Chapter C: Kingsley (1)

* * * * *

THE DOG.

* * * * *

CUVIER ON THE DOG.

"The domestic dog," says Cuvier, "is the most complete, the most singular, and the most useful conquest that man has gained in the animal world. The whole species has become our property; each individual belongs entirely to his master, acquires his disposition, knows and defends his property, and remains attached to him until death; and all this, not through constraint or necessity, but purely by the influences of gratitude and real attachment. The swiftness, the strength, the sharp scent of the dog, have rendered him a powerful ally to man against the lower tribes; and were, perhaps, necessary for the establishment of the dominion of mankind over the whole animal creation. The dog is the only animal which has followed man over the whole earth."

* * * * *

A HINDOO LEGEND.

In the Mahabhàrata, one of the two great Hindoo poems, and of unknown antiquity, there is a recognition of the obligation of man to a dependent creature not surpassed in pathos in all literature.

We copy only such portions of the legend as bear upon this point.

The hero, Yudhistthira, leaves his home to go to Mount Meru, among the Himalayas, to find Indra's heaven and the rest he so much desired; and with him,

"The five brothers set forth, and Draupadi, and the seventh was a
dog that followed them."

On the way the Princess Draupadi perished, and, after her, one brother after another, until all had died, and the hero reached his journey's end accompanied only by his dog.

Lo! suddenly, with a sound which rang through heaven and earth,
Indra came riding on his chariot, and he cried to the king, "Ascend!"
_Then_, indeed, did the lord of justice look back to his fallen
brothers,
And thus unto Indra he spoke, with a sorrowful heart:
"Let my brothers, who yonder lie fallen, go with me;
Not even unto thy heaven would I enter, if they were not there.
And yon fair-faced daughter of a king, Draupadi the all-deserving,
Let _her_ too enter with us! O Indra, approve my prayer!"

INDRA.

In heaven thou shalt find thy brothers,--they are already there
before thee;
There are they all, with Draupadi; weep not, then, O son of Bharata!
Thither have they entered, prince, having thrown away their mortal
weeds;
But thou alone shalt enter still wearing thy body of flesh.

YUDHISTTHIRA.

O 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.

INDRA.

Immortality and fellowship with me, and the height of joy and felicity,
All these hast thou reached to-day; leave, then, the dog behind thee.

YUDHISTTHIRA.

The good may oft act an evil part, but never a part like this;
Away, then, with that felicity whose price is to abandon the faithful!

INDRA.

My heaven hath no place for dogs; they steal away our offerings on
earth:
Leave, then, thy dog behind thee, nor think in thy heart that it is
cruel.

YUDHISTTHIRA.

To abandon the faithful and devoted is an endless crime, like the
murder of a Brahmin;
Never, therefore, come weal or woe, will I abandon yon faithful dog.
_Yon poor creature, in fear and distress, hath trusted in my power
to save it:
Not, therefore, for e'en life itself will I break my plighted word._

INDRA.

If a dog but beholds a sacrifice, men esteem it unholy and void;
Forsake, then, the dog, O hero, and heaven is thine own as a reward.
Already thou hast borne to forsake thy fondly loved brothers, and
Draupadi;
Why, then, forsakest thou not the dog? Wherefore now fails thy heart?

YUDHISTTHIRA.

Mortals, when they are dead, are dead to love or hate,--so runs the
world's belief;
I could not bring them back to life, but while they lived I never left
them.
To oppress the suppliant, to kill a wife, to rob a Brahmin, and to
betray one's friend,
These are the four great crimes; and _to forsake a dependent I count
equal to them_.

ALGER'S _Oriental Poetry_.

* * * * *

ULYSSES AND ARGUS.

This story, from the Odyssey, is also of an unknown antiquity. Ulysses, after many years of absence, returns to his home to find himself unrecognized by his family. With Eumæus Ulysses walked about the familiar grounds:

Thus near the gates conferring as they drew,
Argus, the dog, his ancient master knew;
He, not unconscious of the voice and tread,
Lifts to the sound his ear, and rears his head;
Bred by Ulysses, nourished at his board,
But, ah! not fated long to please his lord!
To him, his swiftness and his strength were vain;
The voice of glory called him o'er the main.
Till then, in every sylvan chase renowned,
With Argus, Argus, rung the woods around:
With him the youth pursued the goat or fawn,
Or traced the mazy leveret o'er the lawn;
Now left to man's ingratitude he lay,
Unhoused, neglected in the public way.

