say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died.  It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he’d lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius—­I know it, because he hadn’t no opportunities to speak of, and it don’t stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances if he hadn’t no talent.  It always makes me feel sorry when I think of that last fight of his’n, and the way it turned out.

Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tom-cats and all of them kind of things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you.  He ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal’lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump.  And you bet you he did learn him, too.  He’d give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut—­see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat.  He got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep’ him in practice so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him.  Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do ’most anything—­and I believe him.  Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster down here on this floor—­Dan’l Webster was the name of the frog—­and sing out, “Flies, Dan’l, flies!” and quicker’n you could wink he’d spring straight up and snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on the floor ag’in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’ any more’n any frog might do.  You never see a frog so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was so gifted.  And when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see.  Jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red.  Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.

Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet.  One day a feller—­a stranger in the camp, he was—­come acrost him with his box, and says: 

“What might be that you’ve got in the box?”

And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, “It might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t—­it’s only just a frog.”