Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe
Nor hide nor hair was found.
And here all hope soured on me,
Of my fellow-critter’s 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