You see, moral is, no escaping Fate! Fate! [Yawns.] Oh, I am so dry! Can’t you spray me? [To the Gardener.]
The Gardener.
[To his assistants who hold garden hose and watering-pot.] Don’t you hear? Let spray!
The Frog.
Aye, let spray! Always spray before going to bed! ’specially one hundred years!
[Drops off to sleep.]
The Gardener.
[Catching hold of a branch of the wonderful moss-rose bush.] It’s the finest moss-rose bush in all the world!—Little slip—this size—sixteen years—Just think!—One hundred years—whole forest—moss roses!
[Drops off to sleep.]