How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle?

He weren't no saint,--them engineers Is all pretty much alike, - One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied, - I reckon he never knowed how.

And this was all the religion he had, - To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, - A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.

All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last, - The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she WOULDN'T be passed. And so she come tearin' along that night - The oldest craft on the line - With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.

The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell, - And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint,--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, - And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

LITTLE BREECHES.

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.

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 larnt him to 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 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 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.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm; They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around The Throne.

BANTY TIM.

REMARKS OF SERGEANT TILMON JOY TO THE WHITE MAN'S COMMITTEE OF SPUNKY POINT, ILLINOIS.

I reckon I git your drift, gents, - You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; This is a white man's country; You're Dimocrats, you say; And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The times bein' all out o' j'int, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int!

Le's reason the thing a minute: I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here, allowin' To vote as I used to do, Though it gravels me like the devil to train Along o' sich fools as you.

Now dog my cats ef I kin see, In all the light of the day, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shill go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy.

Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me, - With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that cursed glacee.

Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And br'iled and blistered and burned! How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn't believe for a spell: That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!

The Rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls.

So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death's ace for me that day, And I'm not goin' back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home, But ef one of you tetches the boy, He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!