298 A FARMER'S YEAR 



frantic as it is futile. Again the war is waged this time more 

 feebly, and soon, once more shrouded in holy calm as in a 

 garment, Martha sits smiling at the roof of the greenhouse, 

 reflecting probably upon worms that she swallowed years before 

 anybody now living was born. But as a matter of curiosity one 

 would like to know what is happening inside of her. Clearly her 

 digestive fluids must be of the best. 



I imagine that toads live a great while at least that is the 

 impression among country people. Old men will declare even 

 that they have known a certain toad all their lives ; but this 

 proves nothing, for some descendant may so exactly resemble its 

 ancestor as to deceive the most careful observer. 1 



1 During the winter of 1898 Martha and Jane vanished and were no more 

 seen. In February 1899, however, they reappeared from their hiding places 

 beneath the hot-water pipes and would sit for hours with their noses glued to 

 the zinc screens of the ventilators, and even against the cracks of the doors, 

 desiring doubtless now that the year had turned towards spring to escape into 

 the open to spawn. Clearly lobworms and woodlice artificially supplied no 

 longer consoled them for captivity. At length I took pity upon the poor 

 things, and on a certain mild damp day let them go. Off they waddled 

 in haste, heading for the rose border, the bold Martha leading the way and 

 the pallid Jane with backbone painfully distinct following humbly at a 

 distance. When I searched for them half an hour later they had departed, 

 probably beneath the soil. Let us hope that in generations to be the recollec- 

 tion of their imprisonment in that shining mysterious place where towering 

 creatures provided them with worms in bewildering abundance will come to 

 be regarded by them as a pleasant episode in a somewhat monotonous career. 



The further Mancezcvres of Jane 



June 2, 1899. 



A marvel has come to pass Jane has returned to captivity, plumper and 

 in better condition than she left it four months ago, but without doubt the 

 same pallid, patient, gentle-natured Jane. It happened thus. This very 

 morning, going to the door of the cool glasshouse, which is devoted to hardy 

 cypripediums and other moisture-loving plants, I found sitting on the stone sill 

 and staring hard at the cracks of the door none other than dear Jane. Guessing 

 her wishes I opened it, and in she waddled, turned to the right as usual, and 

 at once established herself amongst the