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by Unknown

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.