He knew his lord: he knew, and strove to meet;
In vain he strove to crawl, and kiss his feet;
Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes.
Salute his master, and confess his joys.
Soft pity touched the mighty master's soul;
Adown his cheek a tear unhidden stole,
Stole unperceived: he turned his head and dried
The drop humane: then thus impassioned cried:

"What noble beast in this abandoned state
Lies here all helpless at Ulysses' gate?
His bulk and beauty speak no vulgar praise:
If, as he seems, he was in better days,
Some care his age deserves; or was he prized
For worthless beauty? therefore now despised:
Such dogs and men there are, mere things of state,
And always cherished by their friends the great."

Not Argus so (Eumæus thus rejoined),
But served a master of a nobler kind,
Who never, never, shall behold him more!
Long, long since perished on a distant shore!
Oh, had you seen him, vigorous, bold, and young,
Swift as a stag, and as a lion strong:
Him no fell savage on the plain withstood,
None 'scaped him bosomed in the gloomy wood;
His eye how piercing, and his scent how true,
To wind the vapor in the tainted dew!
Such, when Ulysses left his natal coast:
Now years unnerve him, and his lord is lost.

_Odyssey, Pope's translation._

* * * * *

TOM.

Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew.
Just listen to this:--
When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through,
And I with it, helpless there, full in my view
What do you think my eyes saw through the fire
That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher,
But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see
The shining? He must have come there after me,
Toddled alone from the cottage without

Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout--
Oh! how I shouted, "For Heaven's sake, men,
Save little Robin!" Again and again
They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall.
I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call,
"Never mind, baby, sit still like a man!
We're coming to get you as fast as we can."
They could not see him, but I could. He sat
Still on a beam, his little straw hat
Carefully placed by his side; and his eyes
Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise,
Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept.
The roar of the fire up above must have kept
The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name
From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came
Again and again. O God, what a cry!
The axes went faster; I saw the sparks fly
Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat
That scorched them,--when, suddenly, there at their feet,
The great beams leaned in--they saw him--then, crash,
Down came the wall! The men made a dash,--
Jumped to get out of the way,--and I thought,
"All's up with poor little Robin!" and brought
Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide
The sight of the child there,--when swift, at my side,
Some one rushed by, and went right through the flame,
Straight as a dart--caught the child--and then came
Back with him, choking and crying, but--saved!
Saved safe and sound!
Oh, how the men raved,
Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed! Then they all
Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall
Where I was lying, away from the fire,
Should fall in and bury me.
Oh! you'd admire
To see Robin now: he's as bright as a dime,
Deep in some mischief, too, most of the time.
Tom, it was, saved him. Now, isn't it true
Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew?
There's Robin now! See, he's strong as a log!
And there comes Tom, too--
Yes, Tom was our dog.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON.

* * * * *

WILLIAM OF ORANGE SAVED BY HIS DOG.

On the night of the 11th and 12th of September, 1572, a chosen band of six hundred Spaniards made an attack within the lines of the Dutch army. The sentinels were cut down, the whole army surprised and for a moment powerless. The Prince of Orange and his guards were in profound sleep; "but a small spaniel dog," says Mr. Motley, "who always passed the night upon his bed, was a most faithful sentinel. The creature sprang forward, barking furiously at the sound of hostile footsteps, and scratching his master's face with his paws. There was but just time for the Prince to mount a horse which was ready saddled, and to effect his escape through the darkness, before his enemies sprang into the tent. His servants were cut down, his master of the horse and two of his secretaries, who gained their saddles a moment later, all lost their lives, and but for the little dog's watchfulness, William of Orange, upon whose shoulders the whole weight of his country's fortune depended, would have been led within a week to an ignominious death. To his death, the Prince ever afterwards kept a spaniel of the same race in his bed-chamber."

MOTLEY'S _Rise of the Dutch Republic_.

* * * * *

The mausoleum of William the Silent is at Delft. It is a sort of small temple in black and white marble, loaded with ornaments and sustained by columns between which are four statues representing Liberty, Providence, Justice, and Religion. Upon the sarcophagus lies the figure of the Prince in white marble, and _at his feet the effigy of the little dog that saved his life at the siege of Malines_.

DE AMICIS' _Holland_.

* * * * *

THE BLOODHOUND.

