270 CHARCOAL S STOR Y.
My master, the smith, remembers too ;
I see on his grimy cheek, As he looks across at the cottage-door,
A pitiful tear-drawn streak. He, stooping, lays in a trembling way
His hand on my lifted head ; I look and whine, but we understand
Each thinks, of the school-boy dead.
"Prince" is the tawny and handsome hound
That comes with the hunting squire ; Smooth and well-fed, with a stable bed,
And a place by the kitchen fire. " The squire is going away," he said ;
He waited an hour to-day, While master carefully shod his mare In his slow, old-fashioned way.
I heard him say, with an oath or two,
" Put an end to that sorry cur ; Better buy my Prince he s a noble beast."
I heard, but I did not stir ; For I knew I was only a worn-out thing,
Not bright like the tawny hound, And I felt I would gladly go and die
On a short new churchyard mound.
"Well, squire" the strong arm rose and fell, The sparks from the anvil flew
"I s pose the critter that s lyin there Is not much account to you ;
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