Little Poems in Prose

L IN PRAISE OF GOOD DOGS I HAVE never blushed, even in the presence of the young writers of my age, for my admira- tion for Buffon. But to-day it is not the soul of this painter of the stately side of Nature that I wish to call to my aid. Much more readily would I address myself to Sterne, and say to him, “Descend from Heaven or rise towards me from the Elysian Fields to inspire me with a song in favour of good dogs, of poor dogs, which shall be worthy of thee, sentimental jester, incomparable jester. Come back astride that famous ass which ever accompanies thee in the memory of posterity, and above all, let this ass not forget to carry delicately between his lips his immor- tal macaroon. Back, O academic Muse! I have no use for you, old prude. I invoke the familiar Muse, the hackneyed Muse, the living Muse, to help me to sing of the good dogs, the poor dogs, the sorry dogs, the dogs that everyone kicks away as pestiferous and lousy, except the poor man