“Pouah!” exclaimed another, “it will spit poison at you.”
“In France, every one kills toads,” said a third.
I objected that it could not bite, because it had no teeth.
“No teeth!” they all exclaimed. “In France, toads always have teeth.”
“Well, then,” I said, “I will open its mouth, and show you that it has none.”
But before I could touch it I was again dragged away.
“Teeth come when the toads are fifty years old,” was the explanation that was given; but still the death-sentence had passed in every mind, and I knew that when I moved the poor toad would be killed.
Just then, some one remarked that tobacco killed toads, if put on their backs. So I took advantage of the assertion, and made a compromise that, on my part, I would not handle the toad; and that, on theirs, the only mode by which they might kill it was by putting tobacco on it.
The terms being thus arranged, plenty of tobacco was produced—and very bad tobacco, too, as is generally the case in France; and, as no one but myself dared come so near, I put about half-an-ounce of the weed on the back of the toad, as it sat in a rut. For a minute or more, the creature sat quite still, and all the party began to exclaim:—