So with the early light once more Toward the burial ground went he; And there he found her as before, But not, as then, stretched quietly.

For she had worked the long night through, In the strong impulse of despair, Down, down into the grave—and now, Panting and weak, still laboured there.

But death's cold, stiffening frost benumbs Her limbs, and clouds her heavy eye— And hark! her feeble moan becomes A shriek of human agony.

As if before her task was over She feared to die in her despair. But see! those last faint strokes uncover A straggling lock of thin grey hair.

One struggle, one convulsive start, And there the face beloved lies— Now be at peace, thou faithful heart! She licks the livid lips, and dies.

CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY.



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song, And if you find it wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, And curs of low degree.

The dog and man at first were friends, But when a pique began, The dog, to gain some private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.



THE FUSILIERS' DOG

Go lift him gently from the wheels, And soothe his dying pain, For love and care e'en yet he feels Though love and care be vain; 'Tis sad that, after all these years, Our comrade and our friend, The brave dog of the Fusiliers, Should meet with such an end.

Up Alma's hill, among the vines, We laughed to see him trot, Then frisk along the silent lines To chase the rolling shot; And, when the work waxed hard by day, And hard and cold by night, When that November morning lay Upon us, like a blight;

And eyes were strained, and ears were bent, Against the muttering north, Till the gray mist took shape and sent Gray scores of Russians forth— Beneath that slaughter wild and grim Nor man nor dog would run; He stood by us, and we by him, Till the great fight was done.

And right throughout the snow and frost He faced both shot and shell; Though unrelieved, he kept his post, And did his duty well. By death on death the time was stained, By want, disease, despair; Like autumn leaves our army waned, But still the dog was there.

He cheered us through those hours of gloom; We fed him in our dearth; Through him the trench's living tomb Rang loud with reckless mirth; And thus, when peace returned once more, After the city's fall, That veteran home in pride we bore, And loved him, one and all.

With ranks re-filled, our hearts were sick, And to old memories clung; The grim ravines we left glared thick With death-stones of the young. Hands which had patted him lay chill, Voices which called were dumb, And footsteps that he watched for still Never again could come.

Never again; this world of woe Still hurries on so fast; They come not back; 'tis he must go To join them in the past. There, with brave names and deeds entwined, Which Time may not forget, Young Fusiliers unborn shall find The legend of our pet.

Whilst o'er fresh years and other life Yet in God's mystic urn The picture of the mighty strife Arises sad and stern— Blood all in front, behind far shrines With women weeping low, For whom each lost one's fane but shines, As shines the moon on snow—

Marked by the medal, his of right, And by his kind, keen face, Under that visionary light Poor Bob shall keep his place; And never may our honored Queen For love and service pay Less brave, less patient, or more mean Than his we mourn today!

FRANCIS DOYLE.



FIDELITY

A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks; And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern, And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed, Its motions, too, are wild and shy, With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry. Nor is there anyone in sight, All round, in hollow or on height, Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below. Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land, From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes—the cloud, And mists that spread the flying shroud, And sunbeams, and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The shepherd stood; then makes his way Towards the dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer, with a sigh, Looks round, to learn the history

From whose abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry— This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot Or by his master's side; How nourished here through such long time He knows who gave that love sublime, And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.



THE SHEPHERD DOG OF THE PYRENEES

Traveler. Begone, you, sir! Here, shepherd, call your dog. Shepherd. Be not affrighted, madame. Poor Pierrot Will do no harm. I know his voice is gruff, But then, his heart is good. Traveler. Well, call him, then. I do not like his looks. He's growling now. Shepherd. Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot, He is as good a Christian as myself And does not like a stick. Traveler. Such a fierce look! And such great teeth! Shepherd. Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth! Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth. Come here, my Pierrot. Would you like to hear, Madame, what Pierrot's teeth have done for me? Traveler. Torn a gaunt wolf, I'll warrant. Shepherd. Do you see On that high ledge a cross of wood that stands Against the sky? Traveler. Just where the cliff goes down A hundred fathoms sheer, a wall of rock To where the river foams along its bed? I've often wondered who was brave to plant A cross on such an edge. Shepherd. Myself, madame, That the good God might know I gave him thanks. One night, it was November, black and thick, The fog came down, when as I reached my house Marie came running out; our little one, Our four year Louis, so she cried, was lost. I called Pierrot: "Go, seek him, find my boy," And off he went. Marie ran crying loud To call the neighbors. They and I, we searched All that dark night. I called Pierrot in vain; Whistled and called, and listened for his voice; He always came or barked at my first word, But now, he answered not. When day at last Broke, and the gray fog lifted, there I saw On that high ledge, against the dawning light. My little one asleep, sitting so near That edge that as I looked his red barette Fell from his nodding head down the abyss. And there, behind him, crouched Pierrot; his teeth, His good, strong teeth, clenching the jacket brown, Holding the child in safety. With wild bounds Swift as the gray wolf's own I climbed the steep, And as I reached them Pierrot beat his tail, And looked at me, so utterly distressed, With eyes that said: "Forgive, I could not speak," But never loosed his hold till my dear rogue Was safe within my arms. Ah, ha, Pierrot, Madame forgives your barking and your teeth; I knew she would. Traveler. Come here, Pierrot, good dog, Come here, poor fellow, faithful friend and true, Come, come, be friends with me.

