THE PRIZE POEM

Radio Record, Volume I, Issue 15, 28 October 1927, Page 15

THE PRIZE POEM

"SPOT." He was just a little doggy, with a wriggling, stumpy tail, But if you were to call him, to come, . he wouldn't fail; I loved this little doggy, stumpy tail or not, And half of my affections were given to our Spot. He never could agree with our fluffy Persian cat, But, as he was a dog, it can’t be wondered at! He would chase her down the garden and then she’d climb a tree, . Looking very disgusted he would then velurn to me. I’d take him to the river and let him have a swint, I remember well how cogerly he’d take a big dive in; Then I would take him in a punt for a jolly river ride, For he slways was so happy when nestling by my side. His dear big doggy eyes would look so tenderly at tmine, And from ‘heir great brown depths pure faithfulness would shine, Sometimes he’d catch a rabbit, and, looking up at me, The expression on his face would say, ‘Here! Take this for your tea." He lived to quite a ripe old age, and when he died at last I though my heart was breaking, my tears fell thick and fast; And now out in the garden is a little flower-grown plot, With a stone on which is written, "Here lies our doggy-S pot." ~-Fileen Hurrell (aged 14 years).