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.