The present story, however, is not about boots, but about Bob Lee, who was an odd sort of a fellow, that lived upon the skirts of Turkeytown, and got his living by hook and by crook. He had neither chick nor child, but kept a bachelor’s hall in a ricketty old house, without any companion except an old black hen, whom he kept to amuse him because she had a most unearthly mode of cackling that nobody could understand. Bob used to spend his time in shooting wild ducks, trapping foxes and musquashes, catching pigeons, and other vagabond and aboriginal occupations, by means of which he contrived to keep his pot boiling, and a ragged jacket upon his back. Nothing could induce him to work hard and lay up something for a rainy day. Bob left the rainy days to take care of themselves, and thought of nothing but sunshine. In short, the incorrigible vagabond was as lazy, careless, ragged and happy as any man you ever saw of a summer’s day. And it fell out upon a summer’s day, that Bob found himself without a cent in his pocket or a morsel of victuals in the house. His whole disposable wealth consisted of a single fox-skin nailed against his back door, drying in the sun. Something must be had for dinner, and Bob took down the fox-skin, and set off for Deacon Grabbit’s store to sell it. As luck would have it, before he had gone a quarter of a mile, he met old Tim Twist, the Connecticut pedlar, a crony and boon companion of many years’ standing. Tim, who was glad to see his old gossip, invited him into Major Shute’s tavern to take a glass of New-England. Bob, who had never signed the temperance pledge, accepted the invitation nothing loth. They sat down over half a pint, and discussed the news. No drink tastes better than that which a man gets for nothing. It was a hot day, and both were very thirsty. Tim was very liberal for a Connecticut man. What will you have? In the upshot they found they had made an immense potation of it; and Bob took leave of his old friend, clearly satisfied that he had not taken so heavy a pull for many a day. He had hardly got out of sight of the tavern before he found the road too crooked to travel; he sat down under an apple-tree to take a little cool reflection, but the more he reflected, the more he could not understand it: his eyes began to wag in his head, and he was just on the point of falling asleep, when a bob o’link alighted on a branch over his head and began to sing “Bob o’link! bob o’link! bob o’link!” Bob Lee’s brains were by this time in such a fog, that his eyes and ears were all askew, and he did not doubt somebody was calling on him. “Hollo, neighbor;” says Bob Lee. “Bob o’link! bob o’link! what ye got? what ye got? what ye got?” chattered the bird—as Bob thought. “Got a fox-skin,” answered he. “D’ye want to buy?” “Bob o’link! bob o’link! what’ll ye take? what’ll ye take?” returned the little feathered chatterer. “Half a dollar,” replied Bob, “and it’s worth every cent of the money.”