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?