Of created beings dogs are the only ones who have souls. There is a heaven for dogs, but for no one else. There are no cats in heaven; and for that matter, very few dogs; but I hope to be one of them; for there the dogs have meaty bones, and bark all day long, making sweet music. This is the Dogs’ creed. All who believe it will go to Bone-land; and all who do not, will be hung up with the cats in the back garden. Bow-wow! SMOKE. THE IRONWORKERS. UNDER the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Our work is wrought; Fashion’d strong with every sturdy stroke That does wild music from the roofs provoke In echoes brought. A rare bold sport Rather than labour stern, or blunting task; A toil to ask Not blench from. Merrily round the fire We work our will, Producing still Some new form daily to our hearts’ desire. Delicate iron bands That, as with fairy hands, Heavenward aspire To carry roofs, sun pierced and ever gleaming, Wherein the varied race Of fruit or flowers finds place, While the weak Northern rays through mist are streaming. Or lofty gate Of palace or of temple set apart; The hallowed gaols of art, Where low estate Is never welcome; ever warmly bidden To enter and abide. Far better hidden Life’s earnest prime behind the factory gate. Always the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Is overhead, Like floating incense looming through the sky, It tells the prayer of work goes on hard by Where zeal new energies of life evokes; While iron red From earthy bed Blackens to use beneath the smith’s firm strokes. Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Our lot is laid. Our ever-flaming altar spreads on high This great scroll as a witness in the sky Of effort made. Here, rare workmanship, we, day by day, Strive to display, Not heeding if our work make weal or woe. We do our best, Ye will the rest, To meet whose wants me make our furnace glow. Pleasant are our rough hands That work the world’s demands And never tire, Bringing to shape forms past the quaintest dreaming. Hot, and with grimy arms We weave the Earth’s new charms, Only a hymn of praise our toil esteeming. Under the rolling smoke, the brave black smoke, Our work is wrought; Not a cloud, the summer air to choke, But banner of our craft, the floating smoke Ensigns our labour, with bright meanings fraught. WHEREFORE HORRIBLE SPRING? _From Béranger_. WHEN winter was here, from my window on high I saw her sweet face up at hers where she sat. We never had met, but ’twas plain she and I From falling in love were not hinder’d by that. Between the bare boughs of these lindens how oft Kind kisses we blew I’ve no patience to sing, For there are the leaves now all quiv’ring aloft— Ah! why are you here again, horrible Spring?