"That's the idea," said Bombinator, as he snapped back to shapeliness. "Now you try," and Bombinatrix tried.
"Passable," said Bombinator, "but not sufficient curl."
"It cricks my neck," she answered. Her head was slowly drooping.
"You must keep rigid," said Bombinator. "I can't see half the yellow. Throw back your head."
Bombinatrix threw back her head, until it grazed her toe-tips. Then she unstrung herself.
(I see you look incredulous. You ask and ask with reason: How came two fire-toads in an English garden? To this I answer frankly—I put them there myself.)
Even a fire-toad loves his liberty, though prison-life may have its compensations. The breakfast gong, for instance, two taps upon the glass. The sluggish fatted meal-worm, the feeling of full-fed security.
Nor had there been a lack of company.
The Natterjack had livened things—by running races with his own reflection. So had the mottled Green Toad, an alien like themselves; so, in his own quiet way, the Salamander.
