If we are, as people say, But the creatures of a day, Let me live, when we must part, A little longer in your heart.

You were all the G.o.d I knew, I was faithful unto you.

REMARKS TO MY GROWN-UP PUP

From _Rhymes of Home_

BY BURGES JOHNSON

By permission of the Author, and of the Publishers G. P. PUTNAM'S Sons, New York

REMARKS TO MY GROWN-UP PUP

By rules of fitness and of tense, By all old canine precedents, Oh, Adult Dog, the time is up When I may fondly call you Pup.

The years have sped since first you stood In straddle-legged puppyhood,-- A watch-pup, proud of your renown, Who barked so hard you tumbled down.

In Age's gain and Youth's retreat You've found more team-work for your feet, You drool a soupcon less, and hark!

There's fuller meaning to your bark.

But answer fairly, whilom pup, Are these full proof of growing up?

I heard an elephantine tread That jarred the rafters overhead: _Who_ leaped in mad abandon there And tossed my slippers in the air?

_Who_, sitting gravely on the rug, Espied a microscopic bug And stalked it, gaining bit by bit,-- Then leapt in air and fell on it?

_Who_ gallops madly down the breeze Pursuing specks that no one sees, Then finds some ancient boot instead And worries it till it is dead?

_I_ have no adult friends who choose To gnaw the shoe-strings from my shoes,-- Who eat up twine and paper sc.r.a.ps And bark while they are taking naps.

Oh Dog, you offer every proof That stately age yet holds aloof.

Grown up? There's meaning in the phrase Of dignity as well as days.

Oh why such size, beloved pup?-- You've grown enough, but not grown up.

AN EXTRACT FROM INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG

BY LORD BYRON

AN EXTRACT FROM INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG

... "In life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone."

"Near this spot Are deposited the Remains of one Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery If inscribed over human ashes, Is but a just tribute to the Memory of BOATSWAIN, a Dog, Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."

TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER

BY W. M. LETTS

By permission of the Author and of the _Westminster Gazette_, London

TO TIM, AN IRISH TERRIER

O jewel of my heart, I sing your praise, Though you who are, alas! of middle age Have never been to school, and cannot read The weary printed page.

I sing your eyes, two pools in shadowed streams, Where your soul shines in depths of sunny brown, Alertly raised to read my every mood Or thoughtfully cast down.

I sing the little nose, so glossy wet, The well-trained sentry to your eager mind, So swift to catch the delicate glad scent Of rabbits on the wind.

Ah, fair to me your wheaten-coloured coat, And fair the darker velvet of your ear, Ragged and scarred with old hostilities That never taught you fear.

But oh! your heart, where my unworthiness Is made perfection by love's alchemy, How often does your doghood's faith cry shame To my inconstancy.

At last I know the hunter Death will come And whistle low the call you must obey.

So you will leave me, comrade of my heart, To take a lonely way.

Some tell me, Tim, we shall not meet again, But for their loveless logic need we care?-- If I should win to Heav'n's gate I know _You_ will be waiting there.

MY DOG

BY ANNA HADLEY MIDDLEMAS

By permission of the Author and of _The Boston Evening Transcript_

MY DOG

He's just plain yellow: no "blue-ribbon" breed.

In disposition--well, a trifle gruff Outside his "tried and true." His coat is rough.

To bark at night and sleep by day, his creed.