Chapter 12

Ah, Rover, by those lustrous eyes That follow me with longing gaze, Which sometimes seem so human-wise, I look for human speech and ways. By your quick instinct, matchless love, Your eager welcome, mute caress, That all my heart's emotions move, And loneliest moods and hours bless, I do believe, my dog, that you Have some beyond, some future new.

Why not? In heaven's inheritance Space must be cheap where worldly light In boundless, limitless expanse Rolls grandly far from human sight. He who has given such patient care, Such constancy, such tender trust, Such ardent zeal, such instincts rare, And made you something more than dust, May yet release the speechless thrall At death--there's room enough for all.

_Our Continent._

* * * * *

HIS FAITHFUL DOG.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company.

POPE.

* * * * *

THE FAITHFUL HOUND.

A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

MISCELLANEOUS.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER'S LESSON.

Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood, Waiting the hour of doom; Behind him the palace of Holyrood, Before him--a nameless tomb. And the foam on his lip was flecked with red, As away to the past his memory sped, Upcalling the day of his past renown, When he won and he wore the Scottish crown: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Time and again I have fronted the tide Of the tyrant's vast array, But only to see on the crimson tide My hopes swept far away;-- Now a landless chief and a crownless king, On the broad, broad earth not a living thing To keep me court, save this insect small, Striving to reach from wall to wall:" For come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss, Like myself, of your time and pain; The space is too wide to be bridged across, You but waste your strength in vain!" And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief, His soul now filled with the sure belief That, howsoever the issue went, For evil or good was the omen sent: And come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

As a gambler watches the turning card On which his all is staked,-- As a mother waits for the hopeful word For which her soul has ached,-- It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense Centred alone in that look intense; All rigid he stood, with scattered breath-- Now white, now red, but as still as death: Yet come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

Six several times the creature tried, When at the seventh, "See, see! He has spanned it over!" the captive cried; "Lo! a bridge of hope to me; Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here Has tutored my soul to PERSEVERE!" And it served him well, for erelong he wore In freedom the Scottish crown once more: And come there shadow or come there shine, The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

JOHN BROUGHAM.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER AND STORK.

Who taught the natives of the field and flood To shun their poison and to choose their food? Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand? Who made the spider parallels design Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line? Who bid the stork Columbus-like explore Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before? WHO CALLS THE COUNCIL, STATES THE CERTAIN DAY, WHO FORMS THE PHALANX, AND WHO POINTS THE WAY?

POPE.

* * * * *

THE HOMESTEAD AT EVENING.--EVANGELINE'S BEAUTIFUL HEIFER.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness. Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the homestead. Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other, And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening. Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer, Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her collar, Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection. Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside, Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog, Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct, Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers; Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector, When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves howled. Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes, Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor, Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their fetlocks, While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles, Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson, Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms. Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended. Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard, Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness; Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors, Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Evangeline_.

* * * * *

THE CATTLE OF A HUNDRED FARMS.

And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills, These logs to the impatient mills, Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Mad River_.

* * * * *

CAT-QUESTIONS.

Dozing, and dozing, and dozing! Pleasant enough, Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,-- Delicate stuff!

Waked by a somerset, whirling From cushion to floor; Waked to a wild rush for safety From window to door.

Waking to hands that first smooth us, And then pull our tails; Punished with slaps when we show them The length of our nails!

These big mortal tyrants even grudge us A place on the mat. Do they think we enjoy for our music Staccatoes of "scat"?

To be treated, now, just as you treat us,-- The question is pat,-- To take just our chances in living, Would _you_ be a cat?

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

THE NEWSBOY'S CAT.

Want any papers, Mister? Wish you'd buy 'em of me-- Ten year old, an' a fam'ly, An' bizness dull, you see. Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby, An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat, None on 'em earning money-- What do you think of that?

_Couldn't Dad work_? Why yes, Boss, He's working for gov'ment now,-- They give him his board for nothin',-- All along of a drunken row. _An' Mam_? Well, she's in the poorhouse,-- Been there a year or so; So I'm taking care of the others, Doing as well as I know.

_Oughtn't to live so_? Why, Mister, What's a feller to do? Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry, Seems as if each on 'em knew-- They'll all three cuddle around me, Till I get cheery, and say: Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers, An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss, (An' a lecturin' chap one night Said newsboys could be Presidents If only they acted right); So, if I was President, Mister, The very first thing I'd do, I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby A dinner--an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's, But a good square meal for all three; If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, That shows you don't know me. So 'ere's your papers--come take one, Gimme a lift if you can-- For now you've heard my story, You see I'm a fam'ly man!

E. T. CORBETT.

* * * * *

THE CHILD AND HER PUSSY.

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm, And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm; So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, But pussy and I very gently will play:

She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food; And she'll love me, because I am gentle and good. I'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr, And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

E. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

They in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pastures green That hang along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together lean, And down through mists the sunbeams slide:

But nought can tempt the timid things The steep and rugged paths to try, Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, And seared below the pastures lie,--

Till in his arms their lambs he takes Along the dizzy verge to go, Then heedless of the rifts and breaks They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures lifted fair, More dewy soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed.

MARIA LOWELL.

* * * * *

LITTLE LAMB.

