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 sat Little Breeches and chirped,
As peart as ever you see,
"I want a chaw of terbacker,
And that's what's the matter with me."
How did he get thar? Angels.
He could never have walked in that storm,
They just scooped down and toted him
To whar it was safe and warm;
And I think that saving a little child
And bringing him to his own,
Is a derned sight better business
Than loafing around the Throne.
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