And from that imperfect dental exhibition, Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs Of expectoration:
"Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted Falling down a shaft, in Calaveras County, But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces Home to old Missouri!"
BRET HARTE.
LITTLE BREECHES. A PIKE COUNTY VIEW. OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE..
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 o' thing,— But believe in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.
I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,— No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd learnt him ter chaw terbacker, Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.
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 sarched 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-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 That he said was somewhar thar.