From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 30, 1912. “Come, wife,” said good old farmer Gray, “Put on your things, ’tis market day; And we’ll be off to the nearest town, There and back ere the sun goes down. Spot? No, we’ll leave old Spot behind.” But Spot he barked and Spot he whined, And soon made up his doggish mind To follow under the wagon. Away they went at a good round pace, And joy came into the farmer’s face, “Poor Spot,” said he, “did want to come, But I’m awful glad he’s left at home. He’ll guard the barn, and guard the colt, And keep the cattle out of the lot.” “I’m not so sure of that,” thought Spot. The dog under the wagon. The farmer all his produce sold And got his pay in yellow gold; Home through the lonely forest. Hark! A robber springs from behind a tree: “Your money or else your life,” says he. The moon was up, but he didn’t see The dog under the wagon. Spot ne’er barked and Spot ne’er whined But quickly caught the thief behind; He dragged him down into the dirt And tore his coat and tore his shirt, Then held him fast on the miry ground; The robber uttered not a sound While his hands and feet the farmer bound And tumbled him into the wagon. So Spot he saved the farmer’s life, The farmer’s money, the farmer’s wife, And now a hero grand and gay, A silver collar he wears today. Among his friends, among his foes— And everywhere his master goes— He follows on his horny toes, The dog under the wagon.