With a pipe between his lips,
Two young dogs upon his hips,
Jogs along old Caspar Sly;
How that man can smoke,—oh, my!
But although the pipe-bowl glows
Red and hot beneath his nose;
Yet his heart is icy-cold;
How can earth such wretches hold!
"Of what earthly use to me
Can such brutes," he mutters, "be?
Do they earn their vittles? No!
'Tis high time I let 'em go.
What you don't want, fling away!
Them's my sentiments, I say!"
O'er the pond he silent bends,
For to drown them he intends.
With their legs the quadrupeds
Kick and squirm,—can't move their heads
And the inner voice speaks out:
How 't will end we gravely doubt.
Hubs!—an airy curve one makes;
Plish!—a headlong dive he takes.
Hubs!—the second follows suit;
Plum!—the wave engulfs the brute.
"That's well ended," Caspar cries,
Puffs away and homeward hies.
But, as often happens, here too
Things don't go as they appear to.
Paul and Peter,—so 'twas fated,—
Naked in the bushes waited
For a swim; and they descry
What was done by wicked Sly.
And like frogs they dove, kechunk,
Where the poor young dogs had sunk.
Quickly each one with his hand
Drags a little dog to land.
"Plish, I'll call my dog," cried Paul;
"Plum," said Peter, "mine I'll call."
Paul and Peter then with pleasure,
Tenderly took each his treasure,
And, with speed and joy past telling,
Steered for the parental dwelling.