Sigurd Our Golden Collie, and Other Comrades of the Road

Part 1

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SIGURD OUR GOLDEN COLLIE AND OTHER COMRADES OF THE ROAD

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

FAIRY GOLD THE RETINUE AND OTHER POEMS

E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

SIGURD OUR GOLDEN COLLIE

AND

OTHER COMRADES of the ROAD

By KATHARINE LEE BATES

NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY All Rights Reserved

First printing November, 1919 Second printing March, 1920

Printed in the United States of America

Transcriber's Note: In this e-text letters with macrons are preceded by an equal sign and enclosed in brackets, such as [=a] and [=o].

INSCRIBED

THE ONE WHOM SIGURD LOVED BEST

A few of the sketches and poems in this volume have already appeared in print. Acknowledgments are due to The Christian Endeavor World, Life, The Outlook and Scribner's Magazine.

CONTENTS

SIGURD OUR GOLDEN COLLIE

PAGE

Vigi 3

PUPPYHOOD 5

The Dogs of Bethlehem 28

GROWING UP 30

Laddie 55

THE CALL OF THE BLOOD 57

Sigurd's Meditations in the Church Porch 89

ADVENTURES 90

Part 2

The Heart of a Dog 120

HOME STUDIES 121

The Pleaders 144

COLLEGE CAREER 146

To Sigurd 174

FAREWELLS 177

To Joy-of-Life 215

OTHER COMRADES OF THE ROAD

The Pinegrove Path 218

ROBIN HOOD 219

Why the Spire Fell 246

AN EASTER CHICK 248

How Birds Were Made 270

TAKA AND KOMA 272

Warbler Weather 288

SUMMER RESIDENTS AT A WISCONSIN LAKE. BY KATHARINE COMAN 290

The Jester 304

EMILIUS 305

Hudson's Cat 322

CATASTROPHES 324

To Hamlet 349

HAMLET AND POLONIUS 350

SIGURD OUR GOLDEN COLLIE AND OTHER COMRADES OF THE ROAD

SIGURD OUR GOLDEN COLLIE

VIGI

Wisest of dogs was Vigi, a tawny-coated hound That King Olaf, warring over green hills of Ireland, found; His merry Norse were driving away a mighty herd For feasts upon the dragonships, when an isleman dared a word:

"From all those stolen hundreds, well might ye spare my score." "Ay, take them," quoth the gamesome king, "but not a heifer more. Choose out thine own, nor hinder us; yet choose without a slip." The isleman laughed and whistled, his finger at his lip.

Oh, swift the bright-eyed Vigi went darting through the herd And singled out his master's neat with a nose that never erred, And drave the star-marked twenty forth, to the wonder of the king, Who bought the hound right honestly, at the price of a broad gold ring.

Part 3

If the herddog dreamed of an Irish voice and of cattle on the hill, He told it not to Olaf the King, whose will was Vigi's will, But followed him far in faithful love and bravely helped him win His famous fight with Thorir Hart and Raud, the wizard Finn.

Above the clamor and the clang shrill sounded Vigi's bark, And when the groaning ship of Raud drew seaward to the dark, And Thorir Hart leapt to the land, bidding his rowers live Who could, Olaf and Vigi strained hard on the fugitive.

'Twas Vigi caught the runner's heel and stayed the windswift flight Till Olaf's well-hurled spear had changed the day to endless night For Thorir Hart, but not before his sword had stung the hound, Whom the heroes bore on shield to ship, all grieving for his wound.

Now proud of heart was Vigi to be borne to ship on shield, And many a day thereafter, when the bitter thrust was healed, Would the dog leap up on the Vikings and coax with his Irish wit Till 'mid laughter a shield was leveled, and Vigi rode on it.

PUPPYHOOD

"Only the envy was, that it lasted not still, or, now it is past, cannot by imagination, much less description, be recovered to a part of that spirit it had in the gliding by."

--Jonson's Masque of Hymen.

Sigurd was related to Vigi only by the line of Scandinavian literature. The Lady of Cedar Hill was enjoying the long summer daylights and marvelous rainbows of Norway, when word reached her that her livestock had been increased by the advent of ten puppies, and back there came for them all, by return mail, heroic names straight out of that splendid old saga of Burnt Njal.

