Once upon a time, there lived in a town in Vermont, a little whipper-snapper of a fellow, named Timothy Drew. Timmy was not more than five feet one, in his thick-soled boots. When standing by the side of his tall neighbors, he appeared like a dwarf, among giants. Tall people are too apt to look down on those of less dimensions. Thus did the long-legged Yankees hector poor Timmy for not being a greater man. But what our hero wanted in bulk, he made up in spirit. This is generally the case with small men. As for Timmy, he was "all pluck and gristle!" No steel trap was smarter!

How such a little one grew on the Green Mountains, was always a mystery. Whether he was actually raised there, is indeed uncertain. Some say he was of Canadian descent, and was brought to the States by a Vermont peddler, who took him in barter for wooden cucumber seeds. But Timmy was above following the cart. He disliked trade, as too precarious a calling, and preferred a mechanic art. Though small, Timmy always knew which side of his bread had butter on it. Let it not be supposed that Timothy Drew always put up with coarse gibes at his size. On necessary occasions he was "chock full of fight." To be sure, he could not strike higher than the abdomen of his associates; but his blows were so rapid that he beat out the daylights of a ten-footer before one could say "Jack Robinson." A threat from Timmy was enough. How many belligerents have been quelled by this expressive admonition :-"If you say that 'ere again, I'll knock you into the middle of next week!" This occurred in Timmy's younger days. Age cooled his transports, and taught him to endure. He thought it beneath the dignity of an old man to quarrel with idle striplings.

Timmy Drew was a natural shoemaker. No man could hammer out a piece of sole-leather with such expedition. He used his knee for a lap-stone, and by dint of thumping, it became as hard and stiff as an iron hinge. Timmy's shop was situated near the foot of a pleasant valley on the edge of a pond, above which thousands of water lilies lifted their snowy heads. In the spring, it was a fashionable watering place for bull-frogs, who gathered there from all parts, to spend the warm season. Many of these were of extraordinary size, and they drew near his shop, raised their heads, and swelled out their throats like bladders, until the welkin rung with their music. Timmy, engaged at his work, beat time for them with his hammer, and the hours passed away as pleasantly as the day is long.

Timmy Drew was not one of those shoemakers that eternally stick to their bench like a ball of

the dwellings of his customers, to make sure of the fit. On his way home, he usually stopped at the tavern to inquire the news, and take a drop of something to drink. Here it was that the wags fastened upon him with their jokes, and often made him feel as uncomfortable as a short-tailed horse in fly-time. Still Timmy loved to sit in the bar, and talk with the company, which generally consisted of jolly peddlers, recruiting from the fatigues of the last cruise. With such society much was to be learned, and Timmy listened with intense curiosity to their long-spun tales of the wonderful and wild. There is no person that can describe an incredible fact with greater plausibility than a Yankee peddler. His difficult profession teaches him to preserve an iron gravity in expatiating on his wares, which in few cases can be said to recommend themselves. Thus, narratives, sufficient to embarrass the speech of any other relater, carry with them conviction, when soberly received from such a respectable

source.

These peddlers took great delight in imposing on the credulity of Timmy Drew. Some of the stories stuffed into his ears were astonishing. One man had been to the South, and gave a marvellous account of the alligators. He had seen one scampering into the water with a full grown negro in his mouth. Another told a story of a great Canadian Giant that weighed 1250 lbs. in his stockings. Another had seen in Boston the Living Skeleton, with ribs as bare as a gridiron. A fourth had been to New York, and described the great Anaconda, which made nothing of mouthing a live goat for its breakfast. A fifth enlarged on the size of the Shark, "which swallowed Mr. Joseph Blaney, as exhibited by his son." The wonderful leaps of Sam Patch lost nothing in their recital here; and the mysterious Sea Serpent, not more than one hundred yards long in Boston, was drawn out to double that length in being trailed up to Vermont behind a tinman's cart. One peddler told what great smokers the people were in the city of New Orleans. Said he, "The very mosquitoes flit about the streets in the night with cigars in their mouths!" "Yes," replied another, "and what mosquitoes they are! By the living hoky! I have seen them flying around as big as a goose, with a brick-bat under their wings, to sharpen their stings on!"

It would be impossible to repeat all the jokes played off on the poor shoemaker. The standing jest, however, was on his diminutive stature, which never was more conspicuous than in their company, for most of them were as tall as bean poles. On this subject, Timmy once gave them a memorable retort. Half a dozen of the party were sitting by the fire, when our hero entered the room. He sat down, but they affected to overlook him. This goaded Timmy, and he preserved a moody silence. Presently one of them spoke.

