecute the offender, the man was without redress. United States
Senator Vest of Missouri was informed of the circumstances and at once
offered his services, without pay, to prosecute the case. The offender
was summoned to court and the following plea was made before a jury of
twelve men. Without leaving their seats these twelve men unanimously
agreed upon a verdict of a $500.00 penalty against the defendant. The
following was Senator Vest’s address to the jury:

“Gentlemen of the Jury: The best friend a man has in this world may turn
against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared
with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest
to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may
become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has he may lose. It
flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man’s reputation
may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who
are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us
may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its
cloud upon our heads. The one absolute, unselfish friend that a man can
have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that
never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog.

“Gentlemen of the Jury: A man’s dog stands by him in prosperity and
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. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if
he were a prince. 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. If fortune drives the
master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the
faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to
guard against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when the last
scene of all comes, and death takes the master in its embrace and his
body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends
pursue their way, there by his graveside will the noble dog be found,
his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open and in alert
watchfulness, faithful and true even to death.”


                       THE SOLDIER AND “JIM-DOG”

                      By Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.

          He wasn’t, well, a fancy kind o’ dog—
          Not Jim!
          But, oh, I sorter couldn’t seem ter help
          A-lovin’ him.
          He always seemed ter understand,
          He’d rub his nose against my hand
          If I was feelin’ blue or sad,
          Or if my thoughts was pretty bad;
          An’ how he’d bark an’ frisk an’ play
          When I was gay!

          A soldier’s dog don’t have much time ter whine,
          Like little pets a-howlin’ at th’ moon.
          A soldier’s dog is bound ter learn, right soon,
          That war is war, an’ what a steady line
          Of men in khaki means. (What, dogs don’t know?
          You bet they do! Jim-dog, he had ter go
          Along th’ trenches oftentimes at night;
          He seemed ter sense it when there was a fight
          A-brewin’. Oh, I guess he knew, all right!)
          I was a soldier, an’ Jim-dog was _mine_.

          Ah, what’s th’ use?
          There never was another dog like him.
          Why, on th’ march I’d pause and call, “Hey, Jim!”
          An’ he’d be there, his head tipped on one side,
          A-lookin’ up at me with love an’ pride,
          His tail a-waggin’, an’ his ears raised high....
          I wonder why my Jim-dog had ter die?
          He was a friend ter folks; he didn’t bite;
          He never snapped at no one in th’ night;
          He didn’t hate a soul; an’ he was _game_!
          An’ yet ... a spark o’light, a dartin’ flame
          Across th’ dark, a sneaky bit o’ lead,
          An’ he was ... dead!

          They say there ain’t no heaven-land fer him,
          ’Cause dogs is dogs, an’ haven’t any right;
          But let me tell yer this: without my Jim
          Th’ very shinin’ streets would seem less bright!
          An’ somehow I’m a-thinkin’ that if he
          Could come at that last stirrin’ bugle call
          Up to th’ gates o’ gold aside o’ me,
          Where God stands smilin’ welcome to us all,
          An’ I said: “Father, here’s my dog ... here’s Jim,”
          They’d find some corner, touched with love, fer him!


                    The proceeds from the sale of
                    this book are donated to the
                    Blue Cross Society of France,
                    For the Protection and Care of
                    Animals. Duplicate copies may be
                    obtained for 25 cents each from
                    the publisher.

                    620 Broadway,      New York City


                           TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Punctuation has been normalized. Orthography, hyphenation, and
variations therein, have been retained as they were in the original

Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with

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