And so it was—an immense green bullfrog, that looked at them with its bulging, fishy eyes from the bottom of the pool. Perhaps the water magnified the frog, making it appear larger than it really was, but it certainly seemed immense.
“That’s my pet frog,” mumbled the old woman. “I don’t let no boys stone him if I can help it, but sometimes I can’t help it. They peg rocks at him when he sits on the edge of the spring. An’ if I ketch them boys—wa-all, if they do it once they never can drink from my spring again.”
“What boys are they?” asked Mr. Bobbsey, as he filled his canvas pail, the frog not seeming to be disturbed.
“Oh, pesky boys—boys what go up in the hills to take their cows to pasture or drive ’em home. Pesky boys,” answered the old woman.
“Well, I never stoned any frogs,” said Bert.
“Then you must be one of the few good boys,” said the old woman, and she gave a half-smile, for the first time in many days it seemed.
“Thank you for the water,” said Mr. Bobbsey, as he started off with the dripping pail.
“Ef the children want any there’s a dipper in the spring house,” said the old woman.
“I’d like a drink,” said Bert.
“Oh,” murmured Nan. “Would you take a drink from the spring where that big frog is?”