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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/39750-8.txt b/39750-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..52fea1e --- /dev/null +++ b/39750-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2334 @@ +Project Gutenberg's To Your Dog and To My Dog, by Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: To Your Dog and To My Dog + +Author: Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +Release Date: May 21, 2012 [EBook #39750] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO YOUR DOG AND TO MY DOG *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, David E. Brown and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + _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_ + + + + + FIRST IMPRESSION, SEPTEMBER 1915 + SECOND IMPRESSION, DECEMBER 1915 + THIRD IMPRESSION, FEBRUARY 1916 + FOURTH IMPRESSION, APRIL 1916 + + + + + TO YOUR DOG + AND TO + MY DOG + + + "MAY THEY LIVE LONG AND PROSPER" + + _By_ + LINCOLN NEWTON KINNICUTT + + _BOSTON_ and _NEW YORK_ + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + + + COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY LINCOLN NEWTON KINNICUTT + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _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. + + + + +_Note +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. + + + + +_Note +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. + + + + +_Contents_ + + +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 + +AN EXTRACT FROM INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT +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 + + + + +LUFRA + + BY + SIR WALTER SCOTT + + From + _The Lady of the Lake_ + + + + +LUFRA + + + 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. + + + + +FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB + + From + _The Island Race_ + + BY + HENRY NEWBOLT + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + ELKIN MATHEWS, London + + + + +FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB + + + 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. + + + + +LEO + + From _The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder_ + + By permission of the Publishers, HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + Boston + + + + +LEO + + + 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 + master, + 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. + + + + + +GEIST'S GRAVE + + From _Poems by Matthew Arnold + Dramatic and Later Poems_ + + By permission of the Publishers, THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, New York + + + + +GEIST'S GRAVE + + + 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!_ + + + + +THE POWER OF THE DOG + + From + _Actions and Reactions_ + + BY + RUDYARD KIPLING + + By permission of the Publishers, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY + Garden City + + + + +THE POWER OF THE DOG + + + 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?_ + + + + +TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL + + From _Crumbs of Pity_ + + BY + R. C. LEHMANN + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers, WILLIAM + BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh & London + + + + +TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL + + + 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. + + + + +TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + From _Songs from Leinster_ + + BY W. M. LETTS + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publisher + DAVID MCKAY, Philadelphia + + + + +TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + + 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? + + + + +TO A TERRIER + + From _Green Days and Blue Days_ + + BY + PATRICK R. CHALMERS + + By permission of the Author. Published by MAUNSEL & CO., Ltd. + Dublin + + + + +TO A TERRIER + + + 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! + + + + +RHAPSODY ON +A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE + + From _Rhymes of Home_ + + BY BURGES JOHNSON + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York + + + + +RHAPSODY ON A DOG'S +INTELLIGENCE + + + 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. + + + + +FRANCES + + BY RICHARD WIGHTMAN + + By permission of the Author and from + _The American Magazine_ + + + + +FRANCES + + + 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! + + + + +ROGER AND I + + BY REV. JULIAN S. CUTLER + + From _The Boston Evening Transcript_ + + By permission of the Author and of _The Boston Evening Transcript_ + + + + +ROGER AND I + + + 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 + way." + + 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 + know. + + 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. + + + + +"SIR BAT-EARS" + + BY + MRS. EDEN + + From + _Punch_ + + By permission of the Author, and special permission of the + Proprietors of London _Punch_ + + + + +"SIR BAT-EARS" + + + 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. + + + + +CLUNY + + BY WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE + + From _The Boston Evening Transcript_ + + By permission + + + + +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. + + + 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." + + + + +LADDIE + + From _America the Beautiful + and Other Poems_ + + BY KATHARINE LEE BATES + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY, New York + + + + +LADDIE + + + 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?_ + + + + +DAVY + + BY + LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY + + From + _Century Magazine_ + + By permission of the Author, and of THE CENTURY COMPANY + New York + + + + +DAVY + + + 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?" + + + + +A FRIEND + + BY ZITELLA COCKE + + From _The Youth's Companion_ + + By permission of the Author and of _The Youth's Companion_ + + + + +A FRIEND + + + "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!" + + + + +THE BATH + + BY + R. C. LEHMANN + + From + _Punch_ + + By permission of the Author, and special permission of the + Proprietors of London _Punch_ + + + + +THE BATH + + + 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. + + + + +SIX FEET + + From a friend + + + + +"SIX FEET" + + + "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!" + + + + +WILHELM + + BY + PATRICK R. CHALMERS + + From + _Punch_ + + By permission of the Author, and special permission of the + Proprietors of London _Punch_ + + + + +WILHELM + + + "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. + + + + +AN OLD DOG + + BY + CELIA DUFFIN + + From + _The Spectator_ + + By permission of the Author, _The London Spectator_, and + MAUNSEL AND COMPANY, Ltd. Dublin + + + + +AN OLD DOG + + + 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. + + + + +REMARKS TO +MY GROWN-UP PUP + + From _Rhymes of Home_ + + BY BURGES JOHNSON + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + G. P. PUTNAM'S Sons, New York + + + + +REMARKS TO MY GROWN-UP PUP + + + 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. + + + + +AN EXTRACT FROM +INSCRIPTION ON THE +MONUMENT OF +A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG + + BY LORD BYRON + + + + +AN EXTRACT FROM +INSCRIPTION ON THE +MONUMENT OF +A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG + + + ... "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." + + + + +TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + BY + W. M. LETTS + + By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London + + + + +TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + + 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. + + + + +MY DOG + + BY + ANNA HADLEY MIDDLEMAS + + By permission of the Author and of _The Boston + Evening Transcript_ + + + + +MY DOG + + + 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? + + + + +"WITHOUT ARE DOGS" + + BY + EDWARD A. CHURCH + + By permission of the Author and of the _Century Magazine_ + + + + +"WITHOUT ARE DOGS" + + + 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"? + + + + +YOU'RE A DOG + + BY + C. L. GILMAN + + By permission of the Author and of OUTING PUBLISHING CO., N. Y. + + + + +YOU'RE A DOG + + + 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 + harness-collar, + 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! + + + + +A GENTLEMAN + + From + _New Orleans Times-Picayune_ + + By permission of _New Orleans Times-Picayune_ + + + + +A 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 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!" + + + + +MY DOG + + BY + ST. JOHN LUCAS + + + + +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. + + + + +TO SCOTT + +(_A collie, for nine years our friend_) + + BY + W. M. LETTS + + By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London + + + + +TO SCOTT + +(_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. + + + + +"DODO," + +1903-1913 + + BY + ARTHUR AUSTIN-JACKSON + + From + _The Spectator_ + + By permission of _The London Spectator_ + + + + +"DODO" + +1903-1913 + + + 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." + + + + +"HAMISH" + +A SCOTCH TERRIER + + From _The London Spectator_ + + BY + C. HILTON BROWN + + + + +"HAMISH"; A SCOTCH TERRIER + + + 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 + +CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS + +U . S . A + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: + + + Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of To Your Dog and To My Dog, by +Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO YOUR DOG AND TO MY DOG *** + +***** This file should be named 39750-8.txt or 39750-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/7/5/39750/ + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, David E. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: To Your Dog and To My Dog + +Author: Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +Release Date: May 21, 2012 [EBook #39750] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO YOUR DOG AND TO MY DOG *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, David E. Brown and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/frontcover.png" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center"><i>Previous Publications</i>:</p> + +<p class="center"><i>Indian Names of Places in Worcester County, Massachusetts</i><br/> +<i>Indian Names of Places in Plymouth, Middleborough<br/> +Lakeville, and Carver<br/> +With Interpretations of Some of Them</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + + +<p class="center"><span class="giant"><i>To Your Dog And<br /> +To My Dog</i></span></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +FIRST IMPRESSION, SEPTEMBER 1915<br /> +SECOND IMPRESSION, DECEMBER 1915<br /> +THIRD IMPRESSION, FEBRUARY 1916<br /> +FOURTH IMPRESSION, APRIL 1916</td></tr></table> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p> + + + + +<p class="center"><span class="giant">TO YOUR DOG</span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="big">AND TO</span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="giant">MY DOG</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter"><img src="images/illo_005.png" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="center">"MAY THEY LIVE LONG AND PROSPER"</p> + +<p> </p> + +<p class="center"><span class="big"><i>By</i></span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LINCOLN NEWTON KINNICUTT</span></p> + +<p> </p> + +<p class="center"><span class="big"><i>BOSTON</i> and <i>NEW YORK</i></span><br/> +<span class="huge"><span class="smcap">Houghton Mifflin Company</span></span><br /> +<span class="big">The Riverside Press Cambridge</span></p> + +<p> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p> + + +<p class="center">COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY LINCOLN NEWTON KINNICUTT</p> + +<p class="center">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p> + +<p> </p> +<p class="center"><i>Published December 1915</i></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> + + + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +To him who has never called a dog his friend<br /> +The full meaning of pure friendship is unknown</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p> +<p><i>Dear Dogs</i>:—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>You can see what we cannot see.