It is wrong to spring
At a horse's nose;
At that quivery thing
It is wrong to spring.
With tail for a wing
I may chase the crows,
But 'tis wrong to spring
At a horse's nose.
Call me back from the horses
With _no_, _no_, _noes_;
When I try snap courses
Call me back from the horses.
Though my remorse is
A transient pose,
Call me back from the horses
With _no_, _no_, _noes_.
I'm only a collie,
As Wellesley knows;
Though ever so jolly
I'm only a collie.
Save Sigurd from folly,
For folly has foes,
And I'm only a collie,
As Wellesley knows.
There was a perilous season, after a village Airedale had unadvisedly
nipped a teasing small boy, when our hysterical local legislation
ordered all dogs into muzzles, commanding the police to shoot at sight
any canine wayfarer not so equipped. Sigurd, of course, detested his
muzzle and though he would sulkily fetch it when he saw us making ready
for a walk, he would growl at it and worry it until we had it snapped
on, when he would often turn mournfully back from the door or lie down
before it literally in flat rebellion, rather than take the air under
such humiliating and uncomfortable conditions. He soon began to
exercise his ingenuity, however, in the getting rid of that
encumbrance, and again and again, having gone forth a model of
compliance with the law, he would come bounding back, muzzleless,
triumphant, expecting congratulations. It was hard to find a make of
muzzle that he could not push off with his paws or scrape off under a
fence or rub off between close-growing trees, and impossible to find
one that he could not coax his compassionate girl-chums to take off for
him. Melted by his pleading whines, they would slip the muzzle down
from his jaws so that he wore it as a pendant over his white vest, a
compromise that perplexed our honest college policeman, who, Sigurd's
neighbor and friend, solved the problem by consistently turning his
back and refusing to see the dog at all. But one well-nigh fatal day a
special officer, called in by our stern selectmen for the purpose of
hunting down all lawless dogs, beheld Sigurd disporting himself in the
public road, his muzzle, as so often, gayly flapping under his chin.
According to the man's bewildered account, no sooner had he drawn his
revolver and taken good aim at the offender, than "a mob of girls,
coming from nowhere and everywhere," suddenly enveloped his intended
victim and swept the dog off in their midst to the campus. But the
officer had a determined jaw of his own. He kept watch for that fawn
collie and the next time he caught sight of Sigurd, again with a
swinging muzzle, he ran a rope through our poor boy's collar and was
dragging him off to the town lockup and execution ground when again an
excited throng of nymphs blocked the way.
"How can you be so cruel?" blazed one of Sigurd's fondest playmates, as
a dozen arms were thrown about the collie.
"I'm no rougher with that there dog than he is with me," protested the
young officer, purple not only through embarrassment but from the tug
of war in which he and Sigurd had been matching strength. "He may be
your college pet, but his manners ain't no-way ladylike."
Meanwhile one of the girlish hands caressing Sigurd's neck must have
succeeded in slipping a buckle, for suddenly his head shot back through
the collar, left as a keepsake to the dog-catcher, and our innocent was
far on his way toward the safe shelter of home.
This period of persecution extended over some months, for the muzzles
had a bad effect on dog tempers and there were more cases of snapping
and nipping than the town, in Sigurd's lifetime, had ever known, though
no trace of rabies was detected. It was an anxious season for
dog-owners. Our neighboring professor of psychology, she who
specialized in spaniels, was overheard by a guest one evening wearily
informing a new litter of eight:
"Puppies, this has been a sad day. This morning your ma bit the
postman, and this afternoon your pa bit the doctor."
It was a relief to many households when at last the selectmen put their
minds on something else.
Although Sigurd was a member of all classes, as well as faculty, and of
all societies, he bore, as mascot, a special relation to the Class of
1911, whose color he wore by grace of nature. Glorious he was to behold
on Field Day, his coat, well brushed for the occasion, glistening in
the sun, a great bow of yellow ribbon standing out like a butterfly
from the top of his collar, wagging all over with joyous
self-importance as he stood in the front rank of his class, impartially
barking applause for both their triumphs and defeats.
With him, as with the girls, the spring term was the climax of the
college year, though not precisely an academic climax. Sigurd still
found time to drop in at a lecture occasionally, flumping down beside
some favorite fellow-student for a brief repose and rousing now and
then to thrust up a sentimental paw for a shake. But he had many
class-meetings to attend, where, when "Further Remarks" were called
for, he has been known to respond with a loud bark,--a recognized
indecorum in the college buildings. But on the whole, he kept the rules
save in so far as he might be considered "a musical instrument" in use
"out of recreation hours."
The spring term bloomed out in guests like crocuses and Sigurd made a
point of attending as many as possible of the luncheons and teas given
in their honor. An English lady, a poet and a visionary, a presence
like a flame, was one afternoon addressing a choice assemblage in our
oriental parlor on the mysteries of the Bahist faith. A torch-bearer of
the Persian prophet, she was telling of her first interview with Ali
Baha on Mount Carmel.
