"Oh, it isn't so very much," returned Songbird, hesitatingly. "It's a little poem I was writing about dogs."
"Dogs!" chimed in William Philander. "My gracious me! What sort of poetry can you get up about dogs? I must confess, I don't like them. Unless, of course, they are the nice little lap-dog kind."
"This isn't about a lap-dog, exactly," returned Songbird. "It's about a watchdog."
"Um! By the way, Songbird, haven't the Sandersons a new watchdog?"
"Yes." And now Songbird reddened a little.
"Well, let us have the poem, anyway. I love dogs, and some poetry about them ought to run along pretty good."
Thereupon, rather hesitatingly, Songbird held up his writing-pad and read the following:
"The sun sinks low far in the west—
The farmer plodeth home to rest,
The watchdog, watching in the night,
Assures him ev'ry thing is right."
"Fine!" cried Tom. "Real, dyed-in-the-wool poetry that, Songbird. Give us some more." And then the would-be poet continued:
"The sun comes up and it is morn,
The farmer goes to plow his corn,
The watchdog, watching through the day,
Keeps ev'ry tramp and thief away."And be it night or be it day——"
"The watchdog's there, and there to stay!"