186 A COTTON PLANTATION. 



snakes ; but by and by, as I drew nearer, 

 the truth of the matter began to break upon 

 me. A man was approaching, and when 

 we met I asked him what was making that 

 noise yonder. "Frogs," he said. At an- 

 other time, in the flat-woods of Port Orange 

 (I hope I am not taxing my reader's credu- 

 lity too far, or making myself out a man of 

 too imaginative an ear), I heard the bleating 

 of sheep. Busy with other things, I did not 

 stop to reflect that it was impossible there 

 should be sheep in that quarter, and the 

 occurrence had quite passed out of my 

 mind when, one day, a cracker, talking about 

 frogs, happened to say, " Yes, and we have 

 one kind that makes a noise exactly like the 

 bleating of sheep." That, without question, 

 was what I had heard in the flat-woods. But 

 this frog in the sugar-cane swamp was the 

 same fellow that on summer evenings, ever 

 and ever so many years ago, in sonorous bass 

 that could be heard a quarter of a mile away, 

 used to call from Reuben Loud's pond, 

 " Pull him in ! Pull him in ! " or some- 

 times (the inconsistent amphibian), " Jug o' 

 rum ! Jug o' rum ! " 



I dismounted from my perch at last, and 



