I.— THE FIRST FUNERAL

The whole field was so smelly;

We smelt the poor dog first:

His horrid swollen belly

Looked just like going burst.

His fur was most untidy;

He had n't any eyes.

It happened on Good Friday

And there was lots of flies.

And then I felt the coldest

I'd ever felt, and sick,

But Rose,‘ cause she's the oldest,

Dared poke him with her stick.

He felt quite soft and horrid:

The flies buzzed round his head

And settled on his forehead:

Rose whispered: “That dog's dead.

“You bury all dead people,

When they're quite really dead,

Round churches with a steeple:

Let's bury this,” Rose said.

“And let's put mint all round it

To hide the nasty smell.”

I went to look and found it —

Lots, growing near the well.

We poked him through the clover

Into a hole, and then

We threw brown earth right over

And said: “Poor dog, Amen!”