When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said,
  At home, we needn’t go that day), and none
  Of us ate any breakfast—­only one,
  And that was Papa—­and his eyes were red
  When he came round where we were, by the shed
  Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun
  And half way in the shade.  When we begun
  To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head
  And went away; and Mamma, she went back
  Into the kitchen.  Then, for a long while,
  All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried. 
  We thought so many good things of Old Jack,
  And funny things—­although we didn’t smile—­We
  couldn’t only cry when Old Jack died.

II.

  When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend
  Had suddenly gone from us; that some face
  That we had loved to fondle and embrace
  From babyhood, no more would condescend
  To smile on us forever.  We might bend
  With tearful eyes above him, interlace
  Our chubby fingers o’er him, romp and race,
  Plead with him, call and coax—­aye, we might send
  The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist,
  (If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain,
  Snapped thumbs, called “speak,” and he had not replied;
  We might have gone down on our knees and kissed
  The tousled ears, and yet they must remain
  Deaf, motionless, we knew—­when Old Jack died.

III.

  When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way,
  That all the other dogs in town were pained
  With our bereavement, and some that were chained,
  Even, unslipped their collars on that day
  To visit Jack in state, as though to pay
  A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned
  Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned
  To sigh “Poor dog!” remembering how they
  Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because,
  For love of them he leaped to lick their hands—­
  Now, that he could not, were they satisfied? 
  We children thought that, as we crossed his paws,
  And o’er his grave, ’way down the bottom-lands,
  Wrote “Our First Love Lies Here,” when Old Jack died.

DOC SIFERS.

  Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-’ere town
  Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes’ take him up and down! 
  Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear,
  And Sifers’ standin’s jes’ as good as ary doctor’s there!

  There’s old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh,
  But I’ll buck Sifers ’ginst ’em all and down ’em any day! 
  Most old Wick ever knowed, I s’pose, was whisky! Wurgler—­well,
  He et morphine—­ef actions shows, and facts’ reliable!

  But Sifers—­though he ain’t no sot, he’s got his faults; and yit
  When you git Sifers one’t, you’ve got a doctor, don’t fergit! 
  He ain’t much at his office, er his house, er anywhere
  You’d natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.—­