of the most polite and accommodating of shopkeepers. When a juvenile,
you have bought tops and marbles of him a thousand times. To be sure
you have; and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with a smile as you
flung him the coppers; and you have laughed at his little straight
queue and his dimity breeches, and all the other oddities that made up
the every-day apparel of my little Frenchman. Ah, I perceive you
recollect him now.

Well, then, there lived Monsieur Poopoo ever since he came from "dear,
delightful Paris," as he was wont to call the city of his
nativity--there he took in the pennies for his kickshaws--there he
laid aside five thousand dollars against a rainy day--there he was as
happy as a lark--and there, in all human probability, he would have
been to this very day, a respected and substantial citizen, had he
been willing to "let well alone." But Monsieur Poopoo had heard
strange stories about the prodigious rise in real estate; and, having
understood that most of his neighbors had become suddenly rich by
speculating in lots, he instantly grew dissatisfied with his own lot,
forthwith determined to shut up shop, turn everything into cash, and
set about making money in right-down earnest. No sooner said than
done; and our quondam storekeeper a few days afterward attended an
extensive sale of real estate, at the Merchants' Exchange.

There was the auctioneer, with his beautiful and inviting lithographic
maps--all the lots as smooth and square and enticingly laid out as
possible--and there were the speculators--and there, in the midst of
them, stood Monsieur Poopoo.

"Here they are, gentlemen," said he of the hammer, "the most valuable
lots ever offered for sale. Give me a bid for them!"