I’m my master’s dog; whose dog are you? I live in a kennel, which somebody was good enough to make for me; and I sleep on straw, which grew that I might sleep on it. I have my meals brought to me punctually; and, therefore, I conclude that meals are a noble institution and that punctuality is a virtue. When I act as a good dog ought to act, I get a bone, and my master pats me on the back. Therefore I always do what is expected of me; and that I call morality. Dogs which have no kennels flounder about in the gutter. Having a kennel, I eschew the gutter;—and that I call respectability. It is in the nature of dogs to lick their masters’ feet. The best dogs do it, so I follow their example;—and that I call religion. If I do what is not expected of me, I get the stick. I do not like the stick, so I behave myself;—and that I call conventionality. There is a chain round my neck, lest I should run away. I cannot break the chain, so I play with it;—and that I call the proper subjection of the individual. But I am free to pull at my chain till my neck is sore;—and that I call liberty . . . For the rest, I bark.
There are three kinds of spiritual beings: men, dogs, and cats. Men are supreme, and made both dogs and cats. Dogs were created for happiness, and cats for misery. We are the good race, and they are the evil. It is the duty of a dog to kill a cat. Then hate cats, and hang them up by the tails in the back garden. If I am a bad dog, I shall be turned into a cat, and hung up by my tail. Cats are fed on black beetles; but men are very happy, and eat bones all day long. I eat a bone when I can get one; which makes me think that I shall some day be turned into a man. When I am, I shall hang up cats by the tails.
Of created beings dogs are the only ones who have souls. There is a heaven for dogs, but for no one else. There are no cats in heaven; and for that matter, very few dogs; but I hope to be one of them; for there the dogs have meaty bones, and bark all day long, making sweet music. This is the Dogs’ creed. All who believe it will go to Bone-land; and all who do not, will be hung up with the cats in the back garden.
Bow-wow!
SMOKE.
THE IRONWORKERS.
Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our work is wrought;
Fashion’d strong with every sturdy stroke
That does wild music from the roofs provoke
In echoes brought.
A rare bold sport
Rather than labour stern, or blunting task;
A toil to ask
Not blench from. Merrily round the fire
We work our will,
Producing still
Some new form daily to our hearts’ desire.
Delicate iron bands
That, as with fairy hands,
Heavenward aspire
To carry roofs, sun pierced and ever gleaming,
Wherein the varied race
Of fruit or flowers finds place,
While the weak Northern rays through mist are streaming.
Or lofty gate
Of palace or of temple set apart;
The hallowed gaols of art,
Where low estate
Is never welcome; ever warmly bidden
To enter and abide. Far better hidden
Life’s earnest prime behind the factory gate.
Always the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Is overhead,
Like floating incense looming through the sky,
It tells the prayer of work goes on hard by
Where zeal new energies of life evokes;
While iron red
From earthy bed
Blackens to use beneath the smith’s firm strokes.
Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke,
Our lot is laid.
Our ever-flaming altar spreads on high
This great scroll as a witness in the sky
Of effort made.
Here, rare workmanship, we, day by day,
Strive to display,
Not heeding if our work make weal or woe.
We do our best,
Ye will the rest,
To meet whose wants me make our furnace glow.
Pleasant are our rough hands
That work the world’s demands
And never tire,
Bringing to shape forms past the quaintest dreaming.
Hot, and with grimy arms
We weave the Earth’s new charms,
Only a hymn of praise our toil esteeming.