"Take him and welcome," the surgeon said,
"But much your doctor can help the dead!"
And so we took him and brought him where
The balm was sweet on the summer air;
And we laid him down on a lonesome bed,
Utter Lazarus, heels to head.
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.