“Yes; it’s an epithet, Mr. Wasson. We’ve written a lovely epithet for your dog.”
With a mirthful glance toward Molly, Pauline hastened to explain; and as soon as everybody was duly serious she read aloud the stanzas. At the beginning of the second one, Weezy could not refrain from exclaiming, “I wrote that, I wrote, ‘he carried the basket;’” but Pauline finished the epitaph without further interruption.
“It’s elegant—just like a book,” cried Mrs. Wasson, drying her eyes. “You were real kind to write it.”
“You were so,” echoed Mr. Wasson with a gratified smile at the five young poets. “Will you see me nail it up?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Wasson,” answered Weezy. And the children followed him to Mèdor’s grave, and waited with Mrs. Wasson while the cardboard was being fastened to the wooden headstone.
Here is a copy of the epitaph:—
TRIBUTE TO A DUMB FRIEND.
The noble dog Mèdor, whose death we deplore,
Had lived and was famous for twelve years or more;
Was raised up in ’Frisco, on Telegraph Hill,