Little Poems in Prose

dened their stomachs with a tasty and solid soup? And will you not forgive a little sensual- ity in these poor devils who must all day con- front the intelligence of the public and the in- justice of a manager who keeps the fat part for himself, and who eats more soup than four comedians? How many times have I contemplated with a smile on my lips and tenderness in my heart all these four-legged philosophers, complai- sant, submissive or devoted slaves which the republican dictionary might equally well call “worthies,” if only the republic who, too much occupied with the happiness of men, had time to think of the honour of dogs. And how many times have I thought that there was perhaps somewhere—who knows af- ter all?—to recompense so much courage, so much patience, so much toil, a special Paradise for the good dogs, the poor dogs, the sorry and unfriendly dogs. Does not Swedenborg say that there is one for Turks and another for Dutchmen? The shepherds of Virgil and Theocritus ex- pected as the prize of their successive songs a good cheese, a flute by the best maker, or a she-goat with swollen dugs. The poet who sang of the poor dogs received as his reward a fine waistcoat, of a colour at once rich and faded,