I WAS walking in the sun, my day's work

done.

And the great world rolled like a wheel,

When a cur came yapping, came yap-yap-

yapping.

When a cur came yapping at my heel.

Along the pleasant way where the little folk

play.

Past the church, where the grown folk

kneel.

The tiresome, monotonous, interminable yap-

ping,

The yapping of the cur at my heel!

Were he hungry I would feed him at my cot

hard by,

Where are hearts that have hungred and

can feel.

He is fed as well as I am, and housed as well

as I,

And his pastime is yapping at one's

heel.

Shall I send him all asprawl from my good

stout shoe,

Turn his yapping to a yelping and a

squeal?

Nay, leave him to the thing Fate fashioned

him to do—

His dog's-work of yapping at one's heel.

For God made the arrows that around life

whirr.

And the thunders that above life peal,

And He made, too, the miserable, mangy little

cur,

And its instinct for yapping at one's heel.