ELLEN MURRAY.



THE DOG UNDER THE WAGON

"Come, wife," said good old farmer Gray, "Put on your things, 'tis market day, And we'll be off to the nearest town, There and back ere the sun goes down. Spot? No, we'll leave old Spot behind," But Spot he barked and Spot he whined, And soon made up his doggish mind To follow under the wagon.

Away they went at a good round pace And joy came into the farmer's face, "Poor Spot," said he, "did want to come, But I'm awful glad he's left at home— He'll guard the barn, and guard the cot, And keep the cattle out of the lot." "I'm not so sure of that," thought Spot, The dog under the wagon.

The farmer all his produce sold And got his pay in yellow gold: Home through the lonely forest. Hark! A robber springs from behind a tree; "Your money or else your life," says he; The moon was up, but he didn't see The dog under the wagon.

Spot ne'er barked and Spot ne'er whined But quickly caught the thief behind; He dragged him down in the mire and dirt, And tore his coat and tore his shirt, Then held him fast on the miry ground; The robber uttered not a sound, While his hands and feet the farmer bound, And tumbled him into the wagon.

So Spot he saved the farmer's life, The farmer's money, the farmer's wife, And now a hero grand and gay, A silver collar he wears today; Among his friends, among his foes— And everywhere his master goes— He follows on his horny toes, The dog under the wagon.

ANONYMOUS.



SAL'S TOWSER AND MY TROUSER

A RUSTIC IDYL BY A RUSTIC IDLER

But yestere'en I loved thee whole, Oh, fashionable and baggy trouser! And now I loathe and hate the hole In thee, I do, I trow, sir.

I sallied out to see my Sal, Across yon round hill's brow, sir; I didn't know she, charming gal, Had a dog,—a trouser-browser.

I'd sauntered in quite trim and spruce, When on a sudden, oh, my trouser, I felt thee seized where thou'rt most loose,— I tarried there with Towser.

I on the fence, he down below, And thou the copula, my trouser, I thought he never would let go,— This gentle Towser.

They say that fashion cuts thee loose, But not so fashioned is Sal's Towser; Thou gavest away at last, no use To tarry, teared trouser.

Miss Sarah, she is wondrous sweet, And I'd have once loved to espouse her, But my calling trouser has no seat,— I left it there with Towser.

So all unseated is my suit; I must eschew Miss Sarah now, sir; He's chewed my trouser; 'twouldn't suit Me to meet Towser.

ANONYMOUS.



ROVER IN CHURCH

'Twas a Sunday morning in early May, A beautiful, sunny, quiet day, And all the village, old and young, Had trooped to church when the church bell rung. The windows were open, and breezes sweet Fluttered the hymn books from seat to seat. Even the birds in the pale-leaved birch Sang as softly as if in church!

Right in the midst of the minister's prayer There came a knock at the door. "Who's there, I wonder?" the gray-haired sexton thought, As his careful ear the tapping caught. Rap-rap, rap-rap—a louder sound, The boys on the back seats turned around. What could it mean? for never before Had any one knocked at the old church door.

Again the tapping, and now so loud, The minister paused (though his head was bowed). Rappety-rap! This will never do, The girls are peeping, and laughing too! So the sexton tripped o'er the creaking floor, Lifted the latch and opened the door.

In there trotted a big black dog, As big as a bear! With a solemn jog Right up the centre aisle he pattered; People might stare, it little mattered. Straight he went to a little maid, Who blushed and hid, as though afraid, And there sat down, as if to say, "I'm sorry that I was late today, But better late than never, you know; Beside, I waited an hour or so, And couldn't get them to open the door Till I wagged my tail and bumped the floor. Now little mistress, I'm going to stay, And hear what the minister has to say."

