“Oh, no, Henry!” said his wife.
“Do, Doctor!” I broke in, “I have never heard it, and I like your stories.”
“There, Helen,” said the Doctor, “you see one person likes my stories.”
“We all like them, Doctor,” said Hetty Poiret.
“Well,” he began, “there is a place down below Philadelphia where the Schuylkill empties into the Delaware. The shores are low, flat and marshy. Tall grass grows down to the river’s edge; and here the tiny little frogs gather in the shallows as evening falls and peep shrilly: Schuyl—kill! Schuyl—kill! Schuyl—kill!
“Further up the river a creek flows in. There are trees along the bank. There is a very narrow beach with the banks rising abruptly and prevented from falling in by the tree roots. Here the middle-sized frogs gather in the evenings and call in middle-sized voices: Wis—sa—he—con! Wis—sa—he—con! Wis—sa—he—con!
“Further up, the stream is deeper. There are high banks which shelve off rapidly into deeper water. Along the edges solemn shadows form as the sun sets, and here the big bullies gather and croak in solemn tones: Man—yunk! Man—yunk! Man—yunk!”
“I like that story,” said Helen, “it is cute.”
“Yes, I like it, Doctor, that’s a good one,” I said.
“You never told me that one before,” said Kitty Camden, reproachfully.