</p> + +<p>You can hear sounds we cannot hear.</p> + +<p>You interpret signs we cannot read.</p> + +<p>You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span> scent the trails we cannot find.</p> + +<p>You talk to us with your speaking eyes, and we cannot understand.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right">May we meet again, <br /> +<br /> +Your masters, and <br /> +<br /> +Your FRIENDS.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge"><i>Note<br /> +To The Masters</i></span></p> + + +<p>The blank space on the title cover is designed for a photograph, or any +picture, of your own dog.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right">L. N. K.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[Pg xiv]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</a></span></p> + +<p class="center"><span class="huge"><i>Note<br /> +To those to whom I am indebted</i></span></p> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="right">L. N. K.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[Pg xvii]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge"><i>Contents</i></span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="2" summary="table"> + +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Lufra</span></td><td align="right"><i>Sir Walter Scott</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Fidele's Grassy Tomb</span></td><td align="right"><i>Henry Newbolt</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Leo</span></td><td align="right"><i>Richard Watson Gilder</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Geist's Grave</span></td><td align="right"><i>Matthew Arnold</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">The Power of the Dog</span></td><td align="right"><i>Rudyard Kipling</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_25">25</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">To Rufus, a Spaniel</span></td><td align="right"><i>R. C. Lehmann</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Tim, an Irish Terrier</span></td><td align="right"><i>W. M. Letts</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_39">39</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">To a Terrier</span></td><td align="right"><i>Patrick R. Chalmers</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_43">43</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Rhapsody on a Dog's Intelligence</span></td><td align="right"><i>Burges Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_47">47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Frances</span></td><td align="right"><i>Richard Wightman</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Roger and I</span></td><td align="right"><i>Julian S. Cutler</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +"<span class="smcap">Sir Bat-Ears</span>"</td><td align="right"><i>Mrs. Eden</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_65">65</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Cluny</span></td><td align="right"><i>William Croswell Doane</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_71">71</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Laddie</span></td><td align="right"><i>Katharine Lee Bates</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Davy</span></td><td align="right"><i>Louise Imogen Guiney</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_79">79</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">A Friend</span></td><td align="right"><i>Zitella Cocke</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">The Bath</span></td><td align="right"><i>R. C. Lehmann</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_87">87</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Six Feet</span></td><td align="right"><i>Anonymous</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Wilhelm</span></td><td align="right"><i>Patrick R. Chalmers</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">An Old Dog</span></td><td align="right"><i>Celia Duffin</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_101">101</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[Pg xviii]</a></span></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Remarks to my Grown-up Pup</span></td><td align="right"><i>Burges Johnson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">An Extract from Inscription on the Monument +of a Newfoundland Dog</span></td><td align="right"><i>Lord Byron</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_109">109</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">To Tim, an Irish Terrier</span></td><td align="right"><i>W. M. Letts</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_113">113</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">My Dog</span></td><td align="right"><i>Anna Hadley Middlemas</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_117">117</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +"<span class="smcap">Without are Dogs</span>"</td><td align="right"><i>Edward A. Church</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">You're a Dog</span></td><td align="right"><i>C. L. Gilman</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_125">125</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">A Gentleman</span></td><td align="right"><i>Anonymous</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">My Dog</span></td><td align="right"><i>St. John Lucas</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">To Scott, a Collie</span></td><td align="right"><i>W. M. Letts</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_137">137</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +'<span class="smcap">Dodo</span>,' 1903-1913</td><td align="right"><i>Arthur Austin-Jackson</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Epitaph</span></td><td align="right"><i>Sir Walter Scott</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_143">143</a></td></tr> +<tr><td> +"<span class="smcap">Hamish</span>," <span class="smcap">a Scotch Terrier</span></td><td align="right"><i>C. Hilton Brown</i></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_145">145</a></td></tr></table> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LUFRA</span></p> + +<p class="center">BY<br /> +SIR WALTER SCOTT<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>The Lady of the Lake</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LUFRA</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">The</span> Monarch saw the gambols flag,<br /> +And bade let loose a gallant stag,<br /> +Whose pride, the holiday to crown,<br /> +Two favorite greyhounds should pull down,<br /> +That venison free, and Bordeaux wine,<br /> +Might serve the archery to dine.<br /> +But Lufra,—whom from Douglas' side<br /> +Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide,<br /> +The fleetest hound in all the North,—<br /> +Brave Lufra saw and darted forth.<br /> +She left the royal hounds mid way,<br /> +And dashing on the antlered prey,<br /> +Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank,<br /> +And deep the flowing life-blood drank.<br /> +The King's stout huntsman saw the sport<br /> +By strange intruder broken short,<br /> +Came up, and with his leash unbound,<br /> +In anger struck the noble hound.<br /> +—The Douglas had endured, that morn,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span><br /> +The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn,<br /> +And last, and worst to spirit proud,<br /> +Had borne the pity of the crowd;<br /> +But Lufra had been fondly bred,<br /> +To share his board, to watch his bed,<br /> +And oft would Ellen, Lufra's neck,<br /> +In maiden glee with garlands deck;<br /> +They were such playmates, that with name<br /> +Of Lufra, Ellen's image came.<br /> +His stifled wrath is brimming high,<br /> +In darkened brow and flashing eye;<br /> +As waves before the bark divide,<br /> +The crowd gave way before his stride;<br /> +Needs but a buffet and no more,<br /> +The groom lies senseless in his gore.<br /> +Such blow no other hand could deal<br /> +Though gauntleted in glove of steel.</td></tr></table> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From<br /> +<i>The Island Race</i><br /> +<br /> +BY<br /> +HENRY NEWBOLT</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers<br/> +<span class="smcap">Elkin Mathews</span>, London</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">The</span> Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,<br /> +His eyes were alive and clear of care,<br /> +But well he knew that the hour was come<br /> +To bid good-bye to his ancient home.<br /> +<br /> +He looked on garden, wood, and hill,<br /> +He looked on the lake, sunny and still;<br /> +The last of earth that his eyes could see<br /> +Was the island church of Orchardleigh.<br /> +<br /> +The last that his heart could understand<br /> +Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:<br /> +"Bury the dog at my feet," he said,<br /> +And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.<br /> +<br /> +Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,<br /> +Staunch to love and strong at need:<br /> +He had dragged his master safe to shore<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span><br /> +When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.<br /> +<br /> +From that day forth, as reason would,<br /> +He was named "Fidele," and made it good:<br /> +When the last of the mourners left the door<br /> +Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.<br /> +<br /> +They buried him there at his master's feet,<br /> +And all that heard of it deemed it meet:<br /> +The story went the round for years,<br /> +Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.<br /> +<br /> +Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,<br /> +Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;<br /> +And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed<br /> +That Bishop may write or Parson read.<br /> +<br /> +The sum of it was that a soulless hound<br /> +Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:<br /> +From scandal sore the Church to save<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span><br /> +They must take the dog from his master's grave.