I roused myself with an effort to Dimbie's birthday and the breakfast.
Amelia had produced the cookery book, and was rapidly reading out loud various recipes for every variety of omelet.
"Stop," I said, "I'm getting muddled."
It ended in our selecting a savoury parsley omelet.
"I hope it will be nice," I said anxiously.
"Of course it will be nice. You leave it to me, mum. I've got a hand that light the master will be wishin' he had a birthday every day of his life."
The birthday morning dawned clear and beautiful. My first thought was of the omelet. I rose softly, dressed quickly, and went out into the garden with the hope of finding a few flowers to put at the side of Dimbie's plate. A fresh, springy scent met me everywhere—damp earth, moist trees, sun-kissed, opening, baby leaves. I inspected our apple tree, which stands in the middle of the lawn, with close attention. It is the only tree we possess. I looked for a promise of blossom. "Perhaps ... yes, in a month's time," I said. I wandered down the garden to the fence which divides us from the frog-pond field. A garden set at the edge of a field is a most cunning device, especially when the field contains well-grown trees (which hang over the fence, dipping and swaying and holding converse of the friendliest description with your own denizens of the garden) and a frog-pond into the bargain. The croaking of frogs may not be musical, but it may be welcomed as one of the surest notifications of the advent of spring. Mr. Frog is courting Miss Frog. He says, "Listen to my voice," on which he emits a harsh, rasping sound, somewhat resembling the note of the corncrake. Miss Frog is probably very impressed. So are Dimbie and I.
"So countrified," says Dimbie, drawing a long, deep breath of the sweet, pure air.
"So far from the madding crowd," say I. "Who ever hears a frog near the big, noisy towns?"
By and by we shall see little black eggs, embedded in a gelatinous substance, floating about the surface of the water. Later on there will be tadpoles, and then more frogs.