DIXIE.
Dixie, this little dog of mine,
Had legs like a spider, black and fine,
A nimble tail, and a body slim,
And ears that would almost cover him.
If you whispered to him of "birds" or "rats,"
Of "cows" or "squirrels" or "pigs" or "cats,"
He was all a-tremble with hope and fun,
Ready to hunt or fight or run.
But Dixie is older now; he shows
A gray mustache on his once black nose:
Slower his legs to frolic and leap;
And he needs a nice soft place to sleep.
But he has such brown and gentle eyes,
Has love so human, and ways so wise,
Has tastes so dainty,—the wilful elf!—
That he rules all things to suit himself.
Only Flora has any fear
If he speaks too loud, or comes too near;
Yet she told me bravely the other night
She could pat the end that didn't bite.
Clara Doty Bates.
