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, tearèd 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
Belovéd 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