Come, Herod, my hound, from the stranger's floor!
Old friend--we must wander the world once more!
For no one now liveth to welcome us back;
So, come!--let us speed on our fated track.
What matter the region,--what matter the weather,
So you and I travel, till death, together?
And in death?--why, e'en _there_ I may still be found
By the side of my beautiful black bloodhound.

We've traversed the desert, we've traversed the sea,
And we've trod on the heights where the eagles be;
Seen Tartar, and Arab, and swart Hindoo;
(How thou pull'dst down the deer in those skies of blue;)
No joy did divide us; no peril could part
The man from his friend of the noble heart;
Aye, his _friend_; for where, where shall there ever be found
A friend like his resolute, fond bloodhound?

What, Herod, old hound! dost remember the day
When I fronted the wolves like a stag at bay?
When downward they galloped to where we stood,
Whilst I staggered with fear in the dark pine wood?
Dost remember their howlings? their horrible speed?
God, God! how I prayed for a friend in need!
And--he came! Ah, 'twas then, my dear Herod, I found
That the best of all friends was my bold bloodhound.

Men tell us, dear friend, that the noble hound
Must forever be lost in the worthless ground:
Yet "Courage," "Fidelity," "Love" (they say),
Bear _Man_, as on wings, to his skies away.
Well, Herod--go tell them whatever may be,
I'll hope I may ever be found by thee.
If in sleep,--in sleep; if with skies around,
Mayst thou follow e'en thither, my dear bloodhound!

BARRY CORNWALL.

* * * * *

HELVELLYN.

This fine poem was suggested by the affection of a dog, which kept watch over the dead body of its master until found by friends three months afterwards. The young man had lost his way on Helvellyn. Time, 1805.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet, that--no requiem read o'er him--
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him--
Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;
In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long isle the sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, 'wildered he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerily smiled the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.
And still he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer;
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last,
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race!
So true, so brave--a lamb at home,
A lion in the chase!"
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare;
And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When near the portal seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gained the castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood:
The hound was smeared with drops of gore;
His lips and fangs ran blood.

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise,
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn passed,
(And on went Gelert too;)
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-drops shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stained cover rent
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He called his child--no voice replied;
He searched--with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on every side,
But nowhere found the child!

"Monster, by thee my child's devoured!"
The frantic father cried,
And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;
But still his Gelert's dying yell,
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy can tell
To hear his infant cry!
Concealed beneath a mangled heap
His hurried search had missed:
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead--
Tremendous still in death.
Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe--
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low
This heart shall ever rue."
And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester unmoved;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and spear;
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell.

SPENSER.

* * * * *

LOOKING FOR PEARLS.

AN ORIENTAL LEGEND.

The Master came one evening to the gate
Of a far city; it was growing late,
And sending his disciples to buy food,
He wandered forth intent on doing good,
As was his wont. And in the market-place
He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space,
Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground.
Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found
A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck,--
A dead dog with a halter round his neck.
And those who stood by mocked the object there,
And one said scoffing, "It pollutes the air!"
Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night
Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?"
"Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit,--
"You could not cut even a shoe from it,"
And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed,"
A fourth chimed in; "an unclean wretch indeed!"
"He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried,
And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side.
Then Jesus, standing by them in the street,
Looked on the poor spent creature at his feet,
And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men,
"_Pearls are not whiter than his teeth._" And then
The people at each other gazed, asking,
"Who is this stranger pitying the vile thing?"
Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath,
"This surely is the Man of Nazareth;
This must be Jesus, for none else but he
Something to praise in a dead dog could see!"
And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head,
And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

ALGER'S _Eastern Poetry_.

* * * * *

ROVER.

"Kind traveller, do not pass me by,
And thus a poor old dog forsake;
But stop a moment on your way,
And hear my woe for pity's sake!

"My name is Rover; yonder house
Was once my home for many a year;
My master loved me; every hand
Caressed young Rover, far and near.

"The children rode upon my back,
And I could hear my praises sung;
With joy I licked their pretty feet,
As round my shaggy sides they clung.

"I watched them while they played or slept;
I gave them all I had to give:
My strength was theirs from morn till night;
For them I only cared to live.

"Now I am old, and blind, and lame,
They've turned me out to die alone,
Without a shelter for my head,
Without a scrap of bread or bone.

"This morning I can hardly crawl,
While shivering in the snow and hail;
My teeth are dropping, one by one;
I scarce have strength to wag my tail.

"I'm palsied grown with mortal pains,
My withered limbs are useless now;
My voice is almost gone you see,
And I can hardly make my bow.

