THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY 

 OF A PUPPY CALLED 



ANGELO 



SON, GRANDSON OF FAITHFUL FAMILY FRIENDS 



WHO FOUND EVEN A DACHSHUNd's BRAIN 



TOO SMALL 



FOR HIS INHERITANCE OF LARGER LIFE 



SO CHOSE INSTEAD 

 THE ILLIMITABLE LIBERTY OF DEATH. 



What was it, Angelo, you bore 

 Hid in your sun-brown eyes ? 

 A message from the skies ? 

 Ah no ! You knew no more 

 Than I 



The secret things that lie 

 Far on the further shore. 



What was it, dear one, that I loved 



In your quaint sun-brown face ? 



A spiritual grace ? 



Ah no ! Your small soul moved 



Apart. 



Even my loving art 



Knew not that sweet dim place. 



But now, my pretty, that you lie 



— Sun-roses on your grave — 



I understand ! Death gave 



The clue — Death was itself the tie 



Between 



Our seen and our unseen 



We meet there — you and I. 



1st January, 1903. 



