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 marrowbones, 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, An’ 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, An’ fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne. * * * * * JIM BLUDSO.¹ OF “THE PRAIRIE BELLE.” WALL, no; I can’t tell you whar he lives, Because he don’t live, you see; Leastways, he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle? He weren’t no saint――them engineers Is all pretty much alike―― One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied―― I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had―― To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire―― A thousand times he swore, He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.