To Your Dog and To My Dog.

by Lincoln Newton Kinnicutt.

To him who has never called a dog his friend The full meaning of pure friendship is unknown

_Dear Dogs_:--

I have brought together in my library a few of the many proofs that show how true is the affection which many of your masters have for you, and some-time when I can read them to you privately, you will understand more fully the place you hold in our lives. I use the word MASTER only because our language is too poor to express in one word the real relationship which exists between us, we the master, and you the devoted slave and trusted servant, the most joyful of playfellows, and the best of companions, the bravest defender, and the truest friend. I wish I knew the word in your language which expresses all that you are to us. I also wish I knew how much you know, and could learn the many things you would gladly teach us.

You can see what we cannot see.

You can hear sounds we cannot hear.

You interpret signs we cannot read.

You scent the trails we cannot find.

You talk to us with your speaking eyes, and we cannot understand.

You are sometimes cruelly treated, and so are human beings, and sometimes we have to punish you for you are not always good. You have a certain amount of deviltry in your nature which we rather like, for it makes you more human and lovable. Your sins, however, are mostly against the laws we have made for you, not against your own, or those of nature, which are the laws of a higher power than ours--the one who made you.

What glorious times have we enjoyed together tramping or riding through the fields and woods, over the hills and by the streams and through the swamps, or at the sea, on the sands and rocks, or over the salt marshes, with gun or camera or botany box, or with nothing at all! We have shared the best the world can give us, nature's gifts. And returning home, tired and happy, we in the evening, before a bright wood fire, you close by our side or at our feet only so that you can touch us, have lived over what the day has given us. Or sometimes at night before a camp fire with the quiet of the wood sounds all about us, have dreamed of the ducks and the grouse and the partridges, or of rare flowers or a beautiful landscape which the past day has brought, or of what the next day will bring. And perhaps you have dreamed also, a little selfishly (you are only selfish in your dreams) of the rabbits and squirrels and the woodchucks which have been the greatest temptation for you to resist all day long. They must have existed long ago in your garden of Eden.

No matter what our conditions or surroundings in life may be you accept them gladly. King or peasant, palace or hovel, riches or poverty, plenty or starvation, burning sun or ice and snow, if you have once given us your affection, no matter who or what your master may be, you give him all you have to give to the very end--even life itself. It would almost seem that you were created only to serve us, for wherever man has been, even in the far past where history is almost a myth, you have been also, close by his side. Old Egypt, Persia, Greece, and ancient Rome have told of your fidelity and of your devotion.

You know us in many ways as no human being knows us, for every hour of your life you wish to be near, and often you are our most intimate companion and the best friend we have in the world. We talk to you, more than half believing, or trying to believe, that you understand, and I am not sure but that to you alone we always tell the absolute truth, we whisper to you our secrets, we confide to you our hopes and ambitions, we tell you of our successes and our disappointments, and often in deep grief you alone see what we think is weakness to show to the outside world. Whatever happens to us we are sure of one friend, even if the whole world is against us. We trust to you our greatest treasures, our children, and we know with you they are safe.

When you go to the Happy Hunting Ground you are truly and deeply mourned, and the great legacy you leave us is the memory of your loyalty, your devotion, your trust, and memory of the many happy hours and happy days you have given us in your too short life. And when we are obliged to say "the King is dead," we do not complete the old saying "long live the King" for many, many months--and sometimes never.

May we meet again,

Your masters, and

Your FRIENDS.

_Note To The Masters_

The blank s.p.a.ce on the t.i.tle cover is designed for a photograph, or any picture, of your own dog.

This collection is composed almost entirely of verses that have been written within the last twenty-five years. I know only too well that I have omitted many poems that the Dogs should hear, but I have not attempted a large anthology, for it has been done several times by far abler hands. I also know you will ask why some of your favorite poems are not found in this collection, but I have selected only a small number, among the many that have appealed to me, for I promised to read only a few to my friends, the Dogs, and I have left many blank half pages on which you can copy your own favorite Dog Poems.

L. N. K.

_Note To those to whom I am indebted_

I wish to thank the Authors for their kindness in permitting me to reprint their poems and I also wish to acknowledge the courtesy of the many Publishers who have given me permission to reprint selections from their publications. To many friends I wish to express my obligation for the use of their collections.

L. N. K.

LUFRA

The Monarch saw the gambols flag, And bade let loose a gallant stag, Whose pride, the holiday to crown, Two favorite greyhounds should pull down, That venison free, and Bordeaux wine, Might serve the archery to dine.

But Lufra,--whom from Douglas' side Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, The fleetest hound in all the North,-- Brave Lufra saw and darted forth.

She left the royal hounds mid way, And dashing on the antlered prey, Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, And deep the flowing life-blood drank.

The King's stout huntsman saw the sport By strange intruder broken short, Came up, and with his leash unbound, In anger struck the n.o.ble hound.

--The Douglas had endured, that morn, The King's cold look, the n.o.bles' scorn, And last, and worst to spirit proud, Had borne the pity of the crowd; But Lufra had been fondly bred, To share his board, to watch his bed, And oft would Ellen, Lufra's neck, In maiden glee with garlands deck; They were such playmates, that with name Of Lufra, Ellen's image came.

His stifled wrath is br.i.m.m.i.n.g high, In darkened brow and flashing eye; As waves before the bark divide, The crowd gave way before his stride; Needs but a buffet and no more, The groom lies senseless in his gore.

Such blow no other hand could deal Though gauntleted in glove of steel.

FIDELE'S GRa.s.sY TOMB

From _The Island Race_

BY HENRY NEWBOLT

By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers ELKIN MATHEWS, London

FIDELE'S GRa.s.sY TOMB

The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair, His eyes were alive and clear of care, But well he knew that the hour was come To bid good-bye to his ancient home.

He looked on garden, wood, and hill, He looked on the lake, sunny and still; The last of earth that his eyes could see Was the island church of Orchardleigh.

The last that his heart could understand Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand: "Bury the dog at my feet," he said, And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.

Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed, Staunch to love and strong at need: He had dragged his master safe to sh.o.r.e When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.