TO TOWSER.
No pampered pound of peevish fluff
That goggles from a lady's muff
Art thou, my Towser. In the Park
Thy form occasions no remark
Unless it be a friendly call
From soldiers walking in the Mall,
Or the impertinence of pugs
Stretched at their ease on carriage rugs.
For thou art sturdy and thy fur
Is rougher than the prickly burr,
Thy manners brusque, thy deep "bow wow"
(Inherited, but Lord knows how!)
Far other than the frenzied yaps
That emanate from ladies' laps,
Thou art, in fact, of doggy size
And hast the brown and faithful eyes,
So full of love, so void of blame,
That fill a master's heart with shame
Because he knows he never can
Be more a dog and less a man.
No champion of a hundred shows,
The prey of every draught that blows,
Art thou; in fact thy charms present
The earmarks of a mixed descent.
And, though too proud to start a fight
With every cur that looms in sight,
None ever saw thee quail beneath
A foeman worthy of thy teeth.
Thou art, in brief, a model hound,
Not so much beautiful as sound
In heart and limb; not always strong
When nose and eyes impel to wrong,
Nor always doing just as bid,
But sterling as the minted quid.
And I have loved thee in my fashion,
Shared with thy face my frugal ration,
Squandered my balance at the bank
When thou didst chew the postman's shank,
And gone in debt replacing stocks
Of private cats and Plymouth Rocks.
And, when they claimed the annual fee
That seals the bond twixt thee and me,
Against harsh Circumstance's edge
Did I not put my fob in pledge
And cheat the minions of excise
Who otherwise had ta'en thee prize?
And thou with leaps of lightsome mood
Didst bark eternal gratitude
And seek my feelings to assail
With agitations of the tail.
Yet are there beings lost to grace
Who claim that thou art out of place,
That when the dogs of war are loose
Domestic kinds are void of use,
And that a chicken or a hog
Should take the place of every dog,
Which, though with appetite endued,
Is not itself a source of food.
What! shall we part? Nay, rather we'll
Renounce the cheap but wholesome meal
That men begrudge us, and we'll take
Our leave of bones and puppy cake.
Back to the woods we'll hie, and there
Thou'lt hunt the fleet but fearful hare,
Pursue the hedge's prickly pig,
Dine upon rabbits' eggs and dig
With practised paw and eager snuffle
The shy but oh! so toothsome truffle.
ALGOL.
"A landslide in Monmouthshire threatens to close the natural course of the River Ebbw, seriously interfering with its ffllww."—Star.
It certainly sounds rather diverting.
From a list of gramophone records:—
"Nothing could seem easier in the wide world than the emission of the cascade of notes that falls from the mouth of the horn—which might indeed be Tetrazzini's own mouth."
"The diameter of my own gramophone horn is eighteen inches," writes the sender of the extract.
