ROGER AND I

BY REV. JULIAN S. CUTLER

From _The Boston Evening Transcript_

By permission of the Author and of _The Boston Evening Transcript_

ROGER AND I

Well, Roger, my dear old doggie, they say that your race is run; And our jolly tramps together up and down the world are done; You're only a dog, old fellow, a dog, and you've had your day; But never a friend of all my friends has been truer than you alway.

We've had glorious times together in the fields and pastures fair; In storm and sunny weather we have romped without a care; And however men have treated me, though foul or fair their deal-- However many the friends that failed, I've found you true as steel.

That's right, my dear old fellow, look up with your knowing eye, And lick my hand with your loving tongue that never has told a lie; And don't be afraid, old doggie, if your time has come to go, For somewhere out in the great Unknown there's a place for you, I know.

Then don't you worry, old Comrade; and don't you fear to die; For out in that fairer country I will find you by and by; And I'll stand by you, old fellow, and our love will surely win, For never a heaven shall harbor me where they won't let Roger in.

When I reach that city glorious, behind the waiting dark, Just come and stand outside the gate, and wag your tail and bark-- I'll hear your voice, and I'll know it, and I'll come to the gate and say: "Saint Peter, that's my dog out there, you must let him come this way."

And then if the saint refuses, I'll go to the One above, And say: "Old Roger is at the gate, with his heart brim full of love; And there isn't a shining angel, of all the heavenly band, Who ever lived a n.o.bler life than he in the earthly land."

Then I know the gate will open, and you will come frisking in, And we'll roam fair fields together, in that country free from sin.

So never you mind, old Roger, if your time has come to go; You've been true to me, I'll be true to you--and the Lord is good, we know.

You're only a dog, old fellow; a dog, and you've had your day-- Well, I'm getting there myself, old boy, and I haven't long to stay; But you've stood by me, old Comrade, and I'm bound to stand by you; So don't you worry, old Roger, for our love will pull us through.

"SIR BAT-EARS"

BY MRS. EDEN

From _Punch_

By permission of the Author, and special permission of the Proprietors of London _Punch_

"SIR BAT-EARS"

Sir Bat-ears was a dog of birth And bred in Aberdeen, But he favoured not his n.o.ble kin And so his lot is mean, And Sir Bat-ears sits by the almshouses On the stones with gra.s.s between.

Under the ancient archway His pleasure is to wait Between the two stone pineapples That flank the weathered gate;

And old, old alms-persons go by, All rusty, bent and black, "Good-day, good-day, Sir Bat-ears,"

They say and stroke his back.

And old, old alms-persons go by, Shaking and well-nigh dead, "Good-night, good-night, Sir Bat-ears!"

They say and pat his head.

So courted and considered He sits out hour by hour, Benignant in the sunshine And prudent in the shower.

(Nay, stoutly can he stand a storm And stiffly breast the rain, That rising when the cloud is gone He leaves a circle of dry stone Whereon to sit again.)

A dozen little door steps Under the arch are seen, A dozen aged alms-persons To keep them bright and clean:

Two wrinkled hands to scour each step With a square of yellow stone-- But print-marks of Sir Bat-ears' paws Bespeckle every one.

And little eats an alms-person, But, though his board be bare, There never lacks a bone of the best To be Sir Bat-ears' share.

Mendicant muzzle and shrewd nose, He quests from door to door; Their grace they say--his shadow gray Is instant on the floor, Humblest of all the dogs there be, A pensioner of the poor.

CLUNY

BY WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE

From _The Boston Evening Transcript_

By permission

CLUNY

I am quite sure he thinks that I am G.o.d-- Since He is G.o.d on whom each one depends For life, and all things that His bounty sends-- My dear old dog, most constant of all friends; Not quick to mind, but quicker far than I To Him whom G.o.d I know and own; his eye Deep brown and liquid, watches for my nod; He is more patient underneath the rod Than I, when G.o.d His wise corrections sends.

He looks love at me, deep as words e'er spake; And from me never crumb or sup will take But he wags thanks with his most vocal tail; And when some crashing noise wakes all his fear He is content and quiet if I'm near, Secure that my protection will prevail; So, faithful, mindful, thankful, trustful, he Tells me what I unto my G.o.d should be.

May 24-25, 1902.

He had lived out his life, but not his love; Daily up steep and weary stair he came, His big heart bursting with the strain, to prove His loneliness without me. Just the same Old word of greeting beamed in his deep eye, With a new look of wonder in it, asking why "The whole creation groans and travails." He And I there faced the mystery of pain.

Finding me dumb and helpless, down again He went, unanswered, with the dawn to die, And find the mystery opened with the key, "The creature from corruption's bondage free."

LADDIE