“Oh! ah! I see,” said the toad. “No, I’ve no waist, and don’t want any, but I know a little chap that has; he’s a little black and yellow fellow, who goes buzzing about, making a fine noise, and likes sweet things; he’d suit you, only he has such a tickler in his tail. His name’s Wops, or Wasp, or something of that kind.”
“Oh! I know the conceited little plum-stealer; he’s poisonous, like you are.”
“Pooh!” said the toad, “poisonous! I’m not poisonous. I’m not even ill-tempered, so as to poison people’s minds, much more poison their bodies. That’s an old woman’s tale; they say I spit poison, because they’ve seen me catch flies; and are stupid enough, like you, to think me ugly, just as if that made any difference. I creep about here and catch my flies, and enjoy myself well enough.”
“But you can’t fly,” said the wagtail vainly; “I can.”
“Pooh! I know,” said the toad; “and you can’t swim. I can.”
“But you can’t run and catch flies,” said the other, getting cross.
“No, but I can sit down and catch them,” said the toad, “and that’s easier.”
“Boo! old bark-back; where’s your tail?” said the wagtail, now quite cross to find that the ugly old toad was quite as clever as he, and a deal better-tempered.
“Tail,” said the other contemptuously; “what’s the use of a tail only to wag? Do you want me to pull it?” And then he made believe that he was going to get hold of the wagtail’s long feathers, but the bird flew off in a fright, thoroughly vexed and disappointed, because the nasty, black-looking, rough toad could beat him in everything he said.