THE DAY OF THE DOG

In a sheltered spot of a sunny street, I saw on a wintry morn, A meeting of dogs of every degree, Both nobly and humbly born. A paper thrown on the sidewalk down Engaged them all to stay, And they listened the while a mastiff read,— “The dogs are having their day!” “The place of the dog,” so the paper said, “Has been a precarious one, Dependent on birth, upon personal charm, And not upon duty done; But now that a dog is judged by his work, These things have vanished away. The mongrel pup is as good as the rest,— The dogs are having their day!” “And what is this work?” asked a tiny Skye; “Is it anything strange or new? We always have served with all of our hearts, We always have been true blue.” “’Tis soldier work,” a Newfoundland cried, “So all of the papers say; Just hear what the mastiff is going to read,— The dogs are having their day!” “A shepherd dog,” the chronicle says, “Two miles and a half ran he, In minutes ten, through a storm of shell, For help for his Company. A nameless dog, of no descent, Rushed into the thick of the fray, And dragged a wounded soldier back,— The dogs are having their day!” “They went as searchers through No Man’s Land, They guarded the loaded wains; Courageous, loyal, they kept their watch O’er the wounded in railway trains; They served as sentinels, none could pass Where they crouched and sleepless lay; They carried messages far and fast,— The dogs are having their day!” I listened a while as the mastiff read, For he paid little heed to me, And his audience greeted with barks of joy, Each proof of efficiency; The dog-star is riding high, I thought, And though it was long on the way, The faithful at last are receiving their meed,— The dogs are having their day!