The poor little girl hid her face and cried! But the big dog nestled close to her side, And kissed her, dog fashion, tenderly, Wondering what the matter could be! The dog being large (and the sexton small), He sat through the sermon, and heard it all, As solemn and wise as any one there, With a very dignified, scholarly air! And instead of scolding, the minister said, As he laid his hand on the sweet child's head, After the service, "I never knew Two better list'ners than Rover and you!"

JAMES BUCKHAM.



PART IV

THE DOG'S HEREAFTER

Oh, Indra, and what of this dog? It hath faithfully followed me through; Let it go with me into Heaven, for my soul is full of compassion.



BILLY

Dear Billy, of imperious bark When stranger's step fell on thy ear; Who oft inspired with wholesome fear A prowling boy in shadows dark:

But oftener hailed with joyous cry Some friendly face returning home, Or, wild with glee, the fields to roam— Now still and cold thou here dost lie!

Frail vines that from the garden wall Crept blooming o'er thy lowly bed, Elm branches drooping overhead, And dying leaves that wavering fall,

In other forms of life enrolled Shall live in ages yet to be; And shall a mind from body free Lie buried dark beneath the mold?

He loved us all, and none forgot, He guessed whate'er was done or told, Dreamed of adventures free and bold— For him is there no future lot?

If love is life and thought is mind, And all shall last beyond the years, And memory live in other spheres, My steadfast friend may I not find?

LORENZO SEARS.



THE BOND

When I call my terrier by his name, Or join him at evening play; His eyes will flash with a human flame And he looks what he cannot say; For the bond between us two Is that between me and you!

Should a seraph sing in my ear tonight, Or a sweet voiced angel come. Would poor speech prove my soul's delight, Or ecstasy drive me dumb? For the link 'twixt them and me Is long as Eternity.

Wide leagues our sentient forms divide The loftier from the mean; But soul to soul all planes are tied When sympathy lies between; And who shall say that the brute Is soulless, though mean and mute?

GEORGE H. NETTLE.



TO A DOG

On every side I see your trace; Your water-trough's scarce dry; Your empty collar in its place Provokes the heavy sigh.

And you were here two days ago. There's little changed, I see. The sun is just as bright, but oh! The difference to me!

The very print of your small pad Is on the whitened stone. Where, by what ways, or sad or glad, Do you fare on alone?

Oh, little face, so merry-wise, Brisk feet and eager bark! The house is lonesome for your eyes, My spirit somewhat dark.

Now, small, invinc'ble friend, your love Is done, your fighting o'er, No more your wandering feet will rove Beyond your own house-door.

The cats that feared, their hearts are high, The dogs that loved will gaze Long, long ere you come passing by With all your jovial ways.

Th' accursed archer who has sent His arrow all too true, Would that his evil days were spent Ere he took aim at you!

Your honest face, your winsome ways Haunt me, dear little ghost, And everywhere I see your trace, Oh, well-beloved and lost!

ANONYMOUS.



CANINE IMMORTALITY

And they have drowned thee then at last! poor Phillis! The burden of old age was heavy on thee, And yet thou shouldst have lived! What though thine eye Was dim, and watched no more with eager joy The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk With fruitless repetition, the warm sun Might still have cheered thy slumber; thou didst love To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past Youth's active season, even life itself Was comfort. Poor old friend! How earnestly Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been Still the companion of my childish sports: And as I roamed o'er Avon's woody cliffs, From many a day-dream has thy short quick bark Recalled my wandering soul. I have beguiled Often the melancholy hours at school, Soured by some little tyrant, with the thought Of distant home, and I remembered then Thy faithful fondness: for not mean the joy, Returning at the pleasant holidays, I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively Sometimes have I remarked the slow decay, Feeling myself changed, too, and musing much, On many a sad vicissitude of life! Ah, poor companion! when thou followedst last Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead For the old age of brute fidelity! But fare thee well! Mine is no narrow creed; And He who gave thee being did not frame The mystery of life to be the sport Of merciless man! There is another world For all that live and move—a better one! Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine Infinite goodness to the little bounds Of their own charity, may envy thee!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.



A FRIENDLY WELCOME

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

LORD BYRON.



EXEMPLARY NICK

Here lies poor Nick, an honest creature, Of faithful, gentle, courteous nature; A parlor pet unspoiled by favor, A pattern of good dog behavior, Without a wish, without a dream, Beyond his home and friends at Cheam. Contentedly through life he trotted, Along the path that faith allotted, Till time, his aged body wearing, Bereaved him of his sight and hearing, Then laid him down without a pain To sleep, and never wake again.

SYDNEY SMITH.



