Upon his Spaniell Tracie

NOW thou art dead, no eye shall ever see,

For shape and service, Spaniell like to thee. This shall my love doe, give thy sad death one Teare, that deserves of me a million.

R. Herrick.

My Terrier

A

SCOTCH patrician, sandy-haired,

Whose forefathers would whine and gambol

Round some forgotten lowland laird,
Companions of his morning ramble;
He wakes a Northern memory still
Of salmon in the river leaping,
Of grouse that call upon the hill,

And sunlight on the larch-wood sleeping.

Alas! his lot is cast in lines

That more prosaic patterns follow,

Far from the fragrance of the pines,

From heathered slope and misty hollow;

To all among the hurrying wheels

Where crowds are thick and streets are gritty, A close attendant at my heels,

He treads the pavement of the City.

Now curled upon the rug he lies,
Yet, as I write, his head he raises
To gaze at me with anxious eyes,

As though to bid me sing his praises;
Then, dozing off again, renews
The ecstasy of ancient habits,

And, whining in his dreams, pursues
A multitude of phantom rabbits.

The pleasures of his daily round
Might, were his nature less convivial,
In process of the years be found

Somewhat monotonous and trivial;
Each night the handiwork of Spratt
He hails with healthy acclamation,
Each day he greets my stick and hat
With furious barks of approbation.

One would suppose a walk with me
Scarce merited such boisterous greeting,

Yet blissful prospects he can see

Of many a courteous wayside meeting

With other dogs, who never fail

To rouse an interest none may measure,

And set the apex of his tail

A-trembling with mysterious pleasure.

Though you might think that each surmised
That he had many a canine brother,
They all seem curiously surprised

Day after day to see each other;
In that pricked ear and eager eye
Astonishment may be detected,
And those spasmodic leaps imply
A flavour of the unexpected.

I wish my pen for him could claim
A character for great astuteness,
Or hopes of an enduring fame

Based on phenomenal acuteness;
But since I hope that I possess
A reputation for veracity,
I have not in the public press

Told anecdotes of his sagacity.

Of no attainments he can boast-
I venture the confession sadly-
Though round the table he will coast
And beg assiduously but badly;

Yet his devotion makes amends,

And when my nerves are strung and restive, The best of faithful silent friends,

I find him pleasantly suggestive.

For I am sure that here is one

Who, whatsoe'er my fault and failing,

Whatever I have said or done

Will spare me rough abuse and railing ;

When criticism waxes cold,

In hours of bitter introspection,
Still in that doggish heart I hold

A changeless standard of perfection.

He reads me morals, too, who find
So much to agitate and vex me,
And to the riddles of mankind

So many answers that perplex me;
He who his little life surveys

With spirits buoyant and unflagging,
And needs such trifling joys to raise
His tail to a contented wagging.
Alfred Cochrane.

The Dog

THE

HE faults of the dog are many. He is vainer than man, singularly greedy of notice, singularly intolerant of ridicule, suspicious like the deaf, jealous to the degree of frenzy, and radically devoid of truth. The day of an intelligent small dog is passed in the manufacture and the laborious communication of falsehood; he lies with his tail, he lies with his eye, he lies with his protesting paw; and when he rattles his dish or scratches at the door, his purpose is other than appears. But he has some apology to offer for the vice. Many of the signs which form his dialect have come to bear an arbitrary meaning, clearly

understood both by his master and himself; yet when a new want arises he must either invent a new vehicle of meaning, or wrest an old one to a different purpose; and this necessity frequently recurring must tend to lessen his idea of the sanctity of symbols. Meanwhile the dog is clear in his own conscience, and draws, with a human nicety, the distinction between formal and essential truth. Of his punning perversions, his legitimate dexterity with symbols, he is even vain ; but when he has told and been detected in a lie, there is not a hair upon his body but confesses guilt. To a dog of gentlemanly feeling, theft and falsehood are disgraceful vices. The canine, like the human, gentleman demands in his misdemeanours Montaigne's "je ne sais quoi de généreux." He is never more than half ashamed of having barked or bitten; and for those faults into which he has been led by the desire to shine before a lady of his race, he retains, even under physical correction, a share of pride. But to be caught lying, if he understands it, instantly uncurls his fleece.

R. L. Stevenson.

My Last Terrier

I

MOURN "Patroclus," whilst I praise

Young "Peter" sleek before the fire,

A proper dog, whose decent ways

Renew the virtues of his sire;