“It certainly was a spectacle well worth seeing, this continuous flow of clear water over a bed of golden sand, dotted here and there with flexible green plants, which, swaying with every movement of the tide make such charming little retreats for the fish. The minnows and gudgeon glided like shadows between the few large stones which took the place of reefs on this miniature coast. Their goings and comings amused me very much, and I made up my mind that some day one could apply to me as to them the proverb, ‘Happy as a fish in the water.’ All this would have been perfect, if little by little I had not approached the spot where, under the boughs and between the roots of an enormous willow, my uncle had anchored the famous St. Jacques. Desiring not to disobey my father. I had made up my mind not to look at the St. Jacques, not to take a step towards it; this was prudent, but it was ordained that I should break my word that day. Reasons for doing so were not lacking: first—the portion of the walk by the water where I intended to stay being in the hot sun, I had not seen a single frog; the hot herbage did not suit them.
“To take my swimming lesson it was necessary to go to the side where the boat was moored. Only under the willows, and in the damp grass which surrounded the Bay St. Jacques, could I hope to find them. Second—as my father was anxious that I should study how frogs swam, I had made a mistake in keeping away from the only place where I stood some chance of finding them. I knew well that there alone could they always be seen. Besides, going near the St. Jacques was not the same thing as going on the St. Jacques. Third—it is not difficult to refrain from getting into a boat, even when one has a great desire to do so. So I pushed aside the long branches of the great willow which hung down to the ground, and found myself in the presence of the St. Jacques. What a beautiful boat she was! Since I had last seen her my uncle had had her repainted. Her new costume of mingled red and white suited her marvelously; her mast,—there was a mast,—painted also, was even more beautiful than one of those lovely paper wind-mills that one’s parents never buy one. Her pennant had also been renewed. It was certainly for my father’s return that uncle Antoine had gone to the expense of this brilliant toilette. The hull hardly stirred. Its imperceptible balancings on the water resembled the quiet breathing of a sleeping person. Under the transparent veil of the drooping branches of the weeping willow, no breath could reach it. The St. Jacques had the air of a little potentate in repose, under a canopy of verdure. If papa had not forbidden me to get in the little boat, it would have been delightful to read my ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ out upon the water. Sitting in the bow, leaning against the mast, one might imagine one’s self on an island. But then, that which is forbidden one can not prevent from being forbidden.”
“I tried at first to think of nothing but frogs. But, as if on purpose, not one showed himself. I was sure they were hiding in the shadow of the boat. I went up quite close to the St. Jacques, and still nothing jumped into the water. Decidedly, and in spite of all my good intentions, I was not to take my swimming lesson that day. But what were those three green spots that I saw down there on the white edge of the boat? They were,—yes, they were three frogs taking a nap at their ease, as if the St. Jacques belonged to them.
“One could not tolerate a thing of that sort. I stepped gently over the edge of the boat to chase away the trespassers. Paf, paf, paf, with a single hop, each of them made one of those famous dives of which my father had spoken. Now or never was the moment to ask them for a lesson. I did not fail to do so. I was lost in admiration of their talent. Papa was right; a frog swims to perfection. It swims so correctly and elegantly that by its vigorous, regular movements, one understands clearly what one ought to do if one happened to be in its place. This sort of lesson, illustrated by an example, shows one much better what movements to make than when the gardener holds you under the stomach, and shouts you don’t know what in your ears. If father should throw me into the water, I should think of the frogs: I should do as they did, and I should certainly swim.
“What a beautiful boat she was!”
Drawn by Clinton Peters.
“I had reached this point in my resolutions, when the sound of something heavy falling suddenly into the water made me raise my head. The noise was followed by a cry, and this cry by five or six others.