And of all the fellows I ever knew, for this kind of sculpture, Bill Keeler――the companion of my early days――was the cleverest. He could indeed turn his hand to anything, and such was his dexterity, that whatever was going forward, he seemed always to take the lead. If we were skating, Bill was sure to cut the most fantastic circles and evolutions, and beat the best at a race. If we were leaping, Bill went just an inch further than the largest boys of the party. At a hop, either on the left or right foot, he surpassed his competitors by a quarter of a yard. In setting a trap for a woodchuck; smoking out a fox; coming Yankee over a rat; making wind-mills, kites, or chestnut whistles, Bill was the transcendent workman of the village. But in nothing was his genius more conspicuous than in making a snow man. In this, as in sculpture, the great art lies more in the model, the design, than the finish. Bill’s figures, in this line, always meant something. He did not leave the effect to accident――not he! He knew what he was about, and could always accomplish, by the skill of his hand, what his mind conceived. I remember one remarkable instance of this. In the days of which I speak, economy was a great point in matters touching the town-school; and consequently it was customary to employ cheap schoolmasters. A man who failed in everything else, was supposed to be fit to teach a school. According to this rule, one William Picket, was deemed worthy to preside over the West Lane Seminary, in Salem, some forty years ago, particularly as he underbid everybody else. Picket was essentially a dunce, and believed that there was more sense, knowledge, and virtue in a birch stick, than in anything else. Accordingly, his chief efforts consisted in applying it to his pupils. At the same time he was a man of uncouth appearance. His neck was long――his nose prominent――the nostrils flaring, and always lined with snuff. His ears were large, and stood aloof from his head, like two mushrooms upon sharp stones. Well, during the administration of Mr. William Picket, there came a fall of snow, about two feet deep, moist and malleable,――and “hurra!” it was for a snow man! Bill, who, by this time, was as celebrated in this species of fine art, as our Boston Greenough is in making marble statues, at once took the matter in hand. Up rolled the snow in huge masses, and Bill stood ready to give it shape and conformation. I recollect perfectly well the queer, quizzical air with which he presided over the operation. He said nothing, but held the point of his tongue, half twisted, like an auger, between his teeth. The image grew into life rapidly, beneath his magic hand. At last it was done, and all at once the wonderful resemblance it bore to the schoolmaster flashed upon the spectators. What a shout rose to the sky! The long neck――the trumpet-shaped proboscis――the flaring ears――it was impossible to mistake them――it was impossible to resist the ludicrous likeness.