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Poem	Each day when it's anighing three Old Dick looks at the clock, Then proudly brings my stick to me To mind me of our walk. And in his doggy rapture he Does everything but talk. But since I lack his zip and zest My old bones often tire; And so I ventured to suggest Today we hug the fire. But with what wailing he expressed The death of his desire! He gazed at me with eyes of woe As if to say: 'Old boy, You mustn't lose your grip, you know, Let us with laughing joy, On heath and hill six miles or so Our legs and lungs employ.' And then his bark was stilled to a sigh He flopped upon the floor; But such a soft old mug am I I threw awide the door; So gaily, though the wind was high We hiked across the moor.
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