From a witless puppy I brought thee up: gave thee fire and food, and taught thee the self-respect of an honest dog. Hear, then, my commandments: I am thy master: thou shalt have no other masters before me. Where I go, shalt thou follow; where I abide, tarry thou also. My house is thy castle; thou shalt honor it; guard it with thy life if need be. By daylight, suffer all that approach peaceably to enter without protest. But after nightfall thou shalt give tongue when men draw near. Use not thy teeth on any man without good cause and intolerable provocation; and never on women or children. Honor thy master and thy mistress, that thy days may be long in the land. Thou shalt not consort with mongrels, nor with dogs that are common or unclean. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not feed upon refuse or stray bits: thy meat waits thee regularly in the kitchen. Thou shalt not bury bones in the flower beds. Cats are to be chased, but in sport only; seek not to devour them: their teeth and claws are deadly. Thou shalt not snap at my neighbor, nor at his wife, nor his child, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor do harm to aught that is his. The drawing-room rug is not for thee, nor the sofa, nor the best armchair. Thou hast the porch and thy own kennel. But for the love I bear thee, there is always a corner for thee by the winter fire. Meditate on these commandments day and night; so shalt thou be a dog of good breeding and an honor to thy master. THE VALUE OF CRITICISM Our friend Dove Dulcet, the well-known sub-caliber poet, has recently issued a slender volume of verses called _Peanut Butter_. He thinks we may be interested to see the comment of the press on his book. We don't know why he should think so, but anyway here are some of the reviews: Buffalo _Lens_: Mr. Dulcet is a sweet singer, and we could only wish there were twice as many of these delicately rhymed fancies. There is not a poem in the book that does not exhibit a tender grasp of the beautiful homely emotions. Perhaps the least successful, however, is that entitled "On Losing a Latchkey." Syracuse _Hammer and Tongs_: This little book of savage satires will rather dismay the simple-minded reader. Into the acid vials of his song Mr. Dulcet has poured a bitter cynicism. He seems to us to be an irremediable pessimist, a man of brutal and embittered life. In one poem, however, he does soar to a very fine imaginative height. This is the ode "On Losing a Latchkey," which is worth all the rest of the pieces put together. New York _Reaping Hook_: It is odd that Mr. Dove Dulcet, of Philadelphia we believe should have been able to find a publisher for this volume. These queer little doggerels have an instinctive affinity for oblivion, and they will soon coalesce with the driftwood of the literary Sargasso Sea. Among many bad things we can hardly remember ever to have seen anything worse than "On Losing a Latchkey."