Old Charon by the Stygian coast Take toll of all the shades who land, Your little, faithful, barking ghost May leap to lick my phantom hand.

TO SCOTT

(_A collie, for nine years our friend_)

BY W. M. LETTS

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

TO SCOTT

(_A collie, for nine years our friend_)

Old friend, your place is empty now. No more Shall we obey the imperious deep-mouthed call That begged the instant freedom of our hall.

We shall not trace your foot-fall on the floor Nor hear your urgent paws upon the door.

The loud-thumped tail that welcomed one and all, The volleyed bark that nightly would appal Our tim'rous errand boys--these things are o'er.

But always yours shall be a household name, And other dogs must list' your storied fame; So gallant and so courteous, Scott, you were, Mighty abroad, at home most debonair.

Now G.o.d Who made you will not count it blame That we commend your spirit to His care.

"DODO,"

1903-1913

BY ARTHUR AUSTIN-JACKSON

From _The Spectator_

By permission of _The London Spectator_

"DODO"

1903-1913

Here lies a little dog who now Asks nothing more of man's goodwill Than the grey stone that tells you how She loved the friends who love her still.

_Sir Walter Scott's translation of Lockhart's epitaph for "Maida's grave"_

"Beneath the sculptured form which late you wore Sleep soundly Maida, at your master's door."

"HAMISH"

A SCOTCH TERRIER

From _The London Spectator_

BY C. HILTON BROWN

"HAMISH"; A SCOTCH TERRIER

Little lad, little lad, and who's for an airing, Who's for the river and who's for a run; Four little pads to go fitfully faring, Looking for trouble and calling it fun?

Down in the sedges the water-rats revel, Up in the wood there are bunnies at play With a weather-eye wide for a Little Black Devil: But the Little Black Devil won't come to-day.

To-day at the farm the ducks may slumber, To-day may the tabbies an anthem raise; Rat and rabbit beyond all number To-day untroubled may go their ways: To-day is an end of the shepherd's labour, No more will the sheep be hunted astray; And the Irish terrier, foe and neighbour, Says, "What's old Hamish about to-day?"

Ay, what indeed? In the nether s.p.a.ces Will the soul of a Little Black Dog despair?

Will the Quiet Folk scare him with shadow-faces?

And how will he tackle the Strange Beasts there?

Tail held high, I'll warrant, and bristling, Marching stoutly if sore afraid, Padding it steadily, softly whistling;-- That's how the Little Black Devil was made.

Then well-a-day for a "cantie callant,"

A heart of gold and a soul of glee,-- Sportsman, gentleman, squire and gallant,-- Teacher, maybe, of you and me.

Spread the turf on him light and level, Grave him a headstone clear and true-- "Here lies Hamish, the Little Black Devil, And half of the heart of his mistress too."