“What is that?”
“They swallow their own skins.”
“How can they do that?” inquired Whistler, with a look of incredulity.
“They shed their skins, like snakes, at certain times; but, instead of leaving their old coat where they happen to take it off, they always swallow it.”
“How do you know that?—did you ever see them do it?”
“No; but father has a book that says so. Besides, I never found a toad’s skin, although there are plenty of toads about here.”
“Perhaps they bury their cast-off skins,” suggested Whistler, who, now that several of his illusions in regard to toads were dispelled, was disinclined to allow them the credit of doing anything remarkable.
“If I were going to guess,” replied Clinton, “I should think that they might hide them in some way. But the book I spoke of was written by a great naturalist, and I suppose he knew what he was writing about. In fact, I don’t know that they shed their skins at all, only from what I have heard and read about it.”
“Well, poor toady, I’m sorry that I killed you; but I didn’t know any better,” said Whistler, as he tossed away the remains of his victim with his hoe, and resumed his work.
About two hours before the sun reached the meridian the boys finished weeding the piece of ground, and Clinton’s work for the day was accomplished.