It was a beautiful, natural fan, and served, admirably, the purpose intended.
Around Miss Frog arose the varied warble of other frogs. The little polliwogs had all been put to bed; and now, came stealing on, the season for silent thoughts. Always anxious to improve her mind, Miss Frog gazed about her to find a subject on which to fasten her attention.
She had been once sent to a southern lake to finish her education, and was really quite superior to ordinary frogs.
"There is no one here, in this mud-hole, to appreciate me," she regretfully sighed, as two silly frogs passed her leaf, flirting so hard that neither of them observed her.
She drew around her her shawl of lace, made from the finest cobwebs of Florida—and sulked.
Just then arose the moon, taking its solitary, silvery way across the sky.
Her attention was arrested at once.
"How like to a polliwog it is!" she rapturously exclaimed, "save that it lacks a tail."
"And a glorified polliwog it is, daughter of the water!" croaked a sudden hoarse voice beside her.
She hopped with fright, and gasped as if about to faint; but calmed herself again as she recognized the tones of the rough-skinned Sage of the Frogs, who dwells alone in some remote corner of the lake. He it is who always sings, "Kerdunk!" when he condescends to sing at all.