Little Breeches

I don’t go much on religion,   I never ain’t had no show; But I ’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,   On the handful o’ things I know. I don’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 sarched 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-critter’s 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.