Concerning Brownie

LET scoffers doubt it if they will —
Too real a little chap he moved,
And ran and romped, and wagged and loved,
Not to be somewhere still.
Granted he did not have a soul,
There’s surely some reward of merit
For having such a trustful spirit,
A friendship so heart-whole.

Of course he could not hope for heaven,
— He might not look on seraphim, —
But, somehow, I believe there’s given
A place his Maker meant for him;
That if we saw with clearer eyes,
And deeper mysteries had learned,
His small brown form might be discerned
Safe in some humble paradise.

Perched, cheerful, in a cozy niche
(Most like his cherished window-seat,
Cushioned and comforting) from which
He gazes on the pleasant street,
A wise and watchful wrinkle wearing
While all the old-time folk go post;
And pricks a prideful ear, at last,
And, all ecstatic, sets abeat
A celebrating tail — keen hearing
The fall of dear familiar feet.

I cannot find it in my creed,
Yet very plain it seems to me
That, off, away at topmost speed,
Afire with hospitality,
He deems himself, and is, indeed,
The little dog he used to be.