The Frog
their heads to the sun, so that they may find favor with the stars.
At times it rained. The sun attempted to peep out from behind a tapestry of clouds. It shone on the steady downpour creating a veritable shower of glistening golden diamonds. At such moments the little Frogman would scamper up to his bower in the treetops and laugh and dance and sing lustily. Fragrantly the rain poured down perfumed by the countless sweet breaths of the flowers. And not infrequently when the storm was over and all the leaves and petals glistened in the sun in full splendor a gorgeous rainbow would arch off into the sky like a runaway road leading to enchanted realms of loveliness. And all the frogs croaked their gratitude for such a picture while the strange little man capered about like a merry elf.
It was a superb existence, living in the garden-swamp among the flowers, sleeping in the treetops beneath the moon or on the soft loam under the swaying willows. Every flower in the woodland was his friend and all the tiny animals that lived there never fled at his approach. They knew and loved him. They were all brothers. Life was happiness, song, ecstasy. What mattered that the little man was a monstrosity, a tiny dwarf who resembled a frog with great flat feet and bulbous eyes? For the flowers loved him. Their sight is very keen. They could see the real beauty of his character shining through the ugly shell of his body.
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