By Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.
He wasn’t, well, a fancy kind o’ dog—
Not Jim!
But, oh, I sorter couldn’t seem ter help
A-lovin’ him.
He always seemed ter understand,
He’d rub his nose against my hand
If I was feelin’ blue or sad,
Or if my thoughts was pretty bad;
An’ how he’d bark an’ frisk an’ play
When I was gay!
A soldier’s dog don’t have much time ter whine,
Like little pets a-howlin’ at th’ moon.
A soldier’s dog is bound ter learn, right soon,
That war is war, an’ what a steady line
Of men in khaki means. (What, dogs don’t know?
You bet they do! Jim-dog, he had ter go
Along th’ trenches oftentimes at night;
He seemed ter sense it when there was a fight
A-brewin’. Oh, I guess he knew, all right!)
I was a soldier, an’ Jim-dog was _mine_.
Ah, what’s th’ use?
There never was another dog like him.
Why, on th’ march I’d pause and call, “Hey, Jim!”
An’ he’d be there, his head tipped on one side,
A-lookin’ up at me with love an’ pride,
His tail a-waggin’, an’ his ears raised high....
I wonder why my Jim-dog had ter die?
He was a friend ter folks; he didn’t bite;
He never snapped at no one in th’ night;
He didn’t hate a soul; an’ he was _game_!
An’ yet ... a spark o’light, a dartin’ flame
Across th’ dark, a sneaky bit o’ lead,
An’ he was ... dead!
They say there ain’t no heaven-land fer him,
’Cause dogs is dogs, an’ haven’t any right;
But let me tell yer this: without my Jim
Th’ very shinin’ streets would seem less bright!
An’ somehow I’m a-thinkin’ that if he
Could come at that last stirrin’ bugle call
Up to th’ gates o’ gold aside o’ me,
Where God stands smilin’ welcome to us all,
An’ I said: “Father, here’s my dog ... here’s Jim,”
They’d find some corner, touched with love, fer him!
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The proceeds from the sale of
this book are donated to the
Blue Cross Society of France,
For the Protection and Care of
Animals. Duplicate copies may be
obtained for 25 cents each from
the publisher.