be no snake-feeder, neither," said the boy, "'cause
they gits gobbled up, first thing they know, by these 'ere big green
bullfrogs ut they can't ever tell from the skum till they've lit right
in their mouth--and then they're goners! No, sir;" continued the boy,
drawing an extra quinine-bottle from another pocket, and holding it up
admiringly before his father's eyes: "There's the feller in there ut
I'd ruther be than have a pony!"

"W'y, it's a nasty p'izen spider!" exclaimed Mr. Judkins, pushing back
the bottle with affected abhorrence, "and he's alive, too!"

"You bet he's alive!" said the boy, "an' you kin bet he'll never come
to no harm while I own him!" and as the little fellow spoke his face
glowed with positive affection, and the twinkle of his eyes, as he
continued, seemed wonderfully like his father's own. "Tell you, I like
spiders! Spiders is awful fat--all but their head--and that's level,
you kin bet! Flies hain't got no business with a spider. Ef a spider
ever reaches fer a fly, he's his meat! The spider, he likes to loaf
an' lay around in the shade an' wait fer flies an' bugs an' things to
come a-foolin' round his place. He lays back in the hole in the corner
of his web, an' waits till somepin' lights on it an' nen when he hears
'em buzzin', he thist crawls out an' fixes 'em so's they can't buzz,
an' he's got the truck to do it with! I bet ef you'd unwind all the
web-stuff out of thist one little spider not bigger'n a pill, it 'ud
be long enough fer a kite-string! Onc't they wuz one in our
wood-house, an' a taterbug got stuck in his web, an' the spider worked
purt' nigh two days 'fore he got him so's he couldn't move. Nen he
couldn't eat him neither--'cause they's shells on 'em, you know, an'
the spider didn't know how to hull him. Ever' time I'd go there the
spider, he'd be a-wrappin' more stuff around th' ole bug, an' stoopin'
down like he wuz a-whisperin' to him. An' one day I went in ag'in, an'
he was a-hangin', alas an' cold in death! An' I poked him with a
splinter an' his web broke off--'spect he'd used it all up on the
wicked bug--an' it killed him; an' I buried him in a' ink-bottle an'
mashed the old bug 'ith a chip!"

"Yes," said Judkins, in a horrified tone, turning away to conceal the
real zest and enjoyment his face must have betrayed; "yes, and some
day you'll come home p'izened, er somepin'! And I want to say right
here, my young man, ef ever you do, and it don't kill you, I'll lint
you