JOLLY LITTLE TARS
Agnes McClellan Daulton
“Tur-r-r-r-t, tre-t-t,” trilled a tree-toad who was perched one June day, on a log at the water’s edge. “This is a perfect day for us Water-folk. Surely there never was such blue in the sky, such green in the grass, nor such dimpling cloud shadows skipping about everywhere. It is the very day to sit down and dream.”
“We think it just the day for a race,” cried a whirligig beetle who was whizzing past. “Come on, Whirligigs! let us see who will win this time.” And away they went with a dash, flash, and spin, a long curve here, a quick turn there, faster and faster.
“My, my!” said the tree-toad, half closing his eyes. “It seems to me every day is the day for a race with those Whirligigs. I never saw one of them meditating in my life. It makes me dizzy and gives me a headache to watch them spinning. It is a wonder they don’t dash themselves to pieces.”
“Not they,” yawned a little snapping-turtle, who had been drowsing on a stone near by. “If you look close at a Whirligig, you will see that he is nearly as well protected as I am in my strong shell. How you exist with that soft body of yours is more than I can understand. You are a peaceable sort of fellow, but your best friend must admit that you are very ugly.”
“No such thing,” sputtered the tree-toad, leaning far out to look at his reflection in the water. “I’m nothing of the sort. My mother says that I was the handsomest polliwog in the family. You are forced to wear one dress always, and that a dull old shell, while I change the colour of my clothes to suit the occasion, as all well-bred persons should. This morning I am wearing a full suit of grey-brown; that is because it matches so perfectly this lichen-covered log upon which I am seated. When I go swimming, my bathing suit is ashen grey, with green trimmings. If I were to visit the swamp maples I should don plain brown, and if I should take a hop in the grass I should wear a beautiful dress suit of green. I am Mr. Hyla Versicolour, I’d have you know. See how rough and warty my back is; that is a sign of good family among toads. Watch me puff out my throat like a great white bubble as I whistle my tur-r-r-r-t, tre-t-t! Besides having a winning voice and power to change my colour I can breathe through my skin. I have a remarkable foot, also. Look at this delicate webbing, and these cunning little disks at the ends of my toes. I can climb as well as swim, Mr. Snapper. See me dart out my tongue; it is fastened in front and free at the back, so that I may catch a fly in a flash.
“Ugly fellow, indeed!” Mr. Hyla puffed out his throat as far as he could. “Fiddlesticks!” snapped the turtle, slipping into the pool with a splash. “You are a worse boaster than a water-boatman. Talk to yourself, please,” and away he swam.