PAPERSPAST

THAT PUG.

I'm fond of dogs, but there's one dog I hate — He's sitting now upon nay darling's knee, Whilst I, with throbbing brow and heart irate, Think how to rid me of mine enomj 1 -. The brute's a pug, his black tip-tilted nose Rests on her cheek; he licks her shellshaped ear ; He gnaws the petals of my gift — a rose ! That he must die to me is very clear. A time must come when, 'stead of fondling him, My head shall be by her fair hands caressed ; But ere that time he must be stiff of limb, And in his lowly grave be laid to rest. I know a skilful medicine-man, my chum, Who will administer to that small pug A soothing essence of potassium Which soon will lay him prone upon the rug. I know she'll moan, mayhap she'll wildly shriek ; Ah, then I'll soothe her in those hours of pain ; , And ere that bow-wow has been dead a week, I know her love will all be mine again.

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