LITTLE BREECHES.

I do n't go much on religion,

I never ai n't had no show;

But I've got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,

On the handful o’ things I know.

I do n't pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing, -

But I b'lieve in God and the angels,

Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,

And my little Gabe come along, -

No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong,

Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight, -

And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker

Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket

As I passed by Taggart's store;

I went in for a jug of molasses

And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started, -

I heard one little squall,

And hell-to-split over the prairie

Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer;

But we rousted up some torches,

And searched for‘ em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon,

Snowed under a soft white mound,

Upsot, dead beat,— but of little Gabe

No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me,

Of my fellow-critters’ aid, -

I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,

Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out,

And me and Isrul Parr

Went off for some wood to a sheepfold

That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed

Where they shut up the lambs at night.

We looked in and seen them huddled thar,

So warm and sleepy and white;

And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,

As peart as ever you see,

“I want a chaw of terbacker,

And that's what's the matter of me.”

How did he git thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm;

They jest scooped down and toted him

To whar it was safe and warm.

And I think that saving a little child,

And fotching him to his own,

Is a derned sight better business

Than loafing around The Throne.