"I wonder what has become of little Timmy Drew? I hav'n't seen that are fellow for a week. By gosh! the frogs must have chawed him up?"

"If he was sitting here before your eyes, you

Timmy began to grow uneasy.

"I snaggers," said another, "no more you would'nt; for he isn't knee high to a toad. I called t'other day at his shop to get my new boots; but I couldn't see nobody in the place. Then I heard something scratching in a corner like a rat. I went to take up a boot, and I heard Timmy sing out, 'Halloo!' "Where the dickins are you?" said I. 'Here,' said Timmy, 'in this ere boot;' and, I snaggers, there he was, sure enough, in the bottom of the boot, rasping off a peg!"

A general roar of laughter brought Timmy on his legs. His dander was raised. "You boast of your bulk," said he, straining up to his full height, and looking contemptuously around; "why, I am like a four-penny bit amony six cents-worth the whole of ye!

I shall now describe a melancholy joke, which they played off on the unfortunate shoemaker;-I say melancholy, for so it proved to him.

A fashionable tailor in a neighboring village came out with a flaming advertisement, which was pasted up in the bar-room of the tavern, and excited general attention. He purported to have for sale a splendid assortment of coats, pantaloons, and waistcoats, of all colors and fashions; also a great variety of trimmings, such as tape, thread, buckram, frogs, button moulds, and all the endless small articles that make up a tailor's stock.

The next time Timmy made his appearance, they pointed out to him the advertisement. They especially called his attention to the article of "frogs," and reminded him of the great quantity to be caught in Lily Pond. "Why, Timmy," said they, "if you would give up shoemaking and take to frog-catching, you would make your tarnal fortune! "Yes, Timmy," said another, you might bag a thousand in a half a day, and folks say they will bring a dollar a hundred."

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Two for a cent a-piece, they brought in New York, when I was there last," said a cross-eyed fellow, tipping the wink.

"There's frogs enough in Lily Pond," said Timmy; "but it's darnation hard work to catch 'em. I swaggers! I chased one nearly half a day before I took him he jumped like a grasshopper. I wanted him for bait. They're plaguy slippery fellows."

"Never mind, Timmy, take a fish net, and scoop 'em up. You must have 'em alive, and fresh. A lot at this time would fetch a great price."

"I'll tell you what, Timmy," said one of them, taking him aside, "I'll go you shares. Say nothing about it to nobody. To-morrow night, I'll come and help you catch 'em, and we'll divide the gain." Timmy was in raptures.

As Timmy walked home that night, one of those lucky thoughts came into his head, which are always the offspring of solitude and reflection. Thought he, "These ere frogs in a manner belong to me, since my shop stands nearest the pond. Why should I make two bites at a cherry, and divide profits with Joe Gawky? By gravy! I'll get up early to-morrow morning, catch the frogs, and be off with them to the tailor's before sunrise, and so keep all the money myself."

Timmy was awake with the lark. Never before was there such a stir amongst the frogs of Lily Pond. But they were taken by surprise. With

Mr. Buckram, the tailor, was an elderly gentleman, very nervous and very peevish. He was extremely nice in his dress, and prided himself on keeping his shop as neat as wax-work. In his manner he was grave and abrupt, and in countenance severe. I can see him now, handling his shears with all the solemnity of a magistrate, with spectacles on nose, and prodigious ruffles puffing from his bosom.

He was thus engaged, one pleasant spring morning, when a short stubbed fellow, with a bag on his shoulder, entered the shop. The old gentleman was absorbed in his employment, and did not notice his visitor. But his inattention was ascribed by Timmy to deafness, and he approached and applied his mouth to the tailor's ear, exclaiming,-"I say, mister, do you want any frogs to day?'

The old gentleman dropped his shears, and sprung back in astonishment and alarm. "Do you want any frogs this morning?" shouted Timmy, at the top of his voice.

"No!" said the tailor, eyeing him over his spectacles, as if doubting whether he was a fool or mad

man.

"I have got a fine lot here," rejoined Timmy, shaking his bag. "They are jest from the pond, and as lively as kittens."

"Don't bellow in my ears," said the old man pettishly, "I am not deaf. Tell me what you want, and begone!"

"I want to sell you these ere frogs, old gentleman. You shall have them at a bargain, Only one dollar a hundred. I won't take a cent less. Do you want them?"

