The Frog
to appease it. In the face of failure Pu Chiang invented a story. He told queer things about his odd customer. Once he had changed into a frog before his very eyes and hopped about the table. At another time he had breathed forth fire. He was a dragon, a fiery dragon and his true character had reflected from his eyes. As Pu Chiang waited in his shop for customers, he sucked on a long black pipe, dozed and dreamed and wove his fancies until even he himself believed in them.
The little man was not mortal. He had no soul. His blood was cold. It contained no warmth. It was like the blood of fish.
Meanwhile the tiny Frog-man went his way all unconscious of the stir he was causing. Throughout the city he was an object of derision but within the silent swamp-garden he was king. The flowers were his subjects. He talked with them by the hour. And they understood his songs. Flowers have hearts and souls as surely as people. The little Frog-man knew this and among them he was happy. The swamp was teeming with plant, insect and bird life. Bees droned in the noon-day heat. Frogs basked in the sun. The green of their bodies was no more brilliant than the coat of the little man. The winding stretches of forest were amazingly cool. The moisture of the swamp saturated everything. Only a bit of light penetrated the forest depths where the verdure was thickest. At night the Frog-man slept on a bed of moss and soft loam, more restful than feathers. But when there was a moon
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