Part 2
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.