I RICKOLLECT the little tad, back, years and years ago —
" The Preacher's Boy " that every one despised and hated so!
A meek-faced little feller, with white eyes and foxy hair,
And a look like he expected ser'ous trouble everywhere:
A sort o' fixed expression of suspicion in his glance;
His bare feet always scratched with briers; and green stains on his pants;
Molasses-marks along his sleeves; his cap-rim turned behind —
And so it is " The Preacher's Boy " is brought again to mind!

My fancy even brings the sly marauder back so plain,
I see him jump our garden-fence and slip off down the lane;
And I seem to holler at him and git back the old reply:
" Oh, no: your peaches is too green fer such a worm as I! "
Fer he scorned his father's phrases — every holy one he had —
" As good a man, " folks put it, " as that boy of his was bad! "
And again from their old buggy-shed, I hear the " rod unspared " —
Of course that never " spoiled the child " for which nobody cared!

If any neighber ever found his gate without a latch,
Or rines around the edges of his watermelon-patch;
His pasture-bars left open; or his pump-spout chocked with clay,
He'd swear 'twas " that infernal Preacher's Boy, " right away!
When strings was stretched acrost the street at night, and some one got
An everlastin' tumble, and his nose broke, like as not,
And laid it on " The Preacher's Boy " — no powers, low ner high,
Could ever quite substantiate that boy's alibi!

And did nobody like the boy? — Well, all the pets in town
Would eat out of his fingers; and canaries would come down
And leave their swingin' perches and their fish-bone jist to pick
The little warty knuckles that the dogs would leap to lick. —
No little snarlin', snappin' fiste but what would leave his bone
To foller, ef he whistled, in that tantalizin' tone
That made a goods-box whittler blasphemeusly protest
" He couldn't tell, 'twixt dog and boy, which one was ornriest! "

'Twas such a little cur as this, onc't, when the crowd was thick
Along the streets, a drunken corner-loafer tried to kick,
When a sudden foot behind him tripped him up, and falling so
He " marked his man, " and jerked his gun — drawed up and let 'er go!
And the crowd swarmed round the victim — holding close against his breast
The little dog unharmed, in arms that still, as they caressed,
Grew rigid in their last embrace, as with a smile of joy
He recognized the dog was saved. So died " The Preacher's Boy " !

When it appeared, before the Squire, that fatal pistol-ball
Was fired at " a dangerous beast, " and not the boy at all,
And the facts set forth established, — it was like-befittin' then
To order out a possy of the " city councilmen "
To kill the dog! But, strange to tell, they searched the country round,
And never hide-ner-hair of that " said " dog was ever found!
And, somehow, then I sort o' thought — and half-way think, to-day —
The spirit of " The Preacher's Boy " had whistled him away.