<br /> +<br /> +The heir was far in a foreign land,<br /> +The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:<br /> +He sent for the Sexton and bade him make<br /> +A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.<br /> +<br /> +The Sexton sat by the water's brink<br /> +Where he used to sit when he used to think:<br /> +He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,<br /> +And his argument left him free from doubt.<br /> +<br /> +"A Bishop," he said, "is the top of his trade:<br /> +But there's others can give him a start with the spade:<br /> +Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,<br /> +And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more."<br /> +<br /> +The grave was dug; the mason came<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span><br /> +And carved on stone Fidele's name:<br /> +But the dog that the Sexton laid inside<br /> +Was a dog that never had lived or died.<br /> +<br /> +So the Parson was praised, and the scandal stayed,<br /> +Till, a long time after, the church decayed,<br /> +And, laying the floor anew, they found<br /> +In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.<br /> +<br /> +As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells,<br /> +No more of him the story tells;<br /> +Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,<br /> +And died and was buried a century since.<br /> +<br /> +And whether his view was right or wrong<br /> +Has little to do with this my song;<br /> +Something we owe him, you must allow;<br /> +And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.<br /> +<br /> +The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span><br /> +The marble still his memory keeps:<br /> +Remember, when the name you spell,<br /> +There rest Fidele's bones as well.<br /> +<br /> +For the Sexton's grave you need not search,<br /> +'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:<br /> +An ignorant fellow, of humble lot—<br /> +But he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LEO</span></p> + +<p class="center">From <i>The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Publishers, <span class="smcap">Houghton Mifflin Company</span><br/> +Boston</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LEO</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Over</span> the roofs of the houses I hear the barking of Leo—<br /> +Leo the shaggy, the lustrous, the giant, the gentle Newfoundland.<br /> +Dark are his eyes as the night, and black is his hair as the midnight;<br /> +Large and slow is his tread till he sees his master returning,<br /> +Then how he leaps in the air, with motion ponderous, frightening!<br /> +Now, as I pass to my work, I hear o'er the roar of the city—<br /> +Far over the roofs of the houses, I hear the barking of Leo;<br /> +For me he is moaning and crying, for me in measure sonorous<br /> +He raises his marvelous voice, for me he is wailing and calling.<br /> +None can assuage his grief, tho' but for a day is the parting,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span><br /> +Tho' morn after morn 'tis the same, tho' home every night comes his master,<br /> +Still will he grieve when we sever, and wild will be his rejoicing<br /> +When at night his master returns and lays but a hand on his forehead.<br /> +No lack will there be in the world of faith, of love, and devotion,<br /> +No lack for me and for mine, while Leo alone is living—<br /> +While over the roofs of the houses I hear the barking of Leo.</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">GEIST'S GRAVE</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>Poems by Matthew Arnold<br /> +Dramatic and Later Poems</i></p> + + +<p class="center">By permission of the Publishers, <span class="smcap">The Macmillan Company</span>, New York</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">GEIST'S GRAVE</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Four</span> years!—and didst thou stay above<br /> +The ground, which hides thee now, but four?<br /> +And all that life, and all that love,<br /> +Were crowded, Geist! into no more?<br /> +<br /> +Only four years those winning ways,<br /> +Which make me for thy presence yearn,<br /> +Call'd us to pet thee or to praise,<br /> +Dear little friend! at every turn?<br /> +<br /> +That loving heart, that patient soul,<br /> +Had they indeed no longer span,<br /> +To run their course, and reach their goal,<br /> +And read their homily to man?<br /> +<br /> +That liquid, melancholy eye,<br /> +From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs<br /> +Seem'd surging the Virgilian cry,<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span><br /> +The sense of tears in mortal things—<br /> +<br /> +That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled<br /> +By spirits gloriously gay,<br /> +And temper of heroic mould—<br /> +What, was four years their whole short day?<br /> +<br /> +Yes, only four!—and not the course<br /> +Of all the centuries yet to come,<br /> +And not the infinite resource<br /> +Of Nature, with her countless sum<br /> +<br /> +Of figures, with her fulness vast<br /> +Of new creation evermore,<br /> +Can ever quite repeat the past,<br /> +Or just thy little self restore.<br /> +<br /> +Stern law of every mortal lot!<br /> +Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,<br /> +And builds himself I know not what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span><br /> +Of second life I know not where.<br /> +<br /> +But thou, when struck thine hour to go,<br /> +On us, who stood despondent by,<br /> +A meek last glance of love didst throw,<br /> +And humbly lay thee down to die.<br /> +<br /> +Yet would we keep thee in our heart—<br /> +Would fix our favourite on the scene,<br /> +Nor let thee utterly depart<br /> +And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.<br /> +<br /> +And so there rise these lines of verse<br /> +On lips that rarely form them now;<br /> +While to each other we rehearse:<br /> +<i>Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!</i><br /> +<br /> +We stroke thy broad brown paws again,<br /> +We bid thee to thy vacant chair,<br /> +We greet thee by the window-pane,<br /> +We hear thy scuffle on the stair.<br /> +<br /> +We see the flaps of thy large ears<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span><br /> +Quick raised to ask which way we go;<br /> +Crossing the frozen lake, appears<br /> +Thy small black figure on the snow!<br /> +<br /> +Nor to us only art thou dear<br /> +Who mourn thee in thine English home;<br /> +Thou hast thine absent master's tear,<br /> +Dropt by the far Australian foam.<br /> +<br /> +Thy memory lasts both here and there,<br /> +And thou shalt live as long as we.<br /> +And after that—thou dost not care!<br /> +In us was all the world to thee.<br /> +<br /> +Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame,<br /> +Even to a date beyond our own<br /> +We strive to carry down thy name,<br /> +By mounded turf, and graven stone.<br /> +<br /> +We lay thee, close within our reach,<br /> +Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,<br /> +Between the holly and the beech,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span><br /> +Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,<br /> +<br /> +Asleep, yet lending half an ear<br /> +To travellers on the Portsmouth road;—<br /> +There build we thee, O guardian dear,<br /> +Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode!<br /> +<br /> +Then some, who through this garden pass,<br /> +When we too, like thyself, are clay,<br /> +Shall see thy grave upon the grass,<br /> +And stop before the stone, and say:<br /> +<br /> +<i>People who lived here long ago<br /> +Did by this stone, it seems, intend<br /> +To name for future times to know<br /> +The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.</i></td></tr></table> + +<div class="footnote"><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a><i>Sunt lacrimæ rerum!</i></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">THE POWER OF THE DOG</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From<br /> +<i>Actions and Reactions</i><br /> +<br /> +BY<br /> +RUDYARD KIPLING</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Publishers, <span class="smcap">Doubleday, Page & Company</span><br/> +Garden City</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">THE POWER OF THE DOG</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">There</span> is sorrow enough in the natural way<br /> +From men and women to fill our day;<br /> +But when we are certain of sorrow in store,<br /> +Why do we always arrange for more?<br /> +<i>Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware<br /> +Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.</i><br /> +<br /> +Buy a pup and your money will buy<br /> +Love unflinching that cannot lie—<br /> +Perfect passion and worship fed<br /> +By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.<br /> +<i>Nevertheless it is hardly fair<br /> +To risk your heart for a dog to tear.</i><br /> +<br /> +When the fourteen years which Nature permits<br /> +Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,<br /> +And the vet's unspoken prescription runs<br /> +To lethal chambers or loaded guns,<br /> +<i>Then you will find—it's your own affair</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span><br /> +<i>But ... you 've given your heart to a dog to tear.</i><br /> +<br /> +When the body that lived at your single will<br /> +When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)<br /> +When the spirit that answered your every mood<br /> +Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,<br /> +<i>You will discover how much you care,<br /> +And will give your heart to a dog to tear!</i><br /> +<br /> +We've sorrow enough in the natural way,<br /> +When it comes to burying Christian clay.<br /> +Our loves are not given, but only lent,<br /> +At compound interest of cent per cent.<br /> +Though it is not always the case, I believe,<br /> +That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:<br /> +For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span><br /> +A short-time loan is as bad as a long—<br /> +<i>So why in Heaven (before we are there!)<br /> +Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?</i></td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL</span></p> + +<p class="center">From <i>Crumbs of Pity</i><br /> +<br /> +BY<br /> +R. C. LEHMANN</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers, <span class="smcap">William<br/> +Blackwood & Sons</span>, Edinburgh & London</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Rufus</span>, a bright New Year! A savoury stew,<br /> +Bones, broth and biscuits, is prepared for you.<br /> +See how it steams in your enamelled dish,<br /> +Mixed in each part according to your wish.<br /> +Hide in your straw the bones you cannot crunch—<br /> +They'll come in handy for to-morrow's lunch;<br /> +Abstract with care each tasty scrap of meat,<br /> +Remove each biscuit to a fresh retreat<br /> +(A dog, I judge, would deem himself disgraced<br /> +Who ate a biscuit where he found it placed);<br /> +Then nuzzle round and make your final sweep,<br /> +And sleep, replete, your after-dinner sleep.