“Tell me, toad,” Peterkin said at last, “why are you so funny?”
Whether it was because the toad was not given to gaiety, or whether his disappointment about the gnat had soured him, he did not respond save by an unwinking stare. After a while it shot out its tongue, as though it were speculating as to Peterkin’s flavour as a pleasant morsel, or perhaps only to find if he were within reach.
This was too much for Peterkin, who rolled back among the lilies, crushing the little white bells into a floating fragrance. But, alas, that betraying laughter!
Peterkin was still in its throes when he heard a voice falling upon him as though out of the skies.
“Ah, there you are, you little rascal! How you frightened us all, and what a hunt we have had!”
Almost before he recognised the voice of Ian Mor, Peterkin was seized and lifted high into the air.
“Don’t be angry, Ian,” the child whispered. “I came out to see the fairies. And then I ran on here to see if the little dead bird had come out of the earth again.”
“And have you seen a fairy, Peterkin?”
“I don’t know. I saw a toad.”
“What did the toad do?”