The Dog's Book of Verse Part 1

The Dog's Book of Verse.

by Various.

PREFACE

Matthew Arnold, explaining why those were his most popular poems which dealt with his canine pets, Geist, Kaiser, and Max, said that while comparatively few loved poetry, nearly everyone loved dogs.

The literature of the Anglo-Saxon is rich in tributes to the dog, as becomes a race which beyond any other has understood and developed its four-footed companions. Canine heroes whose intelligence and faithfulness our prose writers have celebrated start to the memory in scores--Bill Sykes's white shadow, which refused to be separated from its master even by death; Rab, savagely devoted; the immortal Bob, "son of battle"--true souls all, with hardly a villain among them for artistic contrast.

Even Red Wull, the killer, we admire for his courage and lealty.

Within these covers is a selection from a large body of dog verse. It is a selection made on the principle of human appeal.

Dialect, and the poems of the earlier writers whose diction strikes oddly on our modern ears, have for the most part been omitted. The place of such cla.s.sics as may be missed is filled by that vagrant verse which is often most truly the flower of inspiration.

PART I

PUPPYHOOD

_"What other nature yours than of a child Whose dumbness finds a voice mighty to call, In wordless pity, to the souls of all, Whose lives I turn to profit, and whose mute And constant friendship links the man and brute?"_

THE DOG'S BOOK OF VERSE

WE MEET AT MORN

Still half in dream, upon the stair I hear A patter coming nearer and more near, And then upon my chamber door A gentle tapping, For dogs, though proud, are poor, And if a tail will do to give command Why use a hand?

And after that a cry, half sneeze, half yapping, And next a scuffle on the pa.s.sage floor, And then I know the creature lies to watch Until the noiseless maid will lift the latch.

And like a spring That gains its power by being tightly stayed, The impatient thing Into the room Its whole glad heart doth fling, And ere the gloom Melts into light, and window blinds are rolled, I hear a bounce upon the bed, I feel a creeping toward me--a soft head, And on my face A tender nose, and cold-- This is the way, you know, that dogs embrace-- And on my hand, like sun-warmed rose-leaves flung, The least faint flicker of the warmest tongue --And so my dog and I have met and sworn Fresh love and fealty for another morn.

HARDWICKE DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.

THE LOST PUPPY

Say! little pup, What's up?

Your tail is down And out of sight Between your legs; Why, that ain't right.

Little pup, Brace up!

Say! little pup, Look up!

Don't hang your head And look so sad, You're all mussed up, But you ain't mad.

Little pup, Cheer up!

Say! little pup, Stir up!

Is that a string Around your tail?

And was it fast To a tin pail?

Little pup, Git up.

Say! little pup, Talk up.

Were those bad boys All after you, With sticks and stones, And tin cans, too?

Little pup, Speak up!

Say! little pup, Stand up!

Let's look at you; You'd be all right If you was scrubbed And shined up bright.

Little pup, Jump up!

Say! little pup, Bark up!

Let's hear your voice.

Say, you're a brick!

Now try to beg And do a trick.

Little pup, Sit up!

Say! little pup, Chime up!

Why, you can sing-- Now come with me; Let's wash and eat And then we'll see, Little pup, What's up!

HENRY FIRTH WOOD.

A LAUGH IN CHURCH

She sat on the sliding cushion, The dear, wee woman of four; Her feet, in their shiny slippers, Hung dangling over the floor.

She meant to be good; she had promised, And so with her big, brown eyes, She stared at the meetinghouse windows And counted the crawling flies.

She looked far up at the preacher, But she thought of the honeybees Droning away at the blossoms That whitened the cherry trees.

She thought of a broken basket, Where curled in a dusky heap, Four sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears.

Lay snuggled and fast asleep.

Such soft, warm bodies to cuddle, Such queer little hearts to beat, Such swift round tongues to kiss, Such sprawling, cushiony feet; She could feel in her clasping fingers The touch of the satiny skin, And a cold, wet nose exploring The dimples under her chin.

Then a sudden ripple of laughter Ran over the parted lips So quick that she could not catch it With her rosy finger-tips.

The people whispered "Bless the child,"

As each one waked from a nap, But the dear, wee woman hid her face For shame in her mother's lap.

ANONYMOUS.