"Perhaps you'll lead me to a shed
Where I may find some friendly straw
On which to lay my aching limbs,
And rest my helpless, broken paw.

"Stranger, excuse this story long,
And pardon, pray, my last appeal;
You've owned a dog yourself, perhaps,
And learned that dogs, like men, can feel."

Yes, poor old Rover, come with me;
Food, with warm shelter, I'll supply;
And Heaven forgive the cruel souls
Who drove you forth to starve and die!

J. T. FIELDS.

* * * * *

TO MY DOG "BLANCO."

My dear dumb friend, low lying there,
A willing vassal at my feet,
Glad partner of my home and fare,
My shadow in the street.

I look into your great brown eyes,
Where love and loyal homage shine,
And wonder where the difference lies
Between your soul and mine!

For all of good that I have found
Within myself or humankind,
Hath royalty informed and crowned
Your gentle heart and mind.

I scan the whole broad earth around
For that one heart which, leal and true,
Bears friendship without end or bound,
And find the prize in you.

I trust you as I trust the stars;
Nor cruel loss, nor scoff of pride,
Nor beggary, nor dungeon-bars,
Can move you from my side!

As patient under injury
As any Christian saint of old,
As gentle as a lamb with me,
But with your brothers bold;

More playful than a frolic boy,
More watchful than a sentinel,
By day and night your constant joy,
To guard and please me well:

I clasp your head upon my breast--
And while you whine and lick my hand--
And thus our friendship is confessed
And thus we understand!

Ah, Blanco! did I worship God
As truly as you worship me,
Or follow where my master trod
With your humility;

Did I sit fondly at His feet,
As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,
And watch him with a love as sweet,
My life would grow divine!

J. G. HOLLAND.

* * * * *

THE BEGGAR AND HIS DOG.

"Pay down three dollars for my hound!
May lightning strike me to the ground!
What mean the Messieurs of police?
And when and where shall this mockery cease?

"I am a poor, old, sickly man,
And earn a penny I no wise can;
I have no money, I have no bread,
And live upon hunger and want, instead.

"Who pitied me, when I grew sick and poor,
And neighbors turned me from their door?
And who, when I was left alone
In God's wide world, made my fortunes his own?

"Who loved me, when I was weak and old?
And warmed me, when I was numb with cold?
And who, when I in poverty pined,
Has shared my hunger and never whined?

"Here is the noose, and here the stone,
And there the water--it must be done!
Come hither, poor Pomp, and look not on me,
One kick--it is over--and thou art free!"

As over his head he lifted the band,
The fawning dog licked his master's hand;
Back in an instant the noose he drew,
And round his own neck in a twinkling threw.

The dog sprang after him into the deep,
His howlings startled the sailors from sleep;
Moaning and twitching he showed them the spot:
They found the beggar, but life was not!

They laid him silently in the ground,
His only mourner the whimpering hound
Who stretched himself out on the grave and cried
Like an orphan child--and so he died.

_Chamisso, tr. by_ C. T. BROOKS.

* * * * *

DON.

This is Don, the dog of dogs, sir,
Just as lions outrank frogs, sir,
Just as the eagles are superior
To buzzards and that tribe inferior.

He's a shepherd lad--a beauty--
And to praise him seems a duty,
But it puts my pen to shame, sir,
When his virtues I would name, sir.
"Don! come here and bend your head now,
Let us see your best well-bred bow!"
Was there ever such a creature!
Common sense in every feature!
"Don! rise up and look around you!"
Blessings on the day we found you.

_Sell_ him! well, upon my word, sir,
That's a notion too absurd, sir.
Would I sell our little Ally,
Barter Tom, dispose of Sally?
Think you I'd negotiate
For my _wife_, at any rate?

_Sell_ our Don! you're surely joking,
And 'tis fun at us you're poking!
Twenty voyages we've tried, sir,
Sleeping, waking, side by side, sir,
And Don and I will not divide, sir;
He's my _friend_, that's why I love him,--
And no mortal dog's above him!

He prefers a life aquatic,
But never dog was less dogmatic.
Years ago when I was master
Of a tight brig called the Castor,
Don and I were bound for Cadiz,
With the loveliest of ladies
And her boy--a stalwart, hearty,
Crowing one-year infant party,
Full of childhood's myriad graces,
Bubbling sunshine in our faces
As we bowled along so steady,
Half-way home, or more, already.

