Weary war with bated breath! Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death! Months of torture, how many such! Weary weeks of the stick and crutch! And still the glint of the steel-blue eye Told of a spirit that wouldn't die, And didn't--nay more, in Death's despite The crippled skeleton learned to write. "Dear Mother," at first, of course, and then, "Dear Captain," asking about the men. Captain's answer, "Of eighty and five, Giffin and I are still alive." "Johnston's pressed at the front," they say-- Little Giffin was up and away. A tear, the first, as he bade good-bye, Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. "I'll write, if spared."--There was news of fight, But none of Giffin--he didn't write. I sometimes fancy that when I'm king, And my gallant courtiers form a ring, Each so careless of power and pelf, Each so thoughtful for all but self, I'd give the best on his bended knee-- Yes, barter them all, for the loyalty Of Little Giffin of Tennessee. LITTLE BREECHES A PIKE COUNTY VIEW OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE By JOHN HAY [Footnote: John Hay was born in Indiana, and in 1861 became the law- partner of Abraham Lincoln, and for the greater part of the time during the latter's life as president of the United States, acted as his private secretary. After the War he held various political offices and was an editorial Writer on the New York Tribune. He became known for his unusual tact and foresight, and finally became secretary of state. He is well known, too, for his writings, the most notable of which is his _Abraham Lincoln_, which was written in company with John G Nicolay. Besides this he wrote a number of humorous poems, of which _Little Breeches_ is perhaps the best known.] 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. [Illustration: Went team, Little Breeches, and all] I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,-- No four-year-old in the country Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,-- And I'd larnt him ter 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.