To Your Dog and To My Dog Part 2

We lay thee, close within our reach, Here, where the gra.s.s is smooth and warm, Between the holly and the beech, Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear To travellers on the Portsmouth road;-- There build we thee, O guardian dear, Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through this garden pa.s.s, When we too, like thyself, are clay, Shall see thy grave upon the gra.s.s, And stop before the stone, and say:

_People who lived here long ago Did by this stone, it seems, intend To name for future times to know The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend._

[A] _Sunt lacrimae rerum!_

THE POWER OF THE DOG

From _Actions and Reactions_

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

By permission of the Publishers, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY Garden City

THE POWER OF THE DOG

There is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; But when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more?

_Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear._

Buy a pup and your money will buy Love unflinching that cannot lie-- Perfect pa.s.sion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

_Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear._

When the fourteen years which Nature permits Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, And the vet's unspoken prescription runs To lethal chambers or loaded guns, _Then you will find--it's your own affair But ... you 've given your heart to a dog to tear._

When the body that lived at your single will When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!) When the spirit that answered your every mood Is gone--wherever it goes--for good, _You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart to a dog to tear!_

We've sorrow enough in the natural way, When it comes to burying Christian clay.

Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent.

Though it is not always the case, I believe, That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long-- _So why in Heaven (before we are there!) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?_

TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL

From _Crumbs of Pity_

BY R. C. LEHMANN

By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers, WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh & London

TO RUFUS, A SPANIEL

Rufus, a bright New Year! A savoury stew, Bones, broth and biscuits, is prepared for you.

See how it steams in your enamelled dish, Mixed in each part according to your wish.

Hide in your straw the bones you cannot crunch-- They'll come in handy for to-morrow's lunch; Abstract with care each tasty sc.r.a.p of meat, Remove each biscuit to a fresh retreat (A dog, I judge, would deem himself disgraced Who ate a biscuit where he found it placed); Then nuzzle round and make your final sweep, And sleep, replete, your after-dinner sleep.

High in our hall we've piled the fire with logs For you, the _doyen_ of our corps of dogs.

There, when the stroll that health demands is done, Your right to ease by due exertion won, There shall you come, and on your long-haired mat, Thrice turning round, shall tread the jungle flat, And, rhythmically snoring, dream away The peaceful evening of your New Year's day.

Rufus! there are who hesitate to own Merits, they say, your master sees alone.

They judge you stupid, for you show no bent To any poodle-dog accomplishment.

Your stubborn nature never stooped to learn Tricks by which mumming dogs their biscuits earn.

Men mostly find you, if they change their seat, Couchant obnoxious to their blundering feet; Then, when a door is closed, you steadily Misjudge the side on which you ought to be; Yelping outside when all your friends are in, You raise the echoes with your ceaseless din, Or, always wrong, but turn and turn about, Howling inside when all the world is out.

They scorn your gestures and interpret ill Your humble signs of friendship and goodwill; Laugh at your gambols, and pursue with jeers The ringlets cl.u.s.tered on your spreading ears; See without sympathy your sore distress When Ray obtains the coveted caress, And you, a jealous lump of growl and glare, Hide from the world your head beneath a chair.

They say your legs are bandy--so they are: Nature so formed them that they might go far; They cannot brook your music; they a.s.sail The joyful quiverings of your stumpy tail-- In short, in one anathema confound Shape, mind and heart, and all, my little hound.

Well, let them rail. If, since your life began, Beyond the customary lot of man Staunchness was yours; if of your faithful heart Malice and scorn could never claim a part; If in your master, loving while you live, You own no fault or own it to forgive; If, as you lay your head upon his knee, Your deep-drawn sighs proclaim your sympathy; If faith and friendship, growing with your age, Speak through your eyes and all his love engage; If by that master's wish your life you rule-- If this be folly, Rufus, you're a fool.

Old dog, content you; Rufus, have no fear: While life is yours and mine your place is here.

And when the day shall come, as come it must, When Rufus goes to mingle with the dust (If Fate ordains that you shall pa.s.s before To the abhorred and sunless Stygian sh.o.r.e), I think old Charon, punting through the dark, Will hear a sudden friendly little bark; And on the sh.o.r.e he'll mark without a frown A flap-eared doggie, bandy-legged and brown.

He'll take you in: since watermen are kind, He'd scorn to leave my little dog behind.

He'll ask no obol, but instal you there On Styx's further bank without a fare.

There shall you sniff his cargoes as they come, And droop your head, and turn, and still be dumb-- Till one fine day, half joyful, half in fear, You run and p.r.i.c.k a recognising ear, And last, oh, rapture! leaping to his hand, Salute your master as he steps to land.

TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER

From _Songs from Leinster_

BY W. M. LETTS

By permission of the Author, and of the Publisher DAVID MCKAY, Philadelphia

TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER

It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now: Small as a flea or large as a cow; But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet By any dog that ever he met.

"Come on," says he, "for I'm not kilt yet."

No matter the size of the dog he'll meet, Tim trails his coat the length o' the street.