How the sailors loved our darling!
No more swearing, no more snarling;
On their backs, when not on duty,
Round they bore the blue-eyed beauty,--
Singing, shouting, leaping, prancing,--
All the crew took turns in dancing;
Every tar playing Punchinello
With the pretty, laughing fellow;
Even the second mate gave sly winks
At the noisy mid-day high jinks.
Never was a crew so happy
With a curly-headed chappy,
Never were such sports gigantic,
Never dog with joy more antic.

While thus jolly, all together,
There blew up a change of weather,
Nothing stormy, but quite breezy,
And the wind grew damp and wheezy,
Like a gale in too low spirits
To put forth one half its merits,
But, perchance, a dry-land ranger
Might suspect some kind of danger.

Soon our stanch and gallant vessel
With the waves began to wrestle,
And to jump about a trifle,
Sometimes kicking like a rifle
When 'tis slightly overloaded,
But by no means nigh exploded.

'Twas the coming on of twilight,
As we stood abaft the skylight,
Scampering round to please the baby,
(Old Bill Benson held him, maybe,)
When the youngster stretched his fingers
Towards the spot where sunset lingers,
And with strong and sudden motion
Leaped into the weltering ocean!
"_What_ did Don do?" Can't you guess, sir?
He sprang also--by express, sir;
Seized the infant's little dress, sir,
Held the baby's head up boldly
From the waves that rushed so coldly;
And in just about a minute
Our boat had them safe within it.

_Sell_ him! Would you sell your brother?
Don and I _love_ one another.

J. T. FIELDS.

* * * * *

GEIST'S GRAVE.

Four years!--and didst thou stay above
The ground, which hides thee now, but four?
And all that life, and all that love,
Were crowded, Geist! into no more?

Only four years those winning ways,
Which make me for thy presence yearn,
Called us to pet thee or to praise,
Dear little friend! at every turn?

That loving heart, that patient soul,
Had they indeed no longer span,
To run their course, and reach their goal,
And read their homily to man?

That liquid, melancholy eye,
From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs
Seemed surging the Virgilian cry.[1]
The sense of tears in mortal things--

That steadfast, mournful strain, consoled
By spirits gloriously gay,
And temper of heroic mould--
What, was four years their whole short day?

Yes, only four!--and not the course
Of all the centuries to come,
And not the infinite resource
Of nature, with her countless sum.

Of figures, with her fulness vast
Of new creation evermore,
Can ever quite repeat the past,
Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot!
Which man, proud man, finds hard to bear,
And builds himself I know not what
Of second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go,
On us, who stood despondent by,
A meek last glance of love didst throw,
And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart--
Would fix our favorite on the scene,
Nor let thee utterly depart
And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse
On lips that rarely form them now;
While to each other we rehearse:
_Such ways, such arts, such looks hast thou!_

We stroke thy broad, brown paws again,
We bid thee to thy vacant chair,
We greet thee by the window-pane,
We hear thy scuffle on the stair;

We see the flaps of thy large ears
Quick raised to ask which way we go:
Crossing the frozen lake appears
Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear
Who mourn thee in thine English home;
Thou hast thine absent master's tear,
Dropt by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there,
And thou shalt live as long as we.
And after that--thou dost not care?
In us was all the world to thee.

Yet fondly zealous for thy fame,
Even to a date beyond thine own
We strive to carry down thy name,
By mounded turf, and graven stone.

We lay thee, close within our reach,
Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,
Between the holly and the beech,
Where oft we watched thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear
To travellers on the Portsmouth road--
There choose we thee, O guardian dear,
Marked with a stone, thy last abode!

Then some, who through the garden pass,
When we too, like thyself, are clay,
Shall see thy grave upon the grass,
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_.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[1] Sunt lacrimæ rerum.

* * * * *

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE OLD SPANIEL.

Poor old friend, how earnestly
Would I have pleaded for thee! thou hadst been
Still the companion of my boyish 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 happy holidays,
I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively
Sometimes have I remarked thy 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.

* * * * *

EPITAPH IN GREY FRIARS' CHURCHYARD.

The monument erected at Edinburgh to the memory of "Grey Friars' Bobby" by the Baroness Burdett-Coutts has a Greek inscription by Professor Blackie. The translation is as follows:

This monument
was erected by a noble lady,
THE BARONESS BURDETT-COUTTS,
to the memory of
GREY FRIARS' BOBBY,
a faithful and affectionate
LITTLE DOG,
who followed the remains of his beloved master
to the churchyard,
in the year 1858,
and became a constant visitor to the grave,
refusing to be separated from the spot
until he died
in the year 1872.

