QUESTIONS
Is there not something in the pleading eye Of the poor brute that suffers, which arraigns The law that bids it suffer? Has it not A claim for some remembrance in the book That fills its pages with the idle words Spoken of man? Or is it only clay, Bleeding and aching in the potter's hand, Yet all his own to treat it as he will, And when he will to cast it at his feet, Shattered, dishonored, lost for evermore? My dog loves me, but could he look beyond His earthly master, would his love extend To Him who--hush! I will not doubt that He Is better than our fears, and will not wrong The least, the meanest of created things.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
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