Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
BessOrrick Johns
T
But she had head and nose and points enough
To make her a queen, a fine queen with a ruff
Of satin and gold, you’d say, instead of fur.
She was so shy she’d keep for whole days hid.
Folks wanted a dog to do better than she did,
And thought it stubborn ungrateful, like as not.
And win her, and thought he’d keep her in the shed;
“Somebody’s skeert her,” he’d say and wag his head.
He’d no more luck than others had, had Dede.
And no doubt dreamful of her pups to come.
One night she crept up shivering and dumb,
And he saw her crouching underneath the rig.
She’d cry and laugh together for the fun
Of feeling his hand on her, and then she’d run
Like a curled streak of gold, that made him wild!
And other folk grew soft to her a bit.
She was a beauty, that was all of it,
And Dede was envied while the dogs were small.
And Bess got offish as she was before.
Deed lured and wheedled and shook his fist and swore—
His talk was somewhat strong when he was driven.
She’d come to him and be a little saint,
Having her young; and then the crazy taint
Would get her when the young ones were turned out.
When she’d go shy again. He’d curse her leather,
Then at the sight of her like a tawny feather
Off in the field, he’d whine, “Hyuh, Bess!—come, Bess!”
The fellow was five-foot-ten and like an ox;
Fearful to see too; pitted by smallpox—
Well, he broke up for days that time, and cried.