  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.... 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 |
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