THE DIFFERENCE

My dog! The difference between thee and me Knows only our Creator—only he Can number the degrees in being's scale Between th' Instinctive lamp, ne'er known to fail, And that less steady light, of brighter ray, The soul which animates thy master's clay; And he alone can tell by what fond tie My look thy life, my death thy sign to die.

No, when that feeling quits thy glazing eye 'Twill live in some blest world beyond the sky.

ANONYMOUS.



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?

KATHERINE LEE BATES.



A DOG'S EPITAPH

When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen Not what he was, but what he should have been, But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in Heaven the soul he held in earth; While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole, exclusive Heaven. Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on—it honors none you wish to mourn; To mark a friend's remains these stones arise— I never knew but one, and here he lies.

LORD BYRON.



THE PASSING OF A DOG

This kindly friend of mine who's passed Beyond the realm of day, Beyond the realm of darkling night, To unknown bourne away

Was one who deemed my humble home A palace grand and fair; Whose fullest joy it was to find His comrade ever there.

Ah! He has gone from out my life Like some dear dream I knew. A man may own a hundred dogs, But one he loves, and true.

ANONYMOUS.



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 fulfill— That when I pass the floor, 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.

ANONYMOUS.



JACK

Dog Jack has gone on the silent trail, Wherever that may be; But well I know, when I whistle the call, He will joyfully answer me.

That call will be when I, myself, Have passed through the Gates of Gold; He will come with a rush, and his soft brown eyes Will glisten with love as of old.

Oh, Warder of Gates, in the far-away land, This little black dog should you see, Throw wide your doors that this faithful friend May enter, and wait for me.

H.P.W.



IN MEMORY OF "DON"

Our Don—only a dog! Yes, only a dog, you say; With a large, warm heart, And a bright, brown eye, With an earnest bark And a warm caress

For you and me and The friends he loved best. Oh, how we shall Miss him, you and I, His noisy welcome, and Rough good-bye!

Some time, somewhere, Some day, I trust, We shall meet again; Oh, yes, we must! And the joy of that meeting I dare not say.

Ay, mock, ye skeptics, And laugh to scorn The faith I hold Of all life that's born; It cannot be wasted, Nor can it be lost.

And oh, for the faith, And the Indian's trust, That Don and his mistress Will meet some day— Just over the river Not far away!

M.S.W.



RODERICK DHU

You are just a poor dumb brute, my Roderick Dhu, And our scientific brethren scoff at you. They "reason" and they "think," Then they set it down in ink, And clinch it with their learned "point of view."

Even some divines deny you have a soul, And reject you from Man's final heav'nly goal: Your presence isn't wanted You're not of the anointed. You're not upon the mighty Judgment Roll.

Yet the truth shines from your eyes, my faithful friend, And your faithfulness doth that of men transcend; You would lie right down and die, Without even wond'ring why, To save the man you loved—and meet your end.

When my heart was almost breaking, Roderick Dhu, Who was it gave me sympathy, but you! You crept so close to me, And you licked me tenderly, And not a human friend was half so true.

And would I, reasoning wisely, pronounce you just a beast? Your actions "automatic," not "conscious" in the least? Set myself so high above you, As not to know and love you, And toss you but a bone while I shall feast?

My bonnie Collie, such wrong there shall not be, Not for me to grasp at Heav'n and leave the Dark for thee, You're nothing but a dog, Not in Heaven's Catalogue— But whatsoe'er thy fate, the same for me.

HELEN FITZGERALD SANDERS.



QUESTIONS

Where are you now, little wandering Life, that so faithfully dwelt with us, Played with us, fed with us, felt with us, Years we grew fonder and fonder in?

You who but yesterday sprang to us, Are we forever bereft of you? And is this all that is left of you— One little grave, and a pang to us?

WILLIAM HURRELL MALLOCK.



HIS EPITAPH

His friends he loves. His fellest earthly foes— Cats—I believe he did but feign to hate. My hand will miss the insinuated nose, Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.

WILLIAM WATSON.



IN MEMORIAM

I miss the little wagging tail; I miss the plaintive, pleading wail; I miss the wistful, loving glance; I miss the circling welcome-dance.

I miss the eyes that, watching, sued; I miss her tongue of gratitude That licked my hand, in loving mood, When we divided cup or food.

I miss the pertinacious scratch (Continued till I raised the latch Each morning), waiting at my door; Alas, I ne'er shall hear it more.

"What folly!" hints the cynic mind, "Plenty of dogs are left behind To snap and snarl, to bark and bite, And wake us in the gloomy night.

"You should have sought a human friend, Whose life eternal ne'er could end— Whose gifts of intellect and grace Bereavement never could efface."

