Now the Sculpin (Cottus Virginianus) is a little water-beast which pretends to consider itself a fish, and, under that pretext, hangs about the piles upon which West-Boston Bridge is built, swallowing the bait and hook intended for flounders.  On being drawn from the water, it exposes an immense head, a diminutive bony carcass, and a surface so full of spines, ridges, ruffles, and frills, that the naturalists have not been able to count them without quarrelling about the number, and that the colored youth, whose sport they spoil, do not like to touch them, and especially to tread on them, unless they happen to have shoes on, to cover the thick white soles of their broad black feet.

When, therefore, I heard the young fellow’s exclamation, I looked round the table with curiosity to see what it meant.  At the further end of it I saw a head, and a small portion of a little deformed body, mounted on a high chair, which brought the occupant up to a fair level enough for him to get at his food.  His whole appearance was so grotesque, I felt for a minute as if there was a showman behind him who would pull him down presently and put up Judy, or the hangman, or the Devil, or some other wooden personage of the famous spectacle.  I contrived to lose the first part of his sentence, but what I heard began so:—­

——­by the Frog-Pond, when there were frogs in it, and the folks used to come down from the tents on ’Lection and Independence days with their pails to get water to make egg-pop with.  Born in Boston; went to school in Boston as long as the boys would let me.—­The little man groaned, turned, as if to look round, and went on.—­Ran away from school one day to see Phillips hung for killing Denegri with a loggerhead.  That was in flip days, when there were always two or three loggerheads in the fire.  I’m a Boston boy, I tell you,—­born at North End, and mean to be buried on Copps’ Hill, with the good old underground people,—­the Worthylakes, and the rest of ’em.  Yes, Sir,—­up on the old hill, where they buried Captain Daniel Malcolm in a stone grave, ten feet deep, to keep him safe from the red-coats, in those old times when the world was frozen up tight and there wasn’t but one spot open, and that was right over Faneuil Hall,—­and black enough it looked, I tell you!  There’s where my bones shall lie, Sir, and rattle away when the big guns go off at the Navy Yard opposite!  You can’t make me ashamed of the old place!  Full of crooked little streets;—­I was born and used to run round in one of ’em——­

——­I should think so,—­said that young man whom I hear them call “John,”—­softly, not meaning to be heard, nor to be cruel, but thinking in a half-whisper, evidently.—­I should think so; and got kinked up, turnin’ so many corners.—­The little man did not hear what was said, but went on,—­

——­full of crooked little streets; but I tell you Boston has opened, and kept open, more turnpikes that lead straight to free thought and free speech and free deeds than any other city of live men or dead men,—­I don’t care how broad their streets are, nor how high their steeples!