The Dog's Book of Verse :: PART II THE HUMAN RELATIONSHIP

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

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

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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