Plenty of snarling things are left, But I am of a friend bereft; I seek not intellect, but heart— 'Tis not my head that feels the smart.

While loving sympathy is cherished, While gratitude is not quite perished; While patient, hopeful, cheerful meeting At our return is pleasant greeting;

So long my heart will feel a void— Grieving, my mind will be employed— When I, returning to my door, Shall miss what I shall find no more.

When we, at last, shall pass away, And see no more the light of day, Will many hearts as vacant mourn— As truly wish for our return?

Yet love that's true will ever know The pain of parting. Better so! "Better to love and lose" than cold, And colder still, let hearts grow old.

So let the cynic snarl or smile, And his great intellect beguile; My little dog, so true to me, Will dear to heart and memory be.

HENRY WILLETT.



QUESTIONS

Is there not something in the pleading eye Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns The law that bids it suffer? Has it not A claim for some remembrance in the book That fills its pages with the idle words Spoken of man? Or is it only clay, Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, Yet all his own to treat it as he will, And when he will to cast it at his feet, Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore? My dog loves me, but could he look beyond His earthly master, would his love extend To Him who—hush! I will not doubt that He Is better than our fears, and will not wrong The least, the meanest of created things.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.



OUR DOG JOCK

A rollicksome, frolicsome, rare old cock As ever did nothing was our dog Jock; A gleesome, fleasome, affectionate beast, As slow at a fight as swift at a feast; A wit among dogs, when his life 'gan fail, One couldn't but see the old wag in his tail, When his years grew long and his eyes grew dim, And his course of bark could not strengthen him. Never more now shall our knees be pressed By his dear old chops in their slobbery rest, Nor our mirth be stirred at his solemn looks, As wise, and as dull, as divinity books. Our old friend's dead, but we all well know He's gone to the Kennels where the good dogs go, Where the cooks be not, but the beef-bones be, And his old head never need turn for a flea.

JAMES PAYN.



TORY, A PUPPY

He lies in the soft earth under the grass, Where they who love him often pass, And his grave is under a tall young lime, In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb; But his spirit—where does his spirit rest? It was God who made him—God knows best.

MORTIMER COLLINS.



ON AN IRISH RETRIEVER

Ten years of loving loyalty Unthanked should not go to earth, And I, who had no less from thee, Devote this tribute to thy worth.

For thou didst give to me, old friend, Thy service while thy life did last; Thy life and service have an end, And here I thank thee for the past.

Trusted and faithful, tried and true, Watchful and swift to do my will, Grateful for care that was thy due, To duty's call obedient still,

From ill thou knew'st thou didst refrain, The good thou knew'st thou strove to do, Nor dream of fame, nor greed of gain, Man's keenest spurs, urged thee thereto.

Brute, with a heart of human love, And speechless soul of instinct fine! How few by reason's law who move Deserve an epitaph like thine!

FANNY KEMBLE BUTLER.



A RETRIEVER'S EPITAPH

Beneath this turf, that formerly he pressed With agile feet, a dog is laid to rest; Him, as he sleeps, no well-known sound shall stir, The rabbit's patter, or the pheasant's whir; The keeper's "Over"—far, but well defined, That speeds the startled partridge down the wind; The whistled warning as the winged ones rise Large and more large upon our straining eyes, Till with a sweep, while every nerve is tense, The chattering covey hurtles o'er the fence; The double crack of every lifted gun, The dinting thud of birds whose course is done— These sounds, delightful to his listening ear, He heeds no longer, for he cannot hear. None stauncher, till the drive was done, defied Temptation, rooted to his master's side; None swifter, when his master gave the word, Leapt on his course to track the running bird, And bore it back—ah, many a time and oft— His nose as faultless as his mouth was soft. How consciously, how proudly unconcerned, Straight to his master's side he then returned, Wagged a glad tail, and deemed himself repaid As in that master's hand the bird he laid, If, while a word of praise was duly said, The hand should stroke his smooth and honest head. Through spring and summer, in the sportless days, Cheerful he lived a life of simpler ways; Chose, since official dogs at times unbend, The household cat for confidante and friend; With children friendly, but untaught to fawn, Romped through the walks and rollicked on the lawn, Rejoiced, if one the frequent ball should throw, To fetch it, scampering gaily to and fro, Content through every change of sportive mood If one dear voice, one only, called him good.

Such was my dog, who now, without my aid, Hunts through the shadowland, himself a shade, Or crouched intent before some ghostly gate, Waits for my step, as here he used to wait.

ROBERT C. LEHMANN.

THE END

Transcriber's note:

My dog and I: Author is Alice J. Chester in the Table of contents and Alice J. Cleator in the text.