Mouth of silver, and skin of satin,
      Foot as fleet as an arrow’s flight,
    Statue-still at the call of “steady,”
      Eyes as clear as the stars of night. 
    Laughing breadths of the yellow stubble
      Now shall rustle to alien tread,
    And rabbits run in the dew-dim clover
      Safe—­for my beautiful lieth dead.

    “Only a dog!” do you say, Sir Critic? 
      Only a dog, but as truth I prize,
    The truest love I have won in living
      Lay in the deeps of her limpid eyes. 
    Frosts of winter nor heat of summer
      Could make her fail if my footsteps led;
    And memory holds in its treasure-casket
      The name of my darling who lieth dead.

S. M. A. C. in Evening Post.

* * * * *

THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND.

    As fly the shadows o’er the grass,
      He flies with step as light and sure. 
    He hunts the wolf through Tostan Pass,
      And starts the deer by Lisanoure. 
    The music of the Sabbath bells,
      O Con! has not a sweeter sound,
    Than when along the valley swells
      The cry of John McDonnell’s hound.

    His stature tall, his body long,
      His back like night, his breast like snow,
    His fore leg pillar-like and strong,
      His hind leg bended like a bow;
    Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,
      His ear a leaf so small and round;
    Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,
      Could rival John McDonnell’s hound.

DENIS FLORENCE MACCARTHY.

* * * * *

SIX FEET.

    My little rough dog and I
      Live a life that is rather rare,
    We have so many good walks to take,
      And so few bad things to bear;
    So much that gladdens and recreates,
      So little of wear and tear.

    Sometimes it blows and rains,
      But still the six feet ply;
    No care at all to the following four
      If the leading two knows why,
    ’Tis a pleasure to have six feet we think,
      My little rough dog and I.

    And we travel all one way;
      ’Tis a thing we should never do,
    To reckon the two without the four,
      Or the four without the two;
    It would not be right if any one tried,
      Because it would not be true.

    And who shall look up and say,
      That it ought not so to be,
    Though the earth that is heaven enough for him,
      Is less than that to me,
    For a little rough dog can wake a joy
      That enters eternity.

Humane Journal.

* * * * *

THERE’S ROOM ENOUGH FOR ALL.