For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint
By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he
ain’t.
For please understand that the widders call
him,
—Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,—
“Thanksgivin’ Jim”.
He was little—why,
Wa’n’t scarce knee high
To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!