Where Mèdor, the spaniel, is spoken of still.
His eyes gleamed with knowledge; was true to the core,
He carried the basket to market or store;
The crack of the shotgun he loved to obey,
And thousands of ducks he brought home in his day.
At the bee-ranch in the canyon where romancers jog,
Poor Mèdor lies buried, that faithful old dog;
Around him wild-flowers will bloom in the spring,
And sweet trilling warblers forever will sing.