How beautifully he closes his
loving tribute--
Ah, Blanco, did I worship God
As truly as you worship me,
Or follow where my Master trod
With your humility,
Did I sit fondly at his feet
As you, dear Blanco, sit at mine,
And watch him with a love as sweet,
My life would grow divine!
Almost all our great men have more than one dog in their homes. When I
spent a day with the Quaker poet at Danvers, I found he had three dogs.
Roger Williams, a fine Newfoundland, stood on the piazza with the
questioning, patronizing air of a dignified host; a bright-faced Scotch
terrier, Charles Dickens, peered at us from the window, as if glad of a
little excitement; while Carl, the graceful greyhound, was indolently
coiled up on a shawl and took little notice of us.
Whittier has also a pet cow, favorite and favored, which puts up her
handsome head for an expected caress. The kindly hearted old poet, so
full of tenderness for all created things, told me that years when nuts
were scarce he would put beech nuts and acorns here and there as he
walked over his farm, to cheer the squirrels by an unexpected find.
Miss Mitford's tribute to her defunct doggie shows to what a degree of
imbecility an old maid may carry fondness for her pets, but it is
pathetically amusing.
"My own darling Mossy's hair, cut off after he was dead by dear Drum,
August 22, 1819. He was the greatest darling that ever lived (son of
Maria and Mr.
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