“The croaking of frogs,” said Martin Luther at his table, “edifies nothing at all; it is mere sophistry and fruitless;” and indeed I wish we were without these vile batrachians. It is not to me at all incredible that the Abderites should have gone into voluntary exile rather than share their country unequally with frogs.
In all “the majesty of mud” they crouch on the weedy bank, croaking proudly to their dames below, who, their speckled bodies concealed, rest their chins upon the puddle- top, croaking in soft reply. Was ever lady wooed with such damp, disheartening circumstance, — the night dark, the sky filled with drifting clouds, a thin rain falling? Round the puddle’s sloppy edge — the puddle itself a two hours’ creation — has sprouted up a rank fringe of squashy green-stuff, and in this the moist lover serenades the fair. She would listen flabbily to his beguilements all night long, but suddenly round the corner comes a dog-cart. His position might be heroic, certainly it is ridiculous. Shall he die at his post, be crushed by a whirling wheel for her he loves, or shall he — get out of the way? The earth shakes below the cavalier; this is no time to hesitate; shall he move? Yes; and plop! within an inch of his charmer’s nose he has landed in the puddle. But such accidents are infrequent; the cavalier, we regret to know, generally serenades all night. By day he sleeps beneath a stone, fitting himself into a dry hole, — for frogs dare not go out in the daytime. Crows trifle with them, spit them on their black beaks, and perhaps eat them. Cats, too, will amuse themselves with frogs; even the more chivalrous dog will not disdain to bite a frog when he comes suddenly upon one round a corner. In the evening, however, he takes his hops abroad, makes his meal of
