SNOOTS
Say—have you ever given thoughtTo snoots—just snoots? Most likely not!There’s so much else to think aboutThat snoots get crowded out.An uncouth thingAnd yet most interestingSomehow, and so of snoots I singAnd of that strange, instinctive sense—Mute marvel of God’s providence!Now take a snoot that’s prowled aroundLike old Pete’s there—along the groundAnd through the brush from log to log—The plain snoot of a common dog.How often, knocking through the wood,Deep in the maples I have stoodStock still—and watched that canny brute.Tense to the trail, by rock and root,Zigzagging now, then onward straight!Not once there would he hesitate.Eyes to the earth, alert and quick,By briar, branch and broken stick,Till pausing short, with one glad boundAnd switching tail—his quarry found,He sprang to meetHis master, crouching at his feet,At last content.And this strange thing—you call itscentThe leaves are trodden by a boot,A little later comes a snoot,And quick as thought it sniffs the air,The soil, and sifts the odors there.A hundred kinds of smells we’ll say,The mould, the moss, the worms, the clayThe drying leaves, the twigs and stones,The fallen needles and the cones,The little flowers, the growing plants.The bugs, the chipmunks and the ants;And yet that sniffing snoot could tellAmong all these, the one faint smellThat lingered vaguely in the wakeThat two swift-striding boots might make.You marvel at his skill when he,The master of a symphony,Detects one jarring note that comesUp through the beat of many drums,And tambourines and banging things,And blaring brass and whining strings;You cite some instance of the kindTo eulogize the human mind—To show attainment absolute!I point you to my Peter’s snoot—Upon my lap he comes to layIts cold, damp tip, still smeared with clay.Oh, all you hordes of furry brutes,Be glad you’re blessed with telltale snoots,So nicely tuned that with a sniffOf earth or air, you catch the whiffOf danger there. You mountain sheep,Superb upon your rocky steep;You splendid elk, far domiciledIn mountain fastness, coursing wild;You bonny deer and monster moose,Brandless, unfenced, will-free and loose;You wolves couched in your rock-ribbed lairs;You blubber-padded, big-pawed bears;You foxes tunneled deep in roots,Wise was the God Who gave you snoots!
Say—have you ever given thoughtTo snoots—just snoots? Most likely not!There’s so much else to think aboutThat snoots get crowded out.An uncouth thingAnd yet most interestingSomehow, and so of snoots I singAnd of that strange, instinctive sense—Mute marvel of God’s providence!Now take a snoot that’s prowled aroundLike old Pete’s there—along the groundAnd through the brush from log to log—The plain snoot of a common dog.How often, knocking through the wood,Deep in the maples I have stoodStock still—and watched that canny brute.Tense to the trail, by rock and root,Zigzagging now, then onward straight!Not once there would he hesitate.Eyes to the earth, alert and quick,By briar, branch and broken stick,Till pausing short, with one glad boundAnd switching tail—his quarry found,He sprang to meetHis master, crouching at his feet,At last content.And this strange thing—you call itscentThe leaves are trodden by a boot,A little later comes a snoot,And quick as thought it sniffs the air,The soil, and sifts the odors there.A hundred kinds of smells we’ll say,The mould, the moss, the worms, the clayThe drying leaves, the twigs and stones,The fallen needles and the cones,The little flowers, the growing plants.The bugs, the chipmunks and the ants;And yet that sniffing snoot could tellAmong all these, the one faint smellThat lingered vaguely in the wakeThat two swift-striding boots might make.You marvel at his skill when he,The master of a symphony,Detects one jarring note that comesUp through the beat of many drums,And tambourines and banging things,And blaring brass and whining strings;You cite some instance of the kindTo eulogize the human mind—To show attainment absolute!I point you to my Peter’s snoot—Upon my lap he comes to layIts cold, damp tip, still smeared with clay.Oh, all you hordes of furry brutes,Be glad you’re blessed with telltale snoots,So nicely tuned that with a sniffOf earth or air, you catch the whiffOf danger there. You mountain sheep,Superb upon your rocky steep;You splendid elk, far domiciledIn mountain fastness, coursing wild;You bonny deer and monster moose,Brandless, unfenced, will-free and loose;You wolves couched in your rock-ribbed lairs;You blubber-padded, big-pawed bears;You foxes tunneled deep in roots,Wise was the God Who gave you snoots!
Say—have you ever given thoughtTo snoots—just snoots? Most likely not!There’s so much else to think aboutThat snoots get crowded out.An uncouth thingAnd yet most interestingSomehow, and so of snoots I singAnd of that strange, instinctive sense—Mute marvel of God’s providence!
Now take a snoot that’s prowled aroundLike old Pete’s there—along the groundAnd through the brush from log to log—The plain snoot of a common dog.How often, knocking through the wood,Deep in the maples I have stoodStock still—and watched that canny brute.Tense to the trail, by rock and root,Zigzagging now, then onward straight!Not once there would he hesitate.Eyes to the earth, alert and quick,By briar, branch and broken stick,Till pausing short, with one glad boundAnd switching tail—his quarry found,He sprang to meetHis master, crouching at his feet,At last content.And this strange thing—you call itscent
The leaves are trodden by a boot,A little later comes a snoot,And quick as thought it sniffs the air,The soil, and sifts the odors there.A hundred kinds of smells we’ll say,The mould, the moss, the worms, the clayThe drying leaves, the twigs and stones,The fallen needles and the cones,The little flowers, the growing plants.The bugs, the chipmunks and the ants;And yet that sniffing snoot could tellAmong all these, the one faint smellThat lingered vaguely in the wakeThat two swift-striding boots might make.
You marvel at his skill when he,The master of a symphony,Detects one jarring note that comesUp through the beat of many drums,And tambourines and banging things,And blaring brass and whining strings;You cite some instance of the kindTo eulogize the human mind—To show attainment absolute!I point you to my Peter’s snoot—Upon my lap he comes to layIts cold, damp tip, still smeared with clay.
Oh, all you hordes of furry brutes,Be glad you’re blessed with telltale snoots,So nicely tuned that with a sniffOf earth or air, you catch the whiffOf danger there. You mountain sheep,Superb upon your rocky steep;You splendid elk, far domiciledIn mountain fastness, coursing wild;You bonny deer and monster moose,Brandless, unfenced, will-free and loose;You wolves couched in your rock-ribbed lairs;You blubber-padded, big-pawed bears;You foxes tunneled deep in roots,Wise was the God Who gave you snoots!