He sits — his open Bible on his knee,
Nell, his old whippet, curled up at his feet —
Muttering at whiles and nodding drowsily
Over the damped slack-fire that dully burns
In the little grate: then shifting in his seat
He lifts the book with shaky hands, his head
Wagging with eagerness, and, fumbling, turns
From the tenth chapter of Genesis, unread,
To the well-thumbed flyleaf at the back, to pore
With spectacled, weak, reverent eyes once more,
Lest it escape his failing memory,
On Nell's proud scrawl-recorded pedigree.