* * * * *

FROM AN INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
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 on earth.

* * * * *

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, 1808.

* * * * *

THE DOG.

Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise,
Away! Thou standest to his heart too near,
Too close for careless rest or healthy cheer;
Almost in thee the glad brute nature dies.
Go scour the fields in wilful enterprise,
Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere,
Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here,
Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes.

He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee;
More than the voices of his kind thy word
Lives in his heart; for him thy very rod
Has flowers: he only in thy will is free.
Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd
Would turn and rend him, pining for his God.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

* * * * *

JOHNNY'S PRIVATE ARGUMENT.

A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day,
Low-spirited, weary, and sad,
From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away,
And followed a dear little lad.
Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue,
Made doggie think, "_Here_ is a _good_ boy and true!"

So, wagging his tail and expressing his views
With a sort of affectionate whine,
Johnny knew he was saying, "Dear boy, if you choose,
To be _any_ dog's master, be _mine_."
And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight,
And he fondled the doggie and hugged him so tight.

But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad,
A newspaper notice he read,
"Lost a dog: limped a little, and also he had
A spot on the top of his head.
Whoever returns him to me may believe
A fair compensation he'll surely receive."

Johnny didn't want _money_, not he; 'twasn't _that_
That made him just _sit down to think_,
And made a grave look on his rosy face fat,
And made those blue eyes of his wink
To keep back the tears that were ready to flow,
As he thought to himself, "_Must_ the dear doggie go?"

'Twas an argument Johnny was holding just there
With his own little conscience so true.
"It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair,
There is only one thing you can do;
Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay,
But attend to your duty at once, and to-day!"

No wonder he sat all so silent and still,
Forgetting to fondle his pet--
The poor little boy thinking _hard_ with a _will_;
While thought doggie, "What makes him forget,
I wonder, to frolic and play with me now,
And _why_ does he wear such a sorrowful brow?"

Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought,
And the victory given to him:
The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought,
Tho' it made little Johnny's eyes dim.
But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day
Whenever our Johnny is passing that way.

MARY D. BRINE.

* * * * *

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
Oh, remember your Sheelah when far, far away!
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure;
He constantly loved me although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks turned me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray!
And he licked me for kindness,--my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

"FLIGHT."

Never again shall her leaping welcome
Hail my coming at eventide;
Never again shall her glancing footfall
Range the fallow from side to side.
Under the raindrops, under the snowflakes,
Down in a narrow and darksome bed,
Safe from sorrow, or fear, or loving,
Lieth my beautiful, still and dead.

Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,
Foot as fleet as an arrow's flight,
Statue-still at the call of "steady,"
Eyes as clear as the stars of night.
Laughing breadths of the yellow stubble
Now shall rustle to alien tread,
And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover
Safe--for my beautiful lieth dead.

"Only a dog!" do you say, Sir Critic?
Only a dog, but as truth I prize,
The truest love I have won in living
Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes.
Frosts of winter nor heat of summer
Could make her fail if my footsteps led;
And memory holds in its treasure-casket
The name of my darling who lieth dead.

S. M. A. C. in _Evening Post_.

* * * * *

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND.

As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and sure.
He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass,
And starts the deer by Lisanoure.
The music of the Sabbath bells,
O Con! has not a sweeter sound,
Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John McDonnell's hound.

His stature tall, his body long,
His back like night, his breast like snow,
His fore leg pillar-like and strong,
His hind leg bended like a bow;
Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
His ear a leaf so small and round;
Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,
Could rival John McDonnell's hound.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

* * * * *

SIX FEET.

My little rough dog and I
Live a life that is rather rare,
We have so many good walks to take,
And so few bad things to bear;
So much that gladdens and recreates,
So little of wear and tear.

Sometimes it blows and rains,
But still the six feet ply;
No care at all to the following four
If the leading two knows why,
'Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think,
My little rough dog and I.

And we travel all one way;
'Tis a thing we should never do,
To reckon the two without the four,
Or the four without the two;
It would not be right if any one tried,
Because it would not be true.

And who shall look up and say,
That it ought not so to be,
Though the earth that is heaven enough for him,
Is less than that to me,
For a little rough dog can wake a joy
That enters eternity.

_Humane Journal._

* * * * *

THERE'S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL.

