She soon found a stalk that grew high above all the rest. Crawling to the very top of it Mrs. Ladybug was able to look far out over the face of the pond.
"Goodness!" she said to herself. "I'm glad I'm not out there in a ship."
A few moments later she happened to glance down near the shore. And there, to her horror, she beheld a frog.
He was not a big frog. On the contrary, he was the tiniest frog that Mrs. Ladybug had ever seen. He was sitting on a lily pad, singing with a small, shrill voice, which sounded exactly as if you were tapping two marbles together.
Now, Mrs. Ladybug had all her life stood in great fear of frogs. She didn't dare move, as she gazed at this one with eyes that popped almost out of her head.
He was a brownish person, with a yellow throat which he puffed out like a bag as he sang. And his skin was so rough that Mrs. Ladybug shuddered as she looked at it. Her own was very, very smooth.
All at once the frog looked up and spied Mrs. Ladybug staring at him.
She would have shrieked—had she been able to.
Then Mrs. Ladybug did the thing that she always did whenever she had a great fright. She played dead. She pulled her feet under her body, out of sight, and stuck, motionless, to the grass stalk.
Nothing happened. And she was about to take another sly look at the frog when something moved the stalk of grass. It was only the wind. But Mrs. Ladybug didn't know that. She was sure that the frog had touched it.