HE will not come," said the gentle child,
And she patted the poor dog's head,
And she pleasantly called him and fondly smiled,
But he heeded her not, in his anguish wild,
Nor arose from his lowly bed.
'Twas his master's grave where he chose to rest,
He guarded it night and day,
The love that glowed in his grateful breast,
For the friend who had fed, controlled, carest,
Might never fade away.
And when the long grass rustled near,
Beneath some hasting tread,
He started up with a quivering ear,
For he thought 'twas the step of his master dear,
Returning from the dead.
But sometimes when a storm drew nigh,
And the clouds were dark and fleet,
He tore the turf with a mournful cry,
As if he would force his way, or die,
To his much-loved master's feet.
So there through the summer's heat he lay
Till autumn nights grew bleak,
Till his eye grew dim with his hope's decay
And he pined, and pined, and wasted away,
A skeleton gaunt and weak.
And oft the pitying children brought
Their offerings of meat and bread,
And to coax him away to their homes they sought,
But his buried master he ne'er forgot,
Nor strayed from his lonely bed.
Cold winter came with an angry sway,
And the snow lay deep and sore,
Then his moaning grew fainter day by day,
Till close where the broken tomb-stone lay,
He fell, to rise no more.
And when he struggled with mortal pain,
And Death was by his side,
With one loud cry that shook the plain,
He called for his master;—but called in vain,
Then stretched himself and died.
Mrs. Sigourney.
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