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Seated 'round that old oak tree trunk,
Waiting for the light of day,
How the tales of desperate chases
Charm to drive dull sleep away.
Prowess of hounds that we once knew.
Dead or too old for the chase,
Seem to form a sacred memory
That time never can erase.
Dogs who seldom told a falsehood
On the trails or at the trees
Sure deserve the highest praises
And respected memories.
Taking life just as we find it.
When we reach the great trail's end,
Lucky is the man who reckons
Of more than one steadfast friend.
Lucky is the man who numbers,
In this world we journey in,
One whose heartthrobs beat in kindred,
One who'd fight through thick and thin.
As an acid test of friendship
Search through memory's catalogue,
And see just how many persons
As a pard rate with your dog.
G. H. Smith
Hunter-Trader-Trapper. October: 1921,
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