<br /> +High in our hall we've piled the fire with logs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span><br /> +For you, the <i>doyen</i> of our corps of dogs.<br /> +There, when the stroll that health demands is done,<br /> +Your right to ease by due exertion won,<br /> +There shall you come, and on your long-haired mat,<br /> +Thrice turning round, shall tread the jungle flat,<br /> +And, rhythmically snoring, dream away<br /> +The peaceful evening of your New Year's day.<br /> +<br /> +Rufus! there are who hesitate to own<br /> +Merits, they say, your master sees alone.<br /> +They judge you stupid, for you show no bent<br /> +To any poodle-dog accomplishment.<br /> +Your stubborn nature never stooped to learn<br /> +Tricks by which mumming dogs their biscuits earn.<br /> +Men mostly find you, if they change their seat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span><br /> +Couchant obnoxious to their blundering feet;<br /> +Then, when a door is closed, you steadily<br /> +Misjudge the side on which you ought to be;<br /> +Yelping outside when all your friends are in,<br /> +You raise the echoes with your ceaseless din,<br /> +Or, always wrong, but turn and turn about,<br /> +Howling inside when all the world is out.<br /> +They scorn your gestures and interpret ill<br /> +Your humble signs of friendship and goodwill;<br /> +Laugh at your gambols, and pursue with jeers<br /> +The ringlets clustered on your spreading ears;<br /> +See without sympathy your sore distress<br /> +When Ray obtains the coveted caress,<br /> +And you, a jealous lump of growl and glare,<br /> +Hide from the world your head beneath a chair.<br /> +They say your legs are bandy—so they are:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span><br /> +Nature so formed them that they might go far;<br /> +They cannot brook your music; they assail<br /> +The joyful quiverings of your stumpy tail—<br /> +In short, in one anathema confound<br /> +Shape, mind and heart, and all, my little hound.<br /> +Well, let them rail. If, since your life began,<br /> +Beyond the customary lot of man<br /> +Staunchness was yours; if of your faithful heart<br /> +Malice and scorn could never claim a part;<br /> +If in your master, loving while you live,<br /> +You own no fault or own it to forgive;<br /> +If, as you lay your head upon his knee,<br /> +Your deep-drawn sighs proclaim your sympathy;<br /> +If faith and friendship, growing with your age,<br /> +Speak through your eyes and all his love engage;<br /> +If by that master's wish your life you rule—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span><br /> +If this be folly, Rufus, you're a fool.<br /> +<br /> +Old dog, content you; Rufus, have no fear:<br /> +While life is yours and mine your place is here.<br /> +And when the day shall come, as come it must,<br /> +When Rufus goes to mingle with the dust<br /> +(If Fate ordains that you shall pass before<br /> +To the abhorred and sunless Stygian shore),<br /> +I think old Charon, punting through the dark,<br /> +Will hear a sudden friendly little bark;<br /> +And on the shore he'll mark without a frown<br /> +A flap-eared doggie, bandy-legged and brown.<br /> +He'll take you in: since watermen are kind,<br /> +He'd scorn to leave my little dog behind.<br /> +He'll ask no obol, but instal you there<br /> +On Styx's further bank without a fare.<br /> +There shall you sniff his cargoes as they come,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span><br /> +And droop your head, and turn, and still be dumb—<br /> +Till one fine day, half joyful, half in fear,<br /> +You run and prick a recognising ear,<br /> +And last, oh, rapture! leaping to his hand,<br /> +Salute your master as he steps to land.</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>Songs from Leinster</i><br /> +<br /> +BY W. M. LETTS</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of the Publisher<br/> +<span class="smcap">David McKay</span>, Philadelphia</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">It's</span> wonderful dogs they're breeding now:<br /> +Small as a flea or large as a cow;<br /> +But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet<br /> +By any dog that ever he met.<br /> +"Come on," says he, "for I'm not kilt yet."<br /> +<br /> +No matter the size of the dog he'll meet,<br /> +Tim trails his coat the length o' the street.<br /> +D'ye mind his scars an' his ragged ear,<br /> +The like of a Dublin Fusilier?<br /> +He's a massacree dog that knows no fear.<br /> +<br /> +But he'd stick to me till his latest breath;<br /> +An' he'd go with me to the gates of death.<br /> +He'd wait for a thousand years, maybe,<br /> +Scratching the door an' whining for me<br /> +If myself were inside in Purgatary.<br /> +<br /> +So I laugh when I hear thim make it plain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span><br /> +That dogs and men never meet again.<br /> +For all their talk who'd listen to thim,<br /> +With the soul in the shining eyes of him?<br /> +Would God be wasting a dog like Tim?</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO A TERRIER</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>Green Days and Blue Days</i><br /> +<br /> +BY<br /> +PATRICK R. CHALMERS</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author. Published by <span class="smcap">Maunsel & Co.</span>, Ltd.<br/> +Dublin</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO A TERRIER</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Crib</span>, on your grave beneath the chestnut boughs<br /> +To-day no fragrance falls nor summer air,<br /> +Only a master's love who laid you there<br /> +Perchance may warm the earth 'neath which you drowse<br /> +In dreams from which no dinner gong may rouse,<br /> +Unwakeable, though close the rat may dare,<br /> +Deaf, though the rabbit thump in playful scare,<br /> +Silent, though twenty tabbies pay their vows.<br /> +And yet, mayhap, some night when shadows pass,<br /> +And from the fir the brown owl hoots on high,<br /> +That should one whistle 'neath a favoring star<br /> +Your small white shade shall patter o'er the grass,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span><br /> +Questing for him you loved o' days gone by,<br /> +Ere Death the Dog-Thief carried you afar!</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">RHAPSODY ON<br/> +A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>Rhymes of Home</i><br /> +<br /> +BY BURGES JOHNSON</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers<br/> +<span class="smcap">G. P. Putnam's Sons</span>, New York</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">RHAPSODY ON A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Dear</span> dog, that seems to stand and gravely brood<br /> +Upon the broad veranda of our home<br /> +With soulful eyes that gaze into the gloam—<br /> +With speaking tail that registers thy mood,—<br /> +Men say thou hast no ratiocination;<br /> +Methinks there is a clever imitation.<br /> +<br /> +Men say again thy kindred have no souls,<br /> +And sin is but an attribute of men;<br /> +Say, is it chance alone that bids thee,then,<br /> +Choose only garden spots for digging holes?<br /> +Why dost thou filch some fragment of the cooking<br /> +At times when no one seemeth to be looking?<br /> +<br /> +Was there an early Adam of thy race,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span><br /> +And brindled Eve, the mother of thy house,<br /> +Who shared some purloined chicken with her spouse,<br /> +Thus causing all thy tribe to fall from grace?<br /> +If fleas dwelt in the garden of that Adam<br /> +Perhaps thy sinless parents never had 'em.<br /> +<br /> +This morn thou cam'st a-slinking through the door,<br /> +Avoiding eyes, and some dark corner sought,<br /> +And though no accusation filled our thought,<br /> +Thy tail, apologetic, thumped the floor.<br /> +Who claims thou hast no conscience, argues vainly,<br /> +For I have seen its symptoms very plainly.<br /> +<br /> +What leads thee to forsake thy board and bed<br /> +On days that are devoted to thy bath?<br /> +For if it is not reason yet it hath<br /> +Appearance of desire to plan ahead!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span><br /> +The sage who claims thy brain and soul be wizen<br /> +Would do quite well to swap thy head for his'n.</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">FRANCES</span></p> + +<p class="center">BY RICHARD WIGHTMAN</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and from<br/> +<i>The American Magazine</i></p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">FRANCES</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">You</span> were a dog, Frances, a dog,<br /> +And I was just a man.<br /> +The Universal Plan,—<br /> +Well, 'twould have lacked something<br /> +Had it lacked you.<br /> +Somehow you fitted in like a far star<br /> +Where the vast spaces are;<br /> +Or like a grass-blade<br /> +Which helps the meadow<br /> +To be a meadow;<br /> +Or like a song which kills a sigh<br /> +And sings itself on and on<br /> +Till all the world is full of it.<br /> +You were the real thing, Frances, a soul!<br /> +Encarcassed, yes, but still a soul<br /> +With feeling and regard and capable of woe.<br /> +Oh yes I know, you were a dog, but I was just a man.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span><br /> +I did not buy you, no, you simply came,<br /> +Lost, and squatted on my door-step<br /> +With that wide strap about your neck,—<br /> +A worn one with a huge buckle.<br /> +When bigger dogs pitched onto you<br /> +You stood your ground and gave them all you had<br /> +And took your wounds unwhimpering, but hid them.<br /> +My, but you were game!<br /> +You were fine-haired<br /> +And marked with Princeton colors,<br /> +Black and deep yellow.<br /> +No other fellow<br /> +Could make you follow him,<br /> +For you had chosen me to be your pal.<br /> +My whistle was your law.<br /> +You put your paw<br /> +Upon my palm<br /> +And in your calm,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span><br /> +Deep eyes was writ<br /> +The promise of long comradeship,<br /> +When I came home from work,<br /> +Late and ill-tempered,<br /> +Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs;<br /> +Your nose was at the door-crack;<br /> +And whether I'd been bad or good that day<br /> +You fawned, and loved me just the same.<br /> +It was your way to understand;<br /> +And if I struck you my harsh hand<br /> +Was wet with your caresses.<br /> +You took my leavings, crumb and bone,<br /> +And stuck by me through thick and thin.<br /> +You were my kin.<br /> +And then one day you died,<br /> +At least that's what they said.<br /> +There was a box and<br /> +You were in it, still,<br /> +With a sprig of myrtle and your leash and blanket,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span><br /> +And put deep;<br /> +But though you sleep and ever sleep<br /> +I sense you at my heels!</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">ROGER AND I</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY REV. JULIAN S. CUTLER<br /> +<br /> +From <i>The Boston Evening Transcript</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of <i>The Boston Evening Transcript</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">ROGER AND I</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Well</span>, Roger, my dear old doggie, they say that your race is run;<br /> +And our jolly tramps together up and down the world are done;<br /> +You're only a dog, old fellow, a dog, and you've had your day;<br /> +But never a friend of all my friends has been truer than you alway.