Classic Poem

He was such a little puppy, in a window of a shop,
And his wistful eyes looked at me, and they begged me please to stop
And buy him—for a window's awful lonely, and folk pass
And they make strange, ugly faces and rap sharply on the glass!

He was such a cunning beggar, and his paws were soft and wide,
And he had a way of standing with his head held on one side,
And his mouth just slightly open, and he always seemed to cry:
“Take me from this horrid window, 'cause I'm ready, most to die!”

He got tangled in my heart-strings, made me want to break away
From the lease I signed so gladly—was it only yesterday?
Said that dogs were not admitted. . . . He was not a dog, not yet!
Only just a tiny puppy—and his nose was black and wet.

Did you ever speak unkindly of the friend you hold most dear?
Did you ever call out crossly, so that bystanders could hear?
Did you ever pull a curtain to shut out the smiling day?
That's how I felt—but more so—as I turned and walked away!