To Your Dog and To My Dog Part 3

D'ye mind his scars an' his ragged ear, The like of a Dublin Fusilier?

He's a ma.s.sacree dog that knows no fear.

But he'd stick to me till his latest breath; An' he'd go with me to the gates of death.

He'd wait for a thousand years, maybe, Scratching the door an' whining for me If myself were inside in Purgatary.

So I laugh when I hear thim make it plain That dogs and men never meet again.

For all their talk who'd listen to thim, With the soul in the shining eyes of him?

Would G.o.d be wasting a dog like Tim?

TO A TERRIER

From _Green Days and Blue Days_

BY PATRICK R. CHALMERS

By permission of the Author. Published by MAUNSEL & CO., Ltd.

Dublin

TO A TERRIER

Crib, on your grave beneath the chestnut boughs To-day no fragrance falls nor summer air, Only a master's love who laid you there Perchance may warm the earth 'neath which you drowse In dreams from which no dinner gong may rouse, Unwakeable, though close the rat may dare, Deaf, though the rabbit thump in playful scare, Silent, though twenty tabbies pay their vows.

And yet, mayhap, some night when shadows pa.s.s, And from the fir the brown owl hoots on high, That should one whistle 'neath a favoring star Your small white shade shall patter o'er the gra.s.s, Questing for him you loved o' days gone by, Ere Death the Dog-Thief carried you afar!

RHAPSODY ON A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE

From _Rhymes of Home_

BY BURGES JOHNSON

By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York

RHAPSODY ON A DOG'S INTELLIGENCE

Dear dog, that seems to stand and gravely brood Upon the broad veranda of our home With soulful eyes that gaze into the gloam-- With speaking tail that registers thy mood,-- Men say thou hast no ratiocination; Methinks there is a clever imitation.

Men say again thy kindred have no souls, And sin is but an attribute of men; Say, is it chance alone that bids thee,then, Choose only garden spots for digging holes?

Why dost thou filch some fragment of the cooking At times when no one seemeth to be looking?

Was there an early Adam of thy race, And brindled Eve, the mother of thy house, Who shared some purloined chicken with her spouse, Thus causing all thy tribe to fall from grace?

If fleas dwelt in the garden of that Adam Perhaps thy sinless parents never had 'em.

This morn thou cam'st a-slinking through the door, Avoiding eyes, and some dark corner sought, And though no accusation filled our thought, Thy tail, apologetic, thumped the floor.

Who claims thou hast no conscience, argues vainly, For I have seen its symptoms very plainly.

What leads thee to forsake thy board and bed On days that are devoted to thy bath?

For if it is not reason yet it hath Appearance of desire to plan ahead!

The sage who claims thy brain and soul be wizen Would do quite well to swap thy head for his'n.

FRANCES

BY RICHARD WIGHTMAN

By permission of the Author and from _The American Magazine_

FRANCES

You were a dog, Frances, a dog, And I was just a man.

The Universal Plan,-- Well, 'twould have lacked something Had it lacked you.

Somehow you fitted in like a far star Where the vast s.p.a.ces are; Or like a gra.s.s-blade Which helps the meadow To be a meadow; Or like a song which kills a sigh And sings itself on and on Till all the world is full of it.

You were the real thing, Frances, a soul!

Encarca.s.sed, yes, but still a soul With feeling and regard and capable of woe.

Oh yes I know, you were a dog, but I was just a man.

I did not buy you, no, you simply came, Lost, and squatted on my door-step With that wide strap about your neck,-- A worn one with a huge buckle.

When bigger dogs pitched onto you You stood your ground and gave them all you had And took your wounds unwhimpering, but hid them.

My, but you were game!

You were fine-haired And marked with Princeton colors, Black and deep yellow.

No other fellow Could make you follow him, For you had chosen me to be your pal.

My whistle was your law.

You put your paw Upon my palm And in your calm, Deep eyes was writ The promise of long comradeship, When I came home from work, Late and ill-tempered, Always I heard the patter of your feet upon the oaken stairs; Your nose was at the door-crack; And whether I'd been bad or good that day You fawned, and loved me just the same.

It was your way to understand; And if I struck you my harsh hand Was wet with your caresses.

You took my leavings, crumb and bone, And stuck by me through thick and thin.

You were my kin.

And then one day you died, At least that's what they said.

There was a box and You were in it, still, With a sprig of myrtle and your leash and blanket, And put deep; But though you sleep and ever sleep I sense you at my heels!