<br /> +<br /> +We've had glorious times together in the fields and pastures fair;<br /> +In storm and sunny weather we have romped without a care;<br /> +And however men have treated me, though foul or fair their deal—<br /> +However many the friends that failed, I've found you true as steel.<br /> +<br /> +That's right, my dear old fellow, look up with your knowing eye,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span><br /> +And lick my hand with your loving tongue that never has told a lie;<br /> +And don't be afraid, old doggie, if your time has come to go,<br /> +For somewhere out in the great Unknown there's a place for you, I know.<br /> +<br /> +Then don't you worry, old Comrade; and don't you fear to die;<br /> +For out in that fairer country I will find you by and by;<br /> +And I'll stand by you, old fellow, and our love will surely win,<br /> +For never a heaven shall harbor me where they won't let Roger in.<br /> +<br /> +When I reach that city glorious, behind the waiting dark,<br /> +Just come and stand outside the gate, and wag your tail and bark—<br/> +I'll hear your voice, and I'll know it, and I'll come to the gate and say:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span><br /> +"Saint Peter, that's my dog out there, you must let him come this way."<br /> +<br /> +And then if the saint refuses, I'll go to the One above,<br /> +And say: "Old Roger is at the gate, with his heart brim full of love;<br /> +And there isn't a shining angel, of all the heavenly band,<br /> +Who ever lived a nobler life than he in the earthly land."<br /> +<br /> +Then I know the gate will open, and you will come frisking in,<br /> +And we'll roam fair fields together, in that country free from sin.<br /> +So never you mind, old Roger, if your time has come to go;<br /> +You've been true to me, I'll be true to you—and the Lord is good, we know.<br /> +<br /> +You're only a dog, old fellow; a dog, and you've had your day—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span><br /> +Well, I'm getting there myself, old boy, and I haven't long to stay;<br /> +But you've stood by me, old Comrade, and I'm bound to stand by you;<br /> +So don't you worry, old Roger, for our love will pull us through.</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"SIR BAT-EARS"</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +MRS. EDEN<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>Punch</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and special permission of the<br/> +Proprietors of London <i>Punch</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"SIR BAT-EARS"</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Sir Bat-ears</span> was a dog of birth<br /> +And bred in Aberdeen,<br /> +But he favoured not his noble kin<br /> +And so his lot is mean,<br /> +And Sir Bat-ears sits by the almshouses<br /> +On the stones with grass between.<br /> +<br /> +Under the ancient archway<br /> +His pleasure is to wait<br /> +Between the two stone pineapples<br /> +That flank the weathered gate;<br /> +<br /> +And old, old alms-persons go by,<br /> +All rusty, bent and black,<br /> +"Good-day, good-day, Sir Bat-ears,"<br /> +They say and stroke his back.<br /> +<br /> +And old, old alms-persons go by,<br /> +Shaking and well-nigh dead,<br /> +"Good-night, good-night, Sir Bat-ears!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span><br /> +They say and pat his head.<br /> +<br /> +So courted and considered<br /> +He sits out hour by hour,<br /> +Benignant in the sunshine<br /> +And prudent in the shower.<br /> +<br /> +(Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm<br /> +And stiffly breast the rain,<br /> +That rising when the cloud is gone<br /> +He leaves a circle of dry stone<br /> +Whereon to sit again.)<br /> +<br /> +A dozen little door steps<br /> +Under the arch are seen,<br /> +A dozen aged alms-persons<br /> +To keep them bright and clean:<br /> +<br /> +Two wrinkled hands to scour each step<br /> +With a square of yellow stone—<br /> +But print-marks of Sir Bat-ears' paws<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span><br /> +Bespeckle every one.<br /> +<br /> +And little eats an alms-person,<br /> +But, though his board be bare,<br /> +There never lacks a bone of the best<br /> +To be Sir Bat-ears' share.<br /> +<br /> +Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose,<br /> +He quests from door to door;<br /> +Their grace they say—his shadow gray<br /> +Is instant on the floor,<br /> +Humblest of all the dogs there be,<br /> +A pensioner of the poor.</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">CLUNY</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE<br /> +<br /> +From <i>The Boston Evening Transcript</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">CLUNY</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">I am</span> quite sure he thinks that I am God—<br /> +Since He is God on whom each one depends<br /> +For life, and all things that His bounty sends—<br /> +My dear old dog, most constant of all friends;<br /> +Not quick to mind, but quicker far than I<br /> +To Him whom God I know and own; his eye<br /> +Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod;<br /> +He is more patient underneath the rod<br /> +Than I, when God His wise corrections sends.<br /> +He looks love at me, deep as words e'er spake;<br /> +And from me never crumb or sup will take<br /> +But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail;<br /> +And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear<br /> +He is content and quiet if I'm near,<br /> +Secure that my protection will prevail;<br /> +So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span><br /> +Tells me what I unto my God should be.</td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center">May 24-25, 1902.</td></tr> +<tr><td> </td></tr> +<tr><td>He had lived out his life, but not his love;<br /> +Daily up steep and weary stair he came,<br /> +His big heart bursting with the strain, to prove<br /> +His loneliness without me. Just the same<br /> +Old word of greeting beamed in his deep eye,<br /> +With a new look of wonder in it, asking why<br /> +"The whole creation groans and travails." He<br /> +And I there faced the mystery of pain.<br /> +Finding me dumb and helpless, down again<br /> +He went, unanswered, with the dawn to die,<br /> +And find the mystery opened with the key,<br /> +"The creature from corruption's bondage free."</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LADDIE</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>America the Beautiful<br /> +and Other Poems</i><br /> +<br /> +BY KATHARINE LEE BATES</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers<br/> +<span class="smcap">Thomas Y. Crowell Company</span>, New York</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">LADDIE</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Lowly</span> the soul that waits<br /> +At the white, celestial gates,<br /> +A threshold soul to greet<br /> +Belovèd feet.<br /> +<br /> +Down the streets that are beams of sun<br /> +Cherubim children run;<br /> +They welcome it from the wall;<br /> +Their voices call.<br /> +<br /> +But the Warder saith: "Nay, this<br /> +Is the City of Holy Bliss.<br /> +What claim canst thou make good<br /> +To angelhood?"<br /> +<br /> +"Joy," answereth it from eyes<br /> +That are amber ecstasies,<br /> +Listening, alert, elate,<br /> +Before the gate.<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Oh, how the frolic feet</i></span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>On lonely memory beat!</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What rapture in a run</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>'Twixt snow and sun!</i></span><br /> +<br /> +"Nay, brother of the sod,<br /> +What part hast thou in God?<br /> +What spirit art thou of?"<br /> +It answers: "Love,"<br /> +<br /> +Lifting its head, no less<br /> +Cajoling a caress,<br /> +Our winsome collie wraith,<br /> +Than in glad faith<br /> +<br /> +The door will open wide,<br /> +Or kind voice bid: "Abide,<br /> +A threshold soul to greet<br /> +The longed-for feet."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Ah, Keeper of the Portal,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>If Love be not immortal,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>If Joy be not divine,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>What prayer is mine?</i></span></td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">DAVY</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>Century Magazine</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of <span class="smcap">The Century Company</span><br/> +New York</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">DAVY</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Davy</span>, her knight, her dear, was dead:<br /> +Low in dust was the silken head.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Isn't there heaven,"</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">(She was but seven)</span><br /> +"Isn't there" (sobbing) "for dogs?" she said.<br /> +<br /> +"Man is immortal, sage or fool:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Animals end, by different rule."</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">So had they prated</span><br /> +Of things created,<br /> +An hour before, in her Sunday-school.<br /> +<br /> +Trusty and glad and true, who could<br /> +Match her hero of hardihood,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Rancorless, selfless,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Prideless, pelfless?—</span><br /> +How I should like to be half so good!<br /> +<br /> +Firebrand eye and icicle nose;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span><br /> +Ear inwrought like a guelder-rose;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">All the sweet wavy</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Beauty of Davy;—</span><br /> +Sad, not to answer whither it goes!<br /> +<br /> +"Isn't there heaven for dogs that's dead?<br /> +God made Davy, out of His head:<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If He unmake him,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Doesn't He take him?</span><br /> +Why should He throw him away?" she said.<br /> +<br /> +The birds were busy, the brook was gay,<br /> +But the little hand was in mine all day.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Nothing could bury</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">That infinite query:</span><br /> +"Davy,—<i>would</i> God throw him away?"</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">A FRIEND</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY ZITELLA COCKE<br /> +<br /> +From <i>The Youth's Companion</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of <i>The Youth's Companion</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">A FRIEND</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +"<span class="smcap">Your</span> invitation, sir, to dine<br /> +With you to-night I must decline<br /> +Because to-day I lost a friend—<br /> +A friend long known and loved;" thus penned<br /> +The good Sir Walter, aptly named<br /> +The Wizard of the North, and famed<br /> +For truest, gentlest heart, among<br /> +The homes that love the English tongue.