nd a su'thing grabbed at my hair,
Grabbed at my hair and loosed it, and grabbed me agin by the throat,
And she was a-holdin' my 'ed up, and somehow I kep' afloat.
I can't tell yer 'ow she done it, for I never knowed no more
Till somebody seized my collar, and give me a lug ashore;
And my head was queer and dizzy, but I see as the bitch was weak,
And she lay on her side a-pantin', waitin' for me to speak.

What did I do with her, eh? You'd a-hardly need to ax,
But I sold my barrer a Monday, and paid the bloomin' tax.

That's right, Mr. Preacher, pat her--you ain't not afeared of her now!--
Dang this here tellin' of stories--look at the muck on my brow.

I'm weaker, an' weaker, an' weaker; I fancy the end ain't fur,
But you know why here on my deathbed I think o' the Lord and her,
And he who, by men's hands tortured, uttered that prayer divine,
'Ull pardon me linkin' him like with a dawg as forgave like mine.
When the Lord in his mercy calls me to my last eternal pitch,
I know as you'll treat her kindly--promise to take my bitch!

GEORGE R. SIMS.

THE DOG OF THE LOUVRE

With gentle tread, with uncovered head,
Pass by the Louvre gate,
Where buried lie the "men of July,"
And flowers are hung by the passers-by,
And the dog howls desolate.

That dog had fought in the fierce onslaught,
Had rushed with his master on,
And both fought well;
But the master fell,
And behold the surviving one!

By his lifeless clay,
Shaggy and gray,
His fellow-warrior stood;
Nor moved beyond,
But mingled fond
Big tears with his master's blood.

Vigil he keeps
By those green heaps
That tell where heroes lie.
No passer-by
Can attract his eye,
For he knows it is not He!

At the dawn, when dew
Wets the garlands new
That are hung in this place of mourning,
He will start to meet
The coming feet
Of him whom he dreamt returning.

On the grave's wood-cross
When the chaplets toss,
By the blast of midnight shaken,
How he howleth! hark!
From that dwelling dark
The slain he would fain awaken.

When the snow comes fast
On the chilly blast,
Blanching the bleak church-yard,
With limbs outspread
On the dismal bed
Of his liege, he still keeps guard.

Oft in the night,
With main and might,
He strives to raise the stone;
Short respite takes:
"If master wakes,
He'