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life and made thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight,-- Softest clothing, woolly, bright? Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice; Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee; He is callen by thy name, For he calls himself a lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

COWPER'S HARE.

Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare Has never heard the sanguinary yell Of cruel man, exulting in her woes. Innocent partner of my peaceful home, Whom ten long years' experience of my care Has made at last familiar, she has lost Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine. Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor At evening, and at night retire secure To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed; For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged All that is human in me to protect Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love. If I survive thee I will dig thy grave, And when I place thee in it, sighing say, I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

COWPER.

* * * * *

TURN THY HASTY FOOT ASIDE.

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside, Nor crush that helpless worm! The frame thy wayward looks deride Required a God to form.

The common lord of all that move, From whom thy being flowed, A portion of his boundless love On that poor worm bestowed.

Let them enjoy their little day, Their humble bliss receive; Oh! do not lightly take away The life thou canst not give!

T. GISBORNE.

* * * * *

THE WORM TURNS.

I've despised you, old worm, for I think you'll admit That you never were beautiful even in youth; I've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit; But all's changed now that Darwin has told us the truth Of your diligent life, and endowed you with fame: You begin to inspire me with kindly regard. I have friends of my own, clever worm, I could name, Who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard.

It appears that we owe you our acres of soil, That the garden could never exist without you, That from ages gone by you were patient in toil, Till a Darwin revealed all the good that you do. Now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confess Your behavior should make poor humanity squirm; For there's many a man on this planet, I guess, Who is not half so useful as you, Mister worm.

PUNCH.

* * * * *

GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feet of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, Whenever the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nicks the glad silent moments as they pass.

O sweet and tidy cousins, that belong One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To ring in thoughtful ears this natural song-- Indoors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.

LEIGH HUNT.

* * * * *

THE HONEY-BEES.

Therefore doth Heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavor in continual motion; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience: for so work the honey-bees; Creatures, that, by a rule in nature, teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts: Where some, like magistrates, correct at home; Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent royal of their emperor: Who, busied in his majesty, surveys THE SINGING MASONS BUILDING ROOFS OF GOLD; The civil citizens kneading up the honey; The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to the executioner's pale The lazy, yawning drone.

SHAKESPEARE: _Henry V._, Act 1, Sc. 2.

* * * * *

CUNNING BEE.

Said a little wandering maiden To a bee with honey laden, "Bee, at all the flowers you work, Yet in some does poison lurk."

"That I know, my little maiden," Said the bee with honey laden; "But the poison I forsake, And the honey only take."

"Cunning bee with honey laden, That is right," replied the maiden; "So will I, from all I meet, Only draw the good and sweet."

ANON.

* * * * *

AN INSECT.

Only an insect; yet I know It felt the sunlight's golden glow, And the sweet morning made it glad With all the little heart it had.

It saw the shadows move; it knew The grass-blades glittered, wet with dew; And gayly o'er the ground it went; It had its fulness of content.

Some dainty morsel then it spied, And for the treasure turned aside; Then, laden with its little spoil, Back to its nest began to toil.

An insect formed of larger frame, Called man, along the pathway came. A ruthless foot aside he thrust, And ground the beetle in the dust.

Perchance no living being missed The life that there ceased to exist; Perchance the passive creature knew No wrong, nor felt the deed undue;

Yet its small share of life was given By the same hand that orders heaven. 'Twas for no other power to say, Or should it go or should it stay.

ANON.

* * * * *

THE CHIPMUNK.

I know an old couple that lived in a wood-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And up in a tree-top their dwelling it stood-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! The summer it came, and the summer it went-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And there they lived on, and they never paid rent-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

Their parlor was lined with the softest of wool-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! Their kitchen was warm, and their pantry was full-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! And four little babies peeped out at the sky-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! You never saw darlings so pretty and shy-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

Now winter came on with its frost and its snow-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! They cared not a bit when they heard the wind blow-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! For, wrapped in their furs, they all lay down to sleep-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip! But oh, in the spring, how their bright eyes will peep-- Chipperee, chipperee, chip!

UNKNOWN.

* * * * *

MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL.

The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel; And the former called the latter "Little Prig." Bun replied, "You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together To make up a year And a sphere; And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track. Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut."

EMERSON.

* * * * *

TO A FIELD-MOUSE.

Wee sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal!

Thou saw the fields lay bare and waste And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane[2] In proving foresight may be bain: The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us nought but grief and vain, For promised joy.

BURNS.

[2] Not alone.

* * * * *

A SEA-SHELL.

See what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot. Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily well With delicate spire and whorl. How exquisitely minute A miracle of design!

The tiny cell is forlorn, Void of the little living will That made it stir on the shore. Did he stand at the diamond door Of his house in a rainbow frill? Did he push when he was uncurled, A golden foot or a fairy horn Through his dim water-world?

Slight, to be crushed with a tap Of my finger-nail on the sand; Small, but a work divine: Frail, but of force to withstand, Year upon year, the shock Of cataract seas that snap The three-decker's oaken spine, Athwart the ledges of rock, Here on the Breton strand.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

* * * * *

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft steps its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven within a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unwresting sea!"

O. W. HOLMES.

* * * * *

HIAWATHA'S BROTHERS.