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.
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