(Fishes we know, but have never seen,)
And a bull-frog croaks from the rushes green.
The journey near to an end has grown,
When Alice’s rudder strikes a stone.
A lurch—a scramble—a sudden scream,
And over we go in the wet, wet stream.
Alice is dripping, and so am I;
Water has got into Jimmy’s eye;
But land is reached—we are safe, though cold.
And we wonder if Mother may chance to scold?