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diff --git a/39750.txt b/39750.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..74af743 --- /dev/null +++ b/39750.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: 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 . 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