But this is not the beginning of the story. Indeed, Sigurd's story probably emerges from a deeper distance than the story of mankind. Millions of glad creatures, his tawny ancestors, ranged the Highlands, slowly giving their wild hearts to the worship of man, and left no pedigree. The utmost of our knowledge only tells us that Sigurd's sire, the rough-coated collie Barwell Ralph (pronounced R[=a]fe), born September 3, 1894, was the son of Heather Ralph, a purple name with wind and ripples in it, himself the son of the sonorous Stracathro Ralph, whose parents were Christopher, a champion of far renown, and Stracathro Fancy; and of lovely Apple Blossom, offspring of Metchley Wonder and Grove Daisy. Ralph's mother of blessed memory was Aughton Bessie; her parents were Edgbarton Marvel, son of that same champion Christopher and Sweet Marie, and Wellesbourne Ada, in proudest Scotch descent from Douglas and Lady.

Sigurd's mother, Trapelo Dora, born May 16, 1900, was also a sable and white rough collie. Her sire, Barwell Masterpiece, son of Rightaway and Caermarther Lass, had for dashing grandsires Finsbury Pilot and Ringleader, and for gentle grandams, Miss Purdue and Jane. Her mother, Barwell Queenie, came of the great lineage of Southport Perfection and numbered among her ancestors a Beauty, a Princess and a Barwell Bess.

Those ten puppies, poor innocents, had something to live up to.

But their sire, Ralph, cared nothing for his distinguished progenitors, not even for that prize grandmother who had sold for eight hundred pounds, in comparison with the Lady of Cedar Hill, whom he frankly adored. His most blissful moments were those in which he was allowed to sit up on the lounge beside her, his paw in her palm, his head on her shoulder, his brown eyes rolling up to her face with a look of liquid ecstasy. He had been the guardian of Cedar Hill several years when Dora arrived. Shipped from those same Surrey kennels in which Ralph uttered his first squeal, her long journey over sea and land had been a fearsome experience. When the expressman dumped a travelworn box, labeled Live Dog, in the generous country house hall, and proceeded with some nervousness to knock off the slats, the assembled household grouped themselves behind the most reassuring pieces of furniture for protection against the outrush of a ferocious beast. But the delicate little collie that shot forth was herself in such terror that even the waiting dish of warm milk and bread, into which she splashed at once, could not allay her panic. From room to room she raced, hiding under sofas and behind screens, finding nothing that gave her peace, not even when she came up against a long mirror and fronted her own reflection, another scared little collie, which she tried to kiss with a puzzled tongue against the glass. Then in sauntered the lordly Ralph, whose indignant growl at the intruder died in his astonished throat as Dora confidingly flung herself upon him, leaping up and clinging to his well-groomed neck with grimy forelegs quivering for joy. Ralph was a dog who prided himself on his respectability. Affronted, shocked, he shook off this impudent young hussy, but homesick little Dora would not be repelled. Here, at last, was something she recognized, something that belonged to her lost world of the kennels. Let Ralph be as surly as he might, he had her perfect confidence from the outset, while the winsome Lady of Cedar Hill had to coax for days before Dora would make the first timid response to these strange overtures of human friendship.

As for Ralph, he decided to tolerate the nuisance and in course of time found her gypsy pranks amusing, even although she treated him with increasing levity. As he took his prolonged siesta, she would frisk about him, biting first one ear and then the other, till at last he would rise in magnificent menace and go chasing after her, his middle-aged dignity melting from him in the fun of the frolic, till his antics outcapered her own.

Dora's wits were brighter than his. If the Lady of Cedar Hill, after tossing a ball several times to the further end of the hall, for them to dash after in frantic emulation and bring back to her, only made a feint of throwing it, Ralph would hunt and hunt through the far corners of the room, while Dora, soon satisfying herself that the ball was not there, would dance back again and nose about the hands and pockets of her mistress, evidently concluding that the ball had not been thrown. Or if a door were closed upon them, Ralph would scratch long and furiously at its lower edge, while Dora, finding such efforts futile, would spring up and strike with her paw at the knob.

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