The old man now got a glance at the frogs, and was sensible it was an attempt at imposition. He trembled with passion. "No!" exclaimed he, "get out of my shop, you rascal!"

"I say you do want 'em," said Timmy, bristling up. "I know you want 'em; but you're playing offish like, to beat down the price. I won't take a mill less. Will you have them, or not, old man?" "Scoundrel!" shouted the enraged tailor, "get out of my shop this minute!"

Puzzled, mortified, and angry, Timmy slowly turned on his heel and withdrew. "He won't buy them," thought he, "for what they are worth, and as for taking nothing for them, I won't. And yet, I don't want to lug them back again; but if I ever plague myself by catching frogs again, may I be buttered! Curse the old curmudgeon! I'll try him once more." And he again entered the shop.

"I say, Mr. Buckram, are you willing to give me any thing for these ere frogs?" The old man was now goaded past endurance. Stamping with rage, he seized his great shears to beat out the speaker's brains.

"Well, then," said Timmy, bitterly, "take 'em among ye for nothing," at the same time emptying the contents of his bag on the floor, and marching out.

Imagine the scene that followed! One hundred live bull-frogs emptied upon the floor of a tailor's shop! It was a subject for the pencil of Cruikshank. Some jumped this way and some that way, and some under the bench and some upon it, some into the fire-place and some behind the door. Every nook and corner of the shop was occupied in an instant. Such a spectacle was never seen before. The old

man was nearly distracted. He rent his hair, and stamped in a paroxysm of rage. Then seizing a broom, he made vain endeavors to sweep them out at the door. But they were as contrary as hogs, and when he swept one way, they jumped another. He tried to catch them with his hands, but they were as slippery as eels, and passed through his fingers. It was enough to exhaust the patience of Job. The neighbors, seeing Mr. Buckram sweeping frogs out of his shop, gathered round in amazement, to inquire if they were about to be beset with the plagues of Egypt. But Old Buckram was in such a

passion that he could not answer a word, and they were afraid to venture within the reach of his broom. It is astonishing what talk the incident made in the village. Not even the far-famed frogs of Windham excited more.

Thus were the golden visions of the frog catcher resolved into thin air. How many speculators have been equally disappointed!

After this affair, Timothy Drew could never endure the sight of a bull-frog. Whether he discovered the joke that had been played upon him, is uncertain. He was unwilling to converse on the subject. His irritability when it was mentioned only provoked inquiry. People were continually vexing him with questions. "Well, Timmy, how goes the frog market?" "How do you sell frogs?" Even the children would call after him, as he passed, "There goes the frog catcher!" Some mischievous person went so far as to disfigure his sign,

so that it read:

Timmy was certain no common frogs could pipe at this rate. He sprang out of bed, hurried on his clothes, and rushed out of the house. "I'll teach the rascally boys to come here and shout in this manner," said he. But no boys could be seen. It was a clear bright night, all was solitary and still, except a discontented muttering of the sleepless frogs in their uncomfortable bed. Timmy, after throwing a few stones into the bushes, retired, concluding it was all a dream. For a time the stillness continued, when again the terrible concert swelled ually sunk away in the distance, thus: on the evening breeze for a while, and then grad

I can make a shoe-0-0-0As well as you-0-0-0And better too-0-0-0Boo-0-0-0-0

Bo-0-0Bo-0

At last their mysterious concerts became very frequent, and the poor shoemaker was nearly deprived of sleep. In vain did he attempt to discover the authors of the annoyances. They could not be found; so that he naturally began to think it was indeed made by the frogs, and that he was to be haunted in this manner all his remaining days. This melancholy idea became seated in his mind, and made him miserable. "Ah!" he said to him

The next time Timmy Drew stopped at the tavern, he found the people in earnest consultation. "There he comes," said one, as soon as the shoemaker entered.

"Have you heard the news?" all inquired in a breath.

"No," said Timmy, with a groan.

"Joe Gawky has seen such a critter in the pond! A monstrous great frog, as big as an ox, with eyes as large as a horse's! I never heard of no such thing in my born days!"

"Nor I," said Sam Greening. "Nor I," said Josh Whiting. "Nor I," said Tom Bizbee.

"I have heard say of such a critter in Ohio," said Eb Crawly. Frogs have been seed there, as big as a sucking pig; but not in these ere parts."

