THE SHEPHERD DOG OF THE PYRENEES
Traveler. Begone, you, sir! Here, shepherd, call your dog.
Shepherd. Be not affrighted, madame. Poor Pierrot
Will do no harm. I know his voice is gruff,
But then, his heart is good.
Traveler. Well, call him, then.
I do not like his looks. He's growling now.
Shepherd. Madame had better drop that stick. Pierrot,
He is as good a Christian as myself
And does not like a stick.
Traveler. Such a fierce look!
And such great teeth!
Shepherd. Ah, bless poor Pierrot's teeth!
Good cause have I and mine to bless those teeth.
Come here, my Pierrot. Would you like to hear,
Madame, what Pierrot's teeth have done for me?
Traveler. Torn a gaunt wolf, I'll warrant.
Shepherd. Do you see
On that high ledge a cross of wood that stands
Against the sky?
Traveler. Just where the cliff goes down
A hundred fathoms sheer, a wall of rock
To where the river foams along its bed?
I've often wondered who was brave to plant
A cross on such an edge.
Shepherd. Myself, madame,
That the good God might know I gave him thanks.
One night, it was November, black and thick,
The fog came down, when as I reached my house
Marie came running out; our little one,
Our four year Louis, so she cried, was lost.
I called Pierrot: "Go, seek him, find my boy,"
And off he went. Marie ran crying loud
To call the neighbors. They and I, we searched
All that dark night. I called Pierrot in vain;
Whistled and called, and listened for his voice;
He always came or barked at my first word,
But now, he answered not. When day at last
Broke, and the gray fog lifted, there I saw
On that high ledge, against the dawning light.
My little one asleep, sitting so near
That edge that as I looked his red barette
Fell from his nodding head down the abyss.
And there, behind him, crouched Pierrot; his teeth,
His good, strong teeth, clenching the jacket brown,
Holding the child in safety. With wild bounds
Swift as the gray wolf's own I climbed the steep,
And as I reached them Pierrot beat his tail,
And looked at me, so utterly distressed,
With eyes that said: "Forgive, I could not speak,"
But never loosed his hold till my dear rogue
Was safe within my arms.
Ah, ha, Pierrot,
Madame forgives your barking and your teeth;
I knew she would.
Traveler. Come here, Pierrot, good dog,
Come here, poor fellow, faithful friend and true,
Come, come, be friends with me.
Ellen Murray.
THE DOG UNDER THE WAGON
"Come, wife," said good old farmer Gray,
"Put on your things, 'tis market day,
And we'll be off to the nearest town,
There and back ere the sun goes down.
Spot? No, we'll leave old Spot behind,"
But Spot he barked and Spot he whined,
And soon made up his doggish mind
To follow under the wagon.
Away they went at a good round pace
And joy came into the farmer's face,
"Poor Spot," said he, "did want to come,
But I'm awful glad he's left at home—
He'll guard the barn, and guard the cot,
And keep the cattle out of the lot."
"I'm not so sure of that," thought Spot,
The dog under the wagon.
The farmer all his produce sold
And got his pay in yellow gold:
Home through the lonely forest. Hark!
A robber springs from behind a tree;
"Your money or else your life," says he;
The moon was up, but he didn't see
The dog under the wagon.