The Farm’s Lost Pup.

The Farm’s Lost Pup.
369.2

He was lost!-not a shade of a doubt of that:
For he never barked at a slinking cat,
But stood in the square where the wind blew raw
With a drooping ear and a trembling: paw,
And a mournful look in his pleading eye
And a plaintive sniff at the passerby
That begged as plain as tongue could sue,
“O, mister! please may I follow you?”
A lorn wee walf of tawny brown
Adrift in the roar of a heedless town.
O, the saddest of sights in a world of sin
Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked in.
-Arthur Guiterman.