Ah, Rover, by those lustrous eyes
That follow me with longing gaze,
Which sometimes seem so human-wise,
I look for human speech and ways.
By your quick instinct, matchless love,
Your eager welcome, mute caress,
That all my heart's emotions move,
And loneliest moods and hours bless,
I do believe, my dog, that you
Have some beyond, some future new.

Why not? In heaven's inheritance
Space must be cheap where worldly light
In boundless, limitless expanse
Rolls grandly far from human sight.
He who has given such patient care,
Such constancy, such tender trust,
Such ardent zeal, such instincts rare,
And made you something more than dust,
May yet release the speechless thrall
At death--there's room enough for all.

_Our Continent._

* * * * *

HIS FAITHFUL DOG.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

POPE.

* * * * *

THE FAITHFUL HOUND.

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

MISCELLANEOUS.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER'S LESSON.

Robert, the Bruce, in his dungeon stood,
Waiting the hour of doom;
Behind him the palace of Holyrood,
Before him--a nameless tomb.
And the foam on his lip was flecked with red,
As away to the past his memory sped,
Upcalling the day of his past renown,
When he won and he wore the Scottish crown:
Yet come there shadow or come there shine,
The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Time and again I have fronted the tide
Of the tyrant's vast array,
But only to see on the crimson tide
My hopes swept far away;--
Now a landless chief and a crownless king,
On the broad, broad earth not a living thing
To keep me court, save this insect small,
Striving to reach from wall to wall:"
For come there shadow or come there shine,
The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

"Work! work like a fool, to the certain loss,
Like myself, of your time and pain;
The space is too wide to be bridged across,
You but waste your strength in vain!"
And Bruce for the moment forgot his grief,
His soul now filled with the sure belief
That, howsoever the issue went,
For evil or good was the omen sent:
And come there shadow or come there shine,
The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

As a gambler watches the turning card
On which his all is staked,--
As a mother waits for the hopeful word
For which her soul has ached,--
It was thus Bruce watched, with every sense
Centred alone in that look intense;
All rigid he stood, with scattered breath--
Now white, now red, but as still as death:
Yet come there shadow or come there shine,
The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

Six several times the creature tried,
When at the seventh, "See, see!
He has spanned it over!" the captive cried;
"Lo! a bridge of hope to me;
Thee, God, I thank, for this lesson here
Has tutored my soul to PERSEVERE!"
And it served him well, for erelong he wore
In freedom the Scottish crown once more:
And come there shadow or come there shine,
The spider is spinning his thread so fine.

JOHN BROUGHAM.

* * * * *

THE SPIDER AND STORK.

Who taught the natives of the field and flood
To shun their poison and to choose their food?
Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand,
Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?
Who made the spider parallels design
Sure as De Moivre, without rule or line?
Who bid the stork Columbus-like explore
Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before?
WHO CALLS THE COUNCIL, STATES THE CERTAIN DAY,
WHO FORMS THE PHALANX, AND WHO POINTS THE WAY?

POPE.

* * * * *

THE HOMESTEAD AT EVENING.--EVANGELINE'S BEAUTIFUL HEIFER.

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affection and stillness.
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and twilight descending
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the herds to the
homestead.
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their necks on each other,
And with their nostrils distended inhaling the freshness of evening.
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful heifer,
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that waved from her
collar,
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human affection.
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating flocks from the seaside,
Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them followed the watch-dog,
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride of his instinct,
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and superbly
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the stragglers;
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; their protector,
When from the forest at night, through the starry silence, the wolves
howled.
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains from the marshes,
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its odor,
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their manes and their
fetlocks,
While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and ponderous saddles,
Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tassels of crimson,
Nodded in bright array, like hollyhocks heavy with blossoms.
Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded their udders
Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in regular cadence
Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets descended.
Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard in the farm-yard,
Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into stillness;
Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of the barn-doors,
Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was silent.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Evangeline_.

* * * * *

THE CATTLE OF A HUNDRED FARMS.

And now, beset with many ills,
A toilsome life I follow;
Compelled to carry from the hills,
These logs to the impatient mills,
Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms
The rudeness of my labors;
Daily I water with these arms
The cattle of a hundred farms,
And have the birds for neighbors.

H. W. LONGFELLOW: _Mad River_.

* * * * *

CAT-QUESTIONS.

Dozing, and dozing, and dozing!
Pleasant enough,
Dreaming of sweet cream and mouse-meat,--
Delicate stuff!

Waked by a somerset, whirling
From cushion to floor;
Waked to a wild rush for safety
From window to door.

