Page:All quiet along the Potomac and other poems.djvu/276

 270 CHARCOAL S STOR Y.

My master, the smith, remembers too ;

I see on his grimy cheek, As he looks across at the cottage-door,

A pitiful tear-drawn streak. He, stooping, lays in a trembling way

His hand on my lifted head ; I look and whine, but we understand

Each thinks, of the school-boy dead.

&quot;Prince&quot; is the tawny and handsome hound

That comes with the hunting squire ; Smooth and well-fed, with a stable bed,

And a place by the kitchen fire. &quot; The squire is going away,&quot; he said ;

He waited an hour to-day, While master carefully shod his mare In his slow, old-fashioned way.

I heard him say, with an oath or two,

&quot; Put an end to that sorry cur ; Better buy my Prince he s a noble beast.&quot;

I heard, but I did not stir ; For I knew I was only a worn-out thing,

Not bright like the tawny hound, And I felt I would gladly go and die

On a short new churchyard mound.

&quot;Well, squire&quot; the strong arm rose and fell, The sparks from the anvil flew

&quot;I s pose the critter that s lyin there Is not much account to you ;

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