Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth, Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, THE DOG. Poor friend and sport of man, like him unwise, Lead the free chase, leap, plunge into the mere, Herd with thy fellows, stay no longer here, Seeking thy law and gospel in men's eyes. He cannot go; love holds him fast to thee; Cast him not out, the unclaimed savage herd Would turn and rend him, pining for his God. EMILY PFEIFFER. JOHNNY'S PRIVATE ARGUMENT. A poor little tramp of a doggie, one day, Low-spirited, weary, and sad, From a crowd of rude urchins ran limping away, Whose round, chubby face, with the merry eyes blue, Made doggie think, "Here is a good boy and true!" So, wagging his tail and expressing his views With a sort of affectionate whine, Johnny knew he was saying, " Dear boy, if you choose, And Johnny's blue eyes opened wide with delight, But alas! on a day that to Johnny was sad, "Lost a dog limped a little, and also he had Whoever returns him to me may believe A fair compensation he 'll surely receive." Johnny did n't want money, not he; 't was n't that And made a grave look on his rosy face fat, And made those blue eyes of his wink To keep back the tears that were ready to flow, As he thought to himself, "Must the dear doggie go?" 'T was an argument Johnny was holding just there With his own little conscience so true. "It is plain," whispered conscience, "that if you'd be fair, There is only one thing you can do ; Restore to his owner the dog; don't delay, No wonder he sat all so silent and still, Forgetting to fondle his pet The poor little boy thinking hard with a will; And why does he wear such a sorrowful brow?" Well, how did it end? Johnny's battle was fought, The dearly-loved pet to his owner was brought, But a wag of his tail doggie gives to this day MARY D. BRINE. THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure; and old, When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Never again shall her leaping welcome Mouth of silver, and skin of satin, And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover The truest love I have won in living Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes. Frosts of winter nor heat of summer Could make her fail if my footsteps led; And memory holds in its treasure-casket The name of my darling who lieth dead. S. M. A. C. in Evening Post. THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND. As fly the shadows o'er the grass, O Con! has not a sweeter sound, Than when along the valley swells His stature tall, his body long, His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore leg pillar-like and strong, His hind leg bended like a bow; Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round; Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin, Could rival John McDonnell's hound. DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY. SIX FEET. My little rough dog and I Live a life that is rather rare, |