"Mrs. Timmins," said Sam Greening, "feels quite melancholy about it. She guesses as how it's a sign of some terrible thing that's going to happen." "I was fishing for pickerel," said Joe Gawky, who, by the by, was a tall spindle-shanked fellow, with a white head, and who stooped in his chest like a crook-necked squash,-"I was after pickerel, and had on a frog's hind leg for bait. There was a tarnation great pickerel just springing at the line, when out sailed this great he-devil from under the bank. By the living hoky! he was as large as a small sized man! Such a straddle-bug I never seed! I up lines, and cleared out like a whitehead!"

Timmy examined the faces of the company, and saw that they all credited the story. He began to feel alarmed.

"That are must be the critter I heard t'other night in the pond," said Josh Whiting. "Iswanny! he roared louder than a bull."

This extraordinary narrative made a great impression on Timothy Drew. He foresaw something terrible was going to happen. In vain was he questioned touching his knowledge of the monster. He would not say a word.

After this introduction the conversation naturally

mysterious tale to relate; and thus the evening wore away. Ghosts, witches, and hobgoblins formed prolific themes of discussion. Some told of strange sounds which had been heard in the depths of the forests at midnight; and others of the shapeless monsters which seamen had beheld in the wilderness of the deep. By degrees the company fell off, one by one, until Timothy Drew found himself alone. He was startled at the discovery, and felt the necessity of departing; yet some invisible power seemed to dissuade him from the step. A presentiment of some coming evil hung like an incubus upon his imagination, and nearly deprived him of strength.

At length, he tore himself away. His course lay over a solitary road, darkened by overshadowing trees. A sepulchral stillness pervaded the scene, which was disturbed only by his echoing footsteps. Onward he glided with stealthy paces, not daring to look behind, yet dreading to proceed. At last he reached the summit of a hill, at the foot of which arose his humble dwelling. The boding cry of the frogs was now faintly heard at a distance. He had nearly reached the door of his shop, when a sudden rustle of the leaves by the side of the pond, brought his heart into his mouth. At this moment, the moon partly emerged from a cloud, and disclosed an object before him that fixed him to the spot. An unearthly monster, in the shape of a mammoth bull-frog, sat glaring upon him with eyes like burning coals. With a single leap, it was by his side, and he felt one of his ankles in its cold rude grasp. Terror gave him strength. With an Herculian effort he disengaged his limb from the monster's clutches, rushed up the hill, and in an instant was gone.

"By the living hoky!" said Joe Gawky, slowly rising from the ground, and arranging his dress, "who'd have guessed this ere old pumpkin-head, with a candle in it, would have set that are fellow's stiff knee agoing at that rate! I couldn't see him travel off, for dust."

It is hardly necessary to add that Varmount never seed no more of the Frog Catcher.

I have no doubt the reader is fond of roast-beef and plum-pudding. Now I detest them. Nothing could be more gross, earthly, stultifying. Besides, no man fond of such stuff, does, ever did, or ever can set down to a meal without running into excess. Then come custard, ice-cream, fruit, almonds, raisins, wine. You rise with a distended stomach, and heavy head, and stagger away with brutish apathy. I am for light diet-milk, rice, fruitsweet, harmless things of nature. No lamb bleeds for me. No stately ox is slain that I may feast. Old mother earth supplies my slender appetites. The deep, deep spring, clear as crystal-the innocent vegetables-ethereal food. Thus I am light as

are.

I differ from every body in another thing. I believe in love at first sight. We ought to be able to tell in a week whether a woman would do for a wife. The judgment of true love is intuitive; a glance, and it is done. A man of genius has in his own imagination a standard of the object of his love—an unexplainable model-the prototype to which exists somewhere in reality, although he may never have seen or heard of her. This is wonderful, but it is true. He wanders about the world, impervious to all the delicious, thrilling, soul-melting beams of beauty, till he reaches the right one. There are blue eyes-they are tender, but they touch not him. There are black-they are piercing, but his heart remains whole. At length, accident flings him

into contact with a creature-he hears the tones of her voice-he feels the warm streams of soul shining from her countenance. Gaze meets gaze, and thought sparkles into thought, till the magic blaze is kindled, and-they fall in love.

It sometimes happens, that for one model in the imagination of this man of genius, there are accidentally two or three prototypes in real life; or rather, he has two or three different models.

It is a great misfortune for a man to have more models than one. They lead him astray. They involve him in difficulties. They play the very devil with him.

