By Waldron Baily
In the kennel pen I sit,
Thinking, my master dear, of you!
Hoping soon to hear your step,
And see your face so kind and true.
How I long for you to come,
And take me for a jolly run;
Thoughts of prison bars will go;
I know for us ’twill be great fun.
Food and care that can’t be beat;
You-all surely treat us fine;
But this pent-up stuff I can’t endure,
Nor can the other nine!
American Field, Saturday, April 13 1935