"And the Master greeted me thus: 'O Child of the Kingdom!'"----
_Bump_ went something against the door, which swung wide, admitting
Sigurd, who saluted the company with a comprehensive wave of his tail.
"You beautiful creature!" cried the Englishwoman, winning him to her
with an outstretched hand, "I am sure _you_ are a Child of the
Kingdom," and Sigurd wagged, came up for a pat and dropped down at her
feet to slumber out the rest of her impassioned discourse, waking
promptly with the arrival of refreshments.
But our Child of the Kingdom, on the very day after he had received
this accolade, came home to dinner, for which he had no appetite, not
only with a deep scratch, inflicted by the claw of some profane,
anti-Bahist cat, down one side of his face, but with his white and
golden hair all matted in brown streaks and patches, in witness that a
freshman saucepan had spilled its fudge upon him. Where he could get at
himself to lick, he enjoyed it very much, but he was deplorably sticky
on top.
In the spring, too, there were more dogs about the campus, and battles
were frequent. In the interests of academic fellowship we did our best
to steer Sigurd clear of encounters with professorial champions,
especially Jerry, an Irish terrier who would fight with his own shadow
rather than not fight at all, but one morning our chapel vestibule was
the scene of an encounter that Isaac Watts might well have called
horrendous.
The aggressor was Coco, a fierce little Boston bull and the pride of
one of the town's most honored citizens. Coco fought by method and a
very effective method it was. He would sneak up to his chosen
antagonist, fly at the forehead, tear the flesh so that the streaming
blood blinded his enemy and then try for a grip on the throat. Half the
dogs in the village already bore Coco's mark when, one March morning,
Joy-of-Life and I went in to chapel, leaving Sigurd, as usual, to wait
for us outside. As a dog, whom we did not pause to identify, was
trotting down the avenue, we laid strict injunctions on Sigurd not to
get into a scrap.
The organ was calling all hearts to worship, and heads were already
bowed, when suddenly Sigurd, his earnest eyes trying in vain to explain
his difficulties, pressed in against our knees. This was a grave breach
of chapel decorum, and Joy-of-Life, rising instantly, led him down the
aisle. As she opened the door into the vestibule, Coco was upon him,
and the snarling fury of a dog-fight jarred against the solemn strains
of the organ. I slipped out to find Coco hanging from Sigurd's throat,
and Sigurd, blood streaming from his forehead over his face, so
hampered by a ring of hands pulling on his collar that he could only
snap his jaws in air, unable to see or reach his foe. The choir,
arrayed for the processional, had broken line and were banging Coco
with hymn books, while everybody was wildly issuing orders to everybody
else.
"Let the dogs alone, girls. Look out for yourselves."
"Let Sigurd go. Give him a chance to fight."
"Choke Coco off."
"Twist Coco's tail."
"Bring water."
"_Don't_ put your hands between them, girls. Keep away."
The janitor, the only man on the scene, had discreetly climbed into a
high window-seat, and it was one of the slenderest, most flowerlike
maidens there who finally jerked a half-strangled Coco loose and flung
him forth from the sacred portals. The choir promptly reformed in rank
and, a trifle flushed and disheveled but chanting more lustily than
ever, swung up the aisle with the air of the Church Militant. Only the
few who were slightly bitten remained behind to be conducted by
Joy-of-Life to the hospital for immediate attention to their wounds,
while Sigurd and I made for home, marking the trail with our blood. No
real harm was done. Coco's owner, though secretly convinced that Sigurd
did all the biting, insisted on paying the doctor's bills and, a few
days after the encounter, Sigurd, with a scarred forehead, welcomed his
injured defenders to a dinner-party, at which I presided with my arm in
a sling. Sigurd seemed to feel a dim responsibility for that hurt of
mine and, as long as I wore a bandage, would come up at intervals to
give it a penitent lick.
At all the festivals of the spring term Sigurd deemed his attendance
indispensable. He fell in with the parades, frisked out into the midst
of the campus dances, and once, at least, took a conspicuous part in
the Tree Day pageant. A graceful, carmine-clad Narcissus had died to
slow music on the bank of Longfellow Fountain. The wood-nymphs and
water-nymphs, Diana and her train, even the hilltop Oreads had tripped
off the sylvan stage, but the audience, massed on the other side of the
pool, refused to take the hint and, instead of breaking up, still sat
spell-bound, their gaze fastened on poor Narcissus, who, cramped in the
dying attitude, could not conceive any dramatic way of coming to life
again. So we bade Sigurd: "Go find," and after two false starts, once
for a squirrel and once for a stick, he sped straight for Narcissus
and, anxiously thrusting his nose into her face, recognized a special
friend and broke into loud barks of joy, while, throwing her arm about
him, she sprang no less gladly to her feet. The audience thought it all
a part of the pageant, the prevailing opinion being that Sigurd was
playing the role of Cerberus and welcoming Narcissus to Hades.
But for all his years of enthusiastic college attendance, Sigurd never
took a degree. Not even his own Class of 1911 was allowed to carry out
its design of dressing their mascot in a specially made cap and gown
and leading him with them in the Commencement procession. His B.A.
stood only for Beloved Animal.