<br /> +Great heart, that felt the soul of things<br /> +In all its high imaginings,<br /> +And showed, mid vexing stress and strife<br /> +Of worldly cares, a hero's life!<br /> +An humble friend it was he loved,<br /> +And oft together they had roved<br /> +The heather hills and sweet brae side,<br /> +Or braved the rushing river's tide,<br /> +And many a frosty winter night<br /> +Sat musing by the warm firelight—<br /> +A faithful friend, whom chance and change<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span><br /> +Of fleeting years could ne'er estrange.<br /> +For he who once has gained the love<br /> +And friendship of a dog shall prove<br /> +Thro' joy and sorrow to the end<br /> +The deep devotion of a friend.<br /> +What is it? More than instinct fine,<br /> +This something man cannot divine,<br /> +Which speaks from eyes where lips are mute,<br /> +Which makes the creature we name brute<br /> +The noblest pattern we may see<br /> +Of loving, lasting loyalty.<br /> +We dare not call it mind or soul,<br /> +We know not what or where its goal,<br /> +But aye we know its little span<br /> +Of life spells large—Friendship to man;<br /> +Nor wonder Scott, in grief, should say,<br /> +"I lost a much-loved friend to-day!"</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">THE BATH</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +R. C. LEHMANN<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>Punch</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and special permission of the<br/> +Proprietors of London <i>Punch</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">THE BATH</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Hang</span> garlands on the bathroom door;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let all the passages be spruce;</span><br /> +For, lo, the victim comes once more,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And, ah, he struggles like the deuce!</span><br /> +<br /> +Bring soaps of many scented sorts;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Let girls in pinafores attend,</span><br /> +With John, their brother, in his shorts,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To wash their dusky little friend,</span><br /> +<br /> +Their little friend, the dusky dog,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Short-legged and very obstinate,</span><br /> +Faced like a much-offended frog,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And fighting hard against his fate.</span><br /> +<br /> +No Briton he! From palace-born<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Chinese patricians he descends;</span><br /> +He keeps their high ancestral scorn;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His spirit breaks, but never bends.</span><br /> +<br /> +Our water-ways he fain would 'scape;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He hates the customary bath</span><br /> +That thins his tail and spoils his shape,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And turns him to a fur-clad lath;</span><br /> +<br /> +And, seeing that the Pekinese<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have lustrous eyes that bulge like buds,</span><br /> +He fain would save such eyes as these,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Their owner's pride, from British suds.</span><br /> +<br /> +Vain are his protests—in he goes.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His young barbarians crowd around;</span><br /> +They soap his paws, they soap his nose;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They soap wherever fur is found.</span><br /> +<br /> +And soon, still laughing, they extract<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">His limpness from the darkling tide;</span><br /> +They make the towel's roughness act<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">On back and head and dripping side.</span><br /> +<br /> +They shout and rub and rub and shout—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He deprecates their odious glee—</span><br /> +Until at last they turn him out,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A damp gigantic bumble-bee.</span><br /> +<br /> +Released, he barks and rolls, and speeds<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From lawn to lawn, from path to path,</span><br /> +And in one glorious minute needs<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">More soapsuds and another bath.</span></td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">SIX FEET</span></p> + +<p class="center">From a friend</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"SIX FEET"</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +"<span class="smcap">My</span> little rough dog and I<br /> +Live a life that is rather rare.<br /> +We have so many good walks to take<br /> +And so few hard things to bear;<br /> +So much that gladdens and recreates,<br /> +So little of wear and tear."<br /> +<br /> +"Sometimes it blows and rains,<br /> +But still the six feet ply<br /> +No care at all to the following four<br /> +If the leading two know why.<br /> +'Tis a pleasure to have six feet, we think,<br /> +My little rough dog and I."<br /> +<br /> +"And we travel all one way;<br /> +'Tis a thing we should never do,<br /> +To reckon the two without the four,<br /> +Or the four without the two.<br /> +It would not be right if anyone tried,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span><br /> +Because it would not be true."<br /> +<br /> +"And who shall look up and say<br /> +That it ought not so to be,<br /> +Tho' the earth is Heaven enough for him,<br /> +Is it less than that to me?<br /> +For a little rough dog can make<br /> +A joy that enters eternity!"</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">WILHELM</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +PATRICK R. CHALMERS<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>Punch</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and special permission of the<br/> +Proprietors of London <i>Punch</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">WILHELM</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +"<span class="smcap">No</span> good thing comes from out of Kaiserland,"<br /> +Says Phyllis; but beside the fire I note<br /> +One Wilhelm, sleek in tawny gold of coat,<br /> +Most satin-smooth to the caresser's hand.<br /> +<br /> +A velvet mien; an eye of amber, full<br /> +Of that which keeps the faith with us for life;<br /> +Lover of meal times; hater of yard-dog strife;<br /> +Lordly, with silken ears most strokeable.<br /> +<br /> +Familiar on the hearth, refuting her,<br /> +He sits, the antic-pawed, the proven friend,<br /> +The whimsical, the grave and reverend—<br /> +Wilhelm the Dachs from out of Hanover.</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">AN OLD DOG</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +CELIA DUFFIN<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>The Spectator</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, <i>The London Spectator</i>, and<br/> +<span class="smcap">Maunsel and Company</span>, Ltd. Dublin</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">AN OLD DOG</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Now</span> that no shrill hunting horn<br /> +Can arouse me at the morn,<br /> +Deaf I lie the long day through,<br /> +Dreaming firelight dreams of you;<br /> +Waiting, patient through it all,<br /> +Till the greater Huntsman call.<br /> +<br /> +If we are, as people say,<br /> +But the creatures of a day,<br /> +Let me live, when we must part,<br /> +A little longer in your heart.<br /> +You were all the God I knew,<br /> +I was faithful unto you.</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">REMARKS TO<br/> +MY GROWN-UP PUP</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>Rhymes of Home</i><br /> +<br /> +BY BURGES JOHNSON</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers<br/> +<span class="smcap">G. P. Putnam's</span> Sons, New York</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">REMARKS TO MY GROWN-UP PUP</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">By</span> rules of fitness and of tense,<br /> +By all old canine precedents,<br /> +Oh, Adult Dog, the time is up<br /> +When I may fondly call you Pup.<br /> +The years have sped since first you stood<br /> +In straddle-legged puppyhood,—<br /> +A watch-pup, proud of your renown,<br /> +Who barked so hard you tumbled down.<br /> +In Age's gain and Youth's retreat<br /> +You've found more team-work for your feet,<br /> +You drool a soupçon less, and hark!<br /> +There's fuller meaning to your bark.<br /> +But answer fairly, whilom pup,<br /> +Are these full proof of growing up?<br /> +<br /> +I heard an elephantine tread<br /> +That jarred the rafters overhead:<br /> +<i>Who</i> leaped in mad abandon there<br /> +And tossed my slippers in the air?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span><br /> +<i>Who</i>, sitting gravely on the rug,<br /> +Espied a microscopic bug<br /> +And stalked it, gaining bit by bit,—<br /> +Then leapt in air and fell on it?<br /> +<i>Who</i> gallops madly down the breeze<br /> +Pursuing specks that no one sees,<br /> +Then finds some ancient boot instead<br /> +And worries it till it is dead?<br /> +<i>I</i> have no adult friends who choose<br /> +To gnaw the shoe-strings from my shoes,—<br /> +Who eat up twine and paper scraps<br /> +And bark while they are taking naps.<br /> +Oh Dog, you offer every proof<br /> +That stately age yet holds aloof.<br /> +Grown up? There's meaning in the phrase<br /> +Of dignity as well as days.<br /> +Oh why such size, beloved pup?—<br /> +You've grown enough, but not grown up.</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">AN EXTRACT FROM<br/> +INSCRIPTION ON THE<br/> +MONUMENT OF<br/> +A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG</span></p> + +<p class="center">BY LORD BYRON</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">AN EXTRACT FROM<br/> +INSCRIPTION ON THE<br/> +MONUMENT OF<br/> +A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +... "<span class="smcap">In</span> life the firmest friend,<br /> +The first to welcome, foremost to defend,<br /> +Whose honest heart is still his master's own,<br /> +Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone."<br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;">"Near this spot</span><br /> +Are deposited the Remains of one<br /> +Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Strength without Insolence,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Courage without Ferocity,</span><br /> +And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.