“Not exactly. I only cut off his jumpers. Just look here, and see how smooth I took off his hind legs.”
Clinton took a look at the poor victim, which was struggling in its agony, and, shaking his head, said, seriously:
“That is too bad!”
“What is too bad?” inquired Whistler, with some surprise.
“Why, to torture a poor thing in that way. I’d put him out of his misery, if I were you.”
Whistler felt the mild rebuke, and, having found a large stone, he gave the poor reptile his death-blow with far less satisfaction than he experienced when he cut him in halves with his hoe. He was not at heart a cruel boy, but he was thoughtless,—a fault which is the excuse (and a very poor one it is) for a great deal of suffering inflicted upon dumb creatures. Having dispatched the toad, he resumed his hoe, saying, in a half-apologetic tone:
“I never could bear toads;—they say they are poisonous.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Clinton; “I never heard of any body being poisoned by a toad. Besides, they are very useful in a garden,—didn’t you know it?”
“Useful? no, indeed! I thought they ate up the things,” replied his cousin.
“They eat up the grubs, and worms, and bugs, and such things,” replied Clinton; “but they don’t hurt the crops. They are good friends to the farmer, and I’m always careful never to hurt them.”