Waking to hands that first smooth us,
And then pull our tails;
Punished with slaps when we show them
The length of our nails!

These big mortal tyrants even grudge us
A place on the mat.
Do they think we enjoy for our music
Staccatoes of "scat"?

To be treated, now, just as you treat us,--
The question is pat,--
To take just our chances in living,
Would _you_ be a cat?

LUCY LARCOM.

* * * * *

THE NEWSBOY'S CAT.

Want any papers, Mister?
Wish you'd buy 'em of me--
Ten year old, an' a fam'ly,
An' bizness dull, you see.
Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby,
An' Dad, an' Mam, an Mam's cat,
None on 'em earning money--
What do you think of that?

_Couldn't Dad work_? Why yes, Boss,
He's working for gov'ment now,--
They give him his board for nothin',--
All along of a drunken row.
_An' Mam_? Well, she's in the poorhouse,--
Been there a year or so;
So I'm taking care of the others,
Doing as well as I know.

_Oughtn't to live so_? Why, Mister,
What's a feller to do?
Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry,
Seems as if each on 'em knew--
They'll all three cuddle around me,
Till I get cheery, and say:
Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers,
An' money an' clothes, too, some day.

But if I do git rich, Boss,
(An' a lecturin' chap one night
Said newsboys could be Presidents
If only they acted right);
So, if I was President, Mister,
The very first thing I'd do,
I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby
A dinner--an' Mam's cat, too!

None o' your scraps an' leavin's,
But a good square meal for all three;
If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss,
That shows you don't know me.
So 'ere's your papers--come take one,
Gimme a lift if you can--
For now you've heard my story,
You see I'm a fam'ly man!

E. T. CORBETT.

* * * * *

THE CHILD AND HER PUSSY.

I like little pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her, she'll do me no harm;
So I'll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,
But pussy and I very gently will play:

She shall sit by my side, and I'll give her some food;
And she'll love me, because I am gentle and good.
I'll pat little pussy, and then she will purr,
And thus show her thanks for my kindness to her.

E. TAYLOR.

* * * * *

THE ALPINE SHEEP.

They in the valley's sheltering care,
Soon crop the meadow's tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,
The shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pastures green
That hang along the mountain's side,
Where grass and flowers together lean,
And down through mists the sunbeams slide:

But nought can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged paths to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And seared below the pastures lie,--

Till in his arms their lambs he takes
Along the dizzy verge to go,
Then heedless of the rifts and breaks
They follow on o'er rock and snow.

And in those pastures lifted fair,
More dewy soft than lowland mead,
The shepherd drops his tender care,
And sheep and lambs together feed.

MARIA LOWELL.

* * * * *

LITTLE LAMB.

Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life and made thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,--
Softest clothing, woolly, bright?
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice;
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
He is callen by thy name,
For he calls himself a lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!

WILLIAM BLAKE.

* * * * *

COWPER'S HARE.

Well--one at least is safe. One sheltered hare
Has never heard the sanguinary yell
Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.
Innocent partner of my peaceful home,
Whom ten long years' experience of my care
Has made at last familiar, she has lost
Much of her vigilant instinctive dread,
Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.
Yes--thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire secure
To thy straw-couch, and slumber unalarmed;
For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged
All that is human in me to protect
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
If I survive thee I will dig thy grave,
And when I place thee in it, sighing say,
I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

COWPER.

* * * * *

TURN THY HASTY FOOT ASIDE.

Turn, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm!
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a God to form.

The common lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed.

Let them enjoy their little day,
Their humble bliss receive;
Oh! do not lightly take away
The life thou canst not give!

T. GISBORNE.

* * * * *

THE WORM TURNS.

I've despised you, old worm, for I think you'll admit
That you never were beautiful even in youth;
I've impaled you on hooks, and not felt it a bit;
But all's changed now that Darwin has told us the truth
Of your diligent life, and endowed you with fame:
You begin to inspire me with kindly regard.
I have friends of my own, clever worm, I could name,
Who have ne'er in their lives been at work half so hard.

It appears that we owe you our acres of soil,
That the garden could never exist without you,
That from ages gone by you were patient in toil,
Till a Darwin revealed all the good that you do.
Now you've turned with a vengeance, and all must confess
Your behavior should make poor humanity squirm;
For there's many a man on this planet, I guess,
Who is not half so useful as you, Mister worm.

PUNCH.

* * * * *

GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.