And yet metaphysicians and phrenologists ought to know, that it is no affair of his. If a schoolboy have the organ of destructiveness, you may whip him for killing flies, but you must not wonder at him. If a youth- But this brings me back again to my subject.

I never could tell how many of these models Fred had; a great many, no doubt. He was a sad dog-a Don Juan-a sort of Giovanni in Londonand he bade fair to be a Giovanni in But that was his business.

Oh, the sweet women! It is almost incredulous. He must have dealt in magic. It was a perfect blessing to be near him; to catch the light and heat of the thousand glances which fell upon him, and of which you caught a few stray ones, though only by accident. Lovely women fell into his mouth like ripe plums. He had clusters of them. They all loved him, and he loved them all. His soul was as large as St. Peter's.

"What are you thinking of, Fred?" said I. "Caroline," he answered.

"She who sailed yesterday for England?" "Yes-I love her."

"And she?".

He rose and opened an escritoire.

"Is it not perfectly beautiful?"

The sweet relic of golden sunshiny hair lay curled charmingly in a rose-colored envelope. It did look pretty. But

"Has Caroline such light hair?" asked I. "I never knew I always thought-I was observing only yesterday that-surely, surely you have made some mistake-see, what is that written in the bottom of the paper? Julia!'"

Fred hastily looked again in the little pigeonhole, and drew forth another rose-colored envelope -another and another.

I smiled so did he.

"What a vile, narrow prejudice it is," said Fred. "What?"

"That a man can love only once. I have loved twenty-fifty-nay, a hundred times. I always love some one. Sometimes two at a time-sometimes twenty."

"Heartless! "9 exclaimed I. "This is not love! Love is sole, absorbing, pure, constant, immutable." "Hark ye," said Fred. "I seldom cease to love. Adding another angel to the list does not infer the striking out any of the others. There is no limit. A man of soul loves just as he happens to be placed in relation to women. I am warmed by them, as I am when I stand in the sunshine. Because I have a garden here, when the beams of the god of day fall on my shoulders with a pleasing ardor-must I not feel the warmth when I stand in your garden

yonder? It is the great principle-should the object of my early love die, must I be ever thereafter dead to the most exquisite of human passions? Death is only absence. I know twelve pretty women. They are better than men. Nature made them so. They are all different-all excellent-all divine. Can I be blind? Can I be deaf? Shall I deny that their voices are sweet-their hearts tender their minds clear and intelligent? No. I love them all-Julia, Mary, Fanny, Helen, Henrietta, Eliza. I never think of them without sensations of delight."

Frederick felt a hand upon his shoulder. He looked up. It was Mrs. B., his wife. "The d-l!" said he.

I had withdrawn, of course. I am a bachelor myself. Curtain lectures are not in my way. I have troubles enough of my own. Mrs. B. did not come down to dinner. Mr. B. did not come home to tea. I did not get up next morning to breakfast. So I could not know what was the result.

Mrs. B. is one of the very loveliest women I ever met. I believe I have two or three models myself! It is pleasant enough, but then-every rose has its thorns.

"Only think!" said she to me, her eyes moistened with tears, her cheek crimsoned with shame, her bosom palpitating with distress, "twelve! he loves twelve, he says."

"A whole jury," said I.

"It is monstrous!" said she.

"Monstrous indeed!" echoed I.

"What if I should love twelve officers!" said she. "Tit for tat," said I.

"Or six," said she.

"Too good for him," said I, taking her hand. "Or three," said she.

"Or one," said I, drawing her toward me, and kissing her soft lips. She was my only sister, and I always loved her.

The plot was arranged. Frederick had meditated a journey of two days, but was called back by an anonymous note, at nine the same evening.

Tall women are so scarce! We hired the uniforms at the tailors'.

"I am thunderstruck!" exclaimed Fred to me. "The world is at an end. The sun is out. What! Kate-my dear Kate!" Tears gushed from his

eyes.

"I saw it myself," said the servant. "Kissed her!"

"Six times," said John.

Frederick caught the pistol, and pointed it at his head. I wrenched it from his grasp.

"Come with me," I said. "Perhaps it may be a mistake."

We opened the door softly. In the next room sat Mrs. B.; at her feet a richly-dressed young soldier, who kissed her hand, received from her a lock of hair, swore he loved her, and left her with an ardent embrace.

"I am suffocating," said Fred.

"Hush!" I exclaimed: See, there is another. How familiarly he seats himself by her side-takes her hand"—

"I shall strangle to death."