<br /> +This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">If inscribed over human ashes,</span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is but a just tribute to the Memory of</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 5em;"><span class="smcap">Boatswain</span>, a Dog,</span><br /> +Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,<br /> +And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +W. M. LETTS</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of the <i>Westminster Gazette</i>, London</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">O jewel</span> of my heart, I sing your praise,<br /> +Though you who are, alas! of middle age<br /> +Have never been to school, and cannot read<br /> +The weary printed page.<br /> +<br /> +I sing your eyes, two pools in shadowed streams,<br /> +Where your soul shines in depths of sunny brown,<br /> +Alertly raised to read my every mood<br /> +Or thoughtfully cast down.<br /> +<br /> +I sing the little nose, so glossy wet,<br /> +The well-trained sentry to your eager mind,<br /> +So swift to catch the delicate glad scent<br /> +Of rabbits on the wind.<br /> +<br /> +Ah, fair to me your wheaten-coloured coat,<br /> +And fair the darker velvet of your ear,<br /> +Ragged and scarred with old hostilities<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span><br /> +That never taught you fear.<br /> +<br /> +But oh! your heart, where my unworthiness<br /> +Is made perfection by love's alchemy,<br /> +How often does your doghood's faith cry shame<br /> +To my inconstancy.<br /> +<br /> +At last I know the hunter Death will come<br /> +And whistle low the call you must obey.<br /> +So you will leave me, comrade of my heart,<br /> +To take a lonely way.<br /> +<br /> +Some tell me, Tim, we shall not meet again,<br /> +But for their loveless logic need we care?—<br /> +If I should win to Heav'n's gate I know<br /> +<i>You</i> will be waiting there.</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">MY DOG</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +ANNA HADLEY MIDDLEMAS</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of <i>The Boston<br/> +Evening Transcript</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">MY DOG</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">He's</span> just plain yellow: no "blue-ribbon" breed.<br /> +In disposition—well, a trifle gruff<br /> +Outside his "tried and true." His coat is rough.<br /> +To bark at night and sleep by day, his creed.<br /> +Yet, when his soft brown eyes so dumbly plead<br /> +For one caress from my too-busy hand,<br /> +I wonder from what far and unknown land<br /> +Came the true soul, which in his gaze I read.<br /> +Whence all his loyalty and faithful zeal?<br /> +Why does he share my joyous mood, and gay?<br /> +Why mourn with me, when I perchance do mourn?<br /> +When hunger-pressed, why scorn a bounteous meal<br /> +That by my side he may pursue his way?<br /> +Whence came his noble soul, and where its bourn?</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"WITHOUT ARE DOGS"</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +EDWARD A. CHURCH</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of the <i>Century Magazine</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"WITHOUT ARE DOGS"</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">If</span>, through some wondrous miracle of grace,<br /> +To the Celestial City I might win,<br /> +And find upon the golden pavement place,<br /> +The gates of pearl within;<br /> +<br /> +In some sweet pausing of the immortal song<br /> +To which the choiring Seraphim give birth,<br /> +Should I not for that humbler greeting long<br /> +Known in the dumb companionships of earth?<br /> +<br /> +Friends whom the softest whistle of my call<br /> +Brought to my side in love that knew no doubt,<br /> +Would I not seek to cross the jasper wall<br /> +If haply I might find you there "without"?</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">YOU'RE A DOG</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +C. L. GILMAN</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of <span class="smcap">Outing Publishing Co., N. Y.</span></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">YOU'RE A DOG</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">At</span> the kennel where they bred you they were raising fancy pets,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Yellow didn't matter, so the blood was blue.</span><br /> +But the Red Gods mixed a medicine that cancelled all their bets—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Make your tail say "thanks," they've made a dog of you.</span><br /> +<br /> +You have heard the wolf-pack howling and have barked a full defiance;<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You have chased the moose and routed out the deer;</span><br /> +You have worked and played and lived with man in honorable alliance,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You have shared his tent and campfire as his peer.</span><br /> +<br /> +When you might have copped the ribbon you have worn the harness-collar,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Pulling thrice your weight through brush and slush and bog.</span><br /> +Sure, you might have been a "champion," without value save the dollar,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But the Red Gods made you priceless—YOU'RE A DOG!</span></td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">A GENTLEMAN</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From<br /> +<i>New Orleans Times-Picayune</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of <i>New Orleans Times-Picayune</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">A GENTLEMAN</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">I own</span> a dog who is a gentleman;<br /> +By birth most surely, since the creature can<br /> +Boast of a pedigree the like of which<br /> +Holds not a Howard or a Metternich.<br /> +<br /> +By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod,<br /> +He never wagged an unkind talk abroad.<br /> +He never snubbed a nameless cur because<br /> +Without a friend or credit card he was.<br /> +<br /> +By pride. He looks you squarely in the face<br /> +Unshrinking and without a single trace<br /> +Of either diffidence or arrogant<br /> +Assertion such as upstarts often flaunt.<br /> +<br /> +By tenderness. The littlest girl may tear<br /> +With absolute impunity his hair,<br /> +And pinch his silken flowing ears the while<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span><br /> +He smiles upon her—yes, I've seen him smile.<br /> +<br /> +By loyalty. No truer friend than he<br /> +Has come to prove his friendship's worth to me,<br /> +He does not fear the master—knows no fear—<br /> +But loves the man who is his master here.<br /> +<br /> +By countenance. If there be nobler eyes,<br /> +More full of honor and of honesties,<br /> +In finer head, on broader shoulders found—<br /> +Then have I never met the man or hound.<br /> +Here is the motto of my lifeboat's log:<br /> +"God grant I may be worthy of my dog!"</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">MY DOG</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +ST. JOHN LUCAS</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">MY DOG</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">The</span> Curate thinks you have no soul:<br /> +I know that he has none. But you,<br /> +Dear friend! whose solemn self-control<br /> +In our four-square, familiar pew,<br /> +<br /> +Was pattern to my youth—whose bark<br /> +Called me in summer dawns to rove—<br /> +Have you gone down into the dark<br /> +Where none is welcome, none may love?<br /> +<br /> +I will not think those good brown eyes<br /> +Have spent their light of truth so soon,<br /> +But in some canine Paradise<br /> +Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,<br /> +<br /> +And quarters every plain and hill,<br /> +Seeking its master—As for me,<br /> +This prayer at least the gods fulfil:<br /> +That when I pass the flood and see<br /> +<br /> +Old Charon by the Stygian coast<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span><br /> +Take toll of all the shades who land,<br /> +Your little, faithful, barking ghost<br /> +May leap to lick my phantom hand.</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO SCOTT</span></p> + +<p class="center">(<i>A collie, for nine years our friend</i>)<br /> +<br /> +BY<br /> +W. M. LETTS</p> + +<p class="center">By permission of the Author and of the <i>Westminster Gazette</i>, London</p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">TO SCOTT</span></p> + +<p class="center">(<i>A collie, for nine years our friend</i>)</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Old</span> friend, your place is empty now. No more<br /> +Shall we obey the imperious deep-mouthed call<br /> +That begged the instant freedom of our hall.<br /> +We shall not trace your foot-fall on the floor<br /> +Nor hear your urgent paws upon the door.<br /> +The loud-thumped tail that welcomed one and all,<br /> +The volleyed bark that nightly would appal<br /> +Our tim'rous errand boys—these things are o'er.<br /> +<br /> +But always yours shall be a household name,<br /> +And other dogs must list' your storied fame;<br /> +So gallant and so courteous, Scott, you were,<br /> +Mighty abroad, at home most debonair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span><br /> +Now God Who made you will not count it blame<br /> +That we commend your spirit to His care.</td></tr></table> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"DODO,"</span></p> + +<p class="center">1903-1913</p> + +<p class="center"> +BY<br /> +ARTHUR AUSTIN-JACKSON<br /> +<br /> +From<br /> +<i>The Spectator</i></p> + +<p class="center">By permission of <i>The London Spectator</i></p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"DODO"</span></p> + +<p class="center">1903-1913</p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Here</span> lies a little dog who now<br /> +Asks nothing more of man's goodwill<br /> +Than the grey stone that tells you how<br /> +She loved the friends who love her still.</td></tr></table> +<p> </p> + +<p class="center"><i>Sir Walter Scott's translation of Lockhart's<br/> +epitaph for "Maida's grave"</i></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +"Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore<br /> +Sleep soundly Maida, at your master's door."</td></tr></table> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"HAMISH"<br/> + +A SCOTCH TERRIER</span></p> + +<p class="center"> +From <i>The London Spectator</i><br /> +<br /> +BY<br /> +C. HILTON BROWN</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span></p> +<p class="center"><span class="huge">"HAMISH"; A SCOTCH TERRIER</span></p> + +<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" summary="table"> +<tr><td> +<span class="smcap">Little</span> lad, little lad, and who's for an airing,<br /> +Who's for the river and who's for a run;<br /> +Four little pads to go fitfully faring,<br /> +Looking for trouble and calling it fun?<br /> +Down in the sedges the water-rats revel,<br /> +Up in the wood there are bunnies at play<br /> +With a weather-eye wide for a Little Black Devil:<br /> +But the Little Black Devil won't come to-day.