After a time I began to feel a peculiar movement under the hat, not exactly the crawling of a normal snake, but more like that of a snake with legs.  Those were the days when all my soul was bent on the discovery of a new species—­of anything; when the whole of life meant a journey to the Academy of Natural Sciences with something to be named.  For just an instant flashed the hope that I had found an uncursed snake, one of the original ones that went on legs.  I reached for the hat, bent over, and pulled it off, and, lo! not a walking snake.  Just an ordinary snake, but with it a live wood-frog!

This, at least, was interesting, the only real piece of magic I have ever done.  Into my hat had gone only a live snake, now I brought forth the snake and a live frog.  This was a snake to conjure with; so I tied him up again and finally got him home.

The next Sunday the minister preached a temperance sermon, in which he said some dreadful things about snakes.  The creatures do seem in some dark, horrible way to lurk in the dregs of strong drink:  but the minister was not discriminating; he was too fierce and sweeping, saying, among other things, that there was a universal human hatred for snakes, and that one of the chief purposes of the human heel was to bruise their scaly heads.

I was not born of my Quaker mother to share this “universal human hatred for snakes”; but I did get from her a wild dislike for sweeping, general statements.  After the sermon I ventured to tell the preacher that there was an exception to this “universal” rule; that all snakes were not adders and serpents, but some were just innocent snakes, and that I had a collection of tame ones which I wished he would come out to see.

He looked astonished, skeptical, then pained.  It was during the days, I think, of my “probation,” and into his anxious heart had come the thought, Was I “running well”?  But he dismissed the doubt and promised to walk over in the morning.

His interest amazed me.  But, then, preachers quite commonly are different on Monday.  As we went from cage to cage, he said he had read how boa-constrictors eat, and wouldn’t I show him how these snakes eat?

We had come to the cage of the little ribbon-snake from the picnic grove, and had arrived just in time to catch him crawling away out of a hole that he had worked in the rusty mosquito-netting wire of the cover.  I caught him, put him back, and placed a brickbat over the hole.

I knew that this snake was hungry, because he had had nothing to eat for nearly a week, and the frog which appeared so mysteriously with him in my hat was the dinner that he had given up that day of his capture in his effort to escape.

The minister looked on without a tremor.  I took off the brick that he might see the better.  The snake was very long and small around and the toad, which I had given him, was very short and big around, so that when it was all over there was a bunch in the middle of the snake comparable to the lump a prime watermelon would make in the middle of a small boy if swallowed whole.