<br /> +<br /> +To-day at the farm the ducks may slumber,<br /> +To-day may the tabbies an anthem raise;<br /> +Rat and rabbit beyond all number<br /> +To-day untroubled may go their ways:<br /> +To-day is an end of the shepherd's labour,<br /> +No more will the sheep be hunted astray;<br /> +And the Irish terrier, foe and neighbour,<br /> +Says, "What's old Hamish about to-day?"<br /> +<br /> +Ay, what indeed? In the nether spaces<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span><br /> +Will the soul of a Little Black Dog despair?<br /> +Will the Quiet Folk scare him with shadow-faces?<br /> +And how will he tackle the Strange Beasts there?<br /> +Tail held high, I'll warrant, and bristling,<br /> +Marching stoutly if sore afraid,<br /> +Padding it steadily, softly whistling;—<br /> +That's how the Little Black Devil was made.<br /> +<br /> +Then well-a-day for a "cantie callant,"<br /> +A heart of gold and a soul of glee,—<br /> +Sportsman, gentleman, squire and gallant,—<br /> +Teacher, maybe, of you and me.<br /> +Spread the turf on him light and level,<br /> +Grave him a headstone clear and true—<br /> +"Here lies Hamish, the Little Black Devil,<br /> +And half of the heart of his mistress too."</td></tr></table> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p class="center">The Riverside Press</p> + +<p class="center">CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS</p> + +<p class="center">U . S . A</p> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of To Your Dog and To My Dog, by +Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO YOUR DOG AND TO MY DOG *** + +***** This file should be named 39750-h.htm or 39750-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/7/5/39750/ + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, David E. Brown and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: To Your Dog and To My Dog + +Author: Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +Release Date: May 21, 2012 [EBook #39750] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO YOUR DOG AND TO MY DOG *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, David E. Brown and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + _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_ + + + + + FIRST IMPRESSION, SEPTEMBER 1915 + SECOND IMPRESSION, DECEMBER 1915 + THIRD IMPRESSION, FEBRUARY 1916 + FOURTH IMPRESSION, APRIL 1916 + + + + + TO YOUR DOG + AND TO + MY DOG + + + "MAY THEY LIVE LONG AND PROSPER" + + _By_ + LINCOLN NEWTON KINNICUTT + + _BOSTON_ and _NEW YORK_ + HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + The Riverside Press Cambridge + + + COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY LINCOLN NEWTON KINNICUTT + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + _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. + + + + +_Note +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. + + + + +_Note +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. + + + + +_Contents_ + + +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 + +AN EXTRACT FROM INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT +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 + + + + +LUFRA + + BY + SIR WALTER SCOTT + + From + _The Lady of the Lake_ + + + + +LUFRA + + + 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. + + + + +FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB + + From + _The Island Race_ + + BY + HENRY NEWBOLT + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + ELKIN MATHEWS, London + + + + +FIDELE'S GRASSY TOMB + + + 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. + + + + +LEO + + From _The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder_ + + By permission of the Publishers, HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY + Boston + + + + +LEO + + + 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 + master, + 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. + + + + + +GEIST'S GRAVE + + From _Poems by Matthew Arnold + Dramatic and Later Poems_ + + By permission of the Publishers, THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, New York + + + + +GEIST'S GRAVE + + + 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 lacrimae rerum!_ + + + + +THE POWER OF THE DOG + + From + _Actions and Reactions_ + + BY + RUDYARD KIPLING + + By permission of the Publishers, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY + Garden City + + + + +THE POWER OF THE DOG + + + 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?_ + + + + +TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL + + From _Crumbs of Pity_ + + BY + R. C. LEHMANN + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers, WILLIAM + BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh & London + + + + +TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL + + + 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. + + + + +TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + From _Songs from Leinster_ + + BY W. M. LETTS + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publisher + DAVID MCKAY, Philadelphia + + + + +TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + + 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? + + + + +TO A TERRIER + + From _Green Days and Blue Days_ + + BY + PATRICK R. CHALMERS + + By permission of the Author. Published by MAUNSEL & CO., Ltd. + Dublin + + + + +TO A TERRIER + + + 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! + + + + +RHAPSODY ON +A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE + + From _Rhymes of Home_ + + BY BURGES JOHNSON + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York + + + + +RHAPSODY ON A DOG'S +INTELLIGENCE + + + 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. + + + + +FRANCES + + BY RICHARD WIGHTMAN + + By permission of the Author and from + _The American Magazine_ + + + + +FRANCES + + + 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! + + + + +ROGER AND I + + BY REV. JULIAN S. CUTLER + + From _The Boston Evening Transcript_ + + By permission of the Author and of _The Boston Evening Transcript_ + + + + +ROGER AND I + + + 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 + way." + + 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 + know. + + 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. + + + + +"SIR BAT-EARS" + + BY + MRS. EDEN + + From + _Punch_ + + By permission of the Author, and special permission of the + Proprietors of London _Punch_ + + + + +"SIR BAT-EARS" + + + 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. + + + + +CLUNY + + BY WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE + + From _The Boston Evening Transcript_ + + By permission + + + + +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. + + + 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." + + + + +LADDIE + + From _America the Beautiful + and Other Poems_ + + BY KATHARINE LEE BATES + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY, New York + + + + +LADDIE + + + Lowly the soul that waits + At the white, celestial gates, + A threshold soul to greet + Beloved 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?_ + + + + +DAVY + + BY + LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY + + From + _Century Magazine_ + + By permission of the Author, and of THE CENTURY COMPANY + New York + + + + +DAVY + + + 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?" + + + + +A FRIEND + + BY ZITELLA COCKE + + From _The Youth's Companion_ + + By permission of the Author and of _The Youth's Companion_ + + + + +A FRIEND + + + "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!" + + + + +THE BATH + + BY + R. C. LEHMANN + + From + _Punch_ + + By permission of the Author, and special permission of the + Proprietors of London _Punch_ + + + + +THE BATH + + + 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. + + + + +SIX FEET + + From a friend + + + + +"SIX FEET" + + + "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!" + + + + +WILHELM + + BY + PATRICK R. CHALMERS + + From + _Punch_ + + By permission of the Author, and special permission of the + Proprietors of London _Punch_ + + + + +WILHELM + + + "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. + + + + +AN OLD DOG + + BY + CELIA DUFFIN + + From + _The Spectator_ + + By permission of the Author, _The London Spectator_, and + MAUNSEL AND COMPANY, Ltd. Dublin + + + + +AN OLD DOG + + + 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. + + + + +REMARKS TO +MY GROWN-UP PUP + + From _Rhymes of Home_ + + BY BURGES JOHNSON + + By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers + G. P. PUTNAM'S Sons, New York + + + + +REMARKS TO MY GROWN-UP PUP + + + 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 soupcon 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. + + + + +AN EXTRACT FROM +INSCRIPTION ON THE +MONUMENT OF +A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG + + BY LORD BYRON + + + + +AN EXTRACT FROM +INSCRIPTION ON THE +MONUMENT OF +A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG + + + ... "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." + + + + +TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + BY + W. M. LETTS + + By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London + + + + +TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER + + + 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. + + + + +MY DOG + + BY + ANNA HADLEY MIDDLEMAS + + By permission of the Author and of _The Boston + Evening Transcript_ + + + + +MY DOG + + + 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? + + + + +"WITHOUT ARE DOGS" + + BY + EDWARD A. CHURCH + + By permission of the Author and of the _Century Magazine_ + + + + +"WITHOUT ARE DOGS" + + + 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"? + + + + +YOU'RE A DOG + + BY + C. L. GILMAN + + By permission of the Author and of OUTING PUBLISHING CO., N. Y. + + + + +YOU'RE A DOG + + + 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 + harness-collar, + 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! + + + + +A GENTLEMAN + + From + _New Orleans Times-Picayune_ + + By permission of _New Orleans Times-Picayune_ + + + + +A 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 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!" + + + + +MY DOG + + BY + ST. JOHN LUCAS + + + + +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. + + + + +TO SCOTT + +(_A collie, for nine years our friend_) + + BY + W. M. LETTS + + By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London + + + + +TO SCOTT + +(_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. + + + + +"DODO," + +1903-1913 + + BY + ARTHUR AUSTIN-JACKSON + + From + _The Spectator_ + + By permission of _The London Spectator_ + + + + +"DODO" + +1903-1913 + + + 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." + + + + +"HAMISH" + +A SCOTCH TERRIER + + From _The London Spectator_ + + BY + C. HILTON BROWN + + + + +"HAMISH"; A SCOTCH TERRIER + + + 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 + +CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS + +U . S . A + + + + +TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: + + + Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of To Your Dog and To My Dog, by +Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TO YOUR DOG AND TO MY DOG *** + +***** This file should be named 39750.txt or 39750.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/7/5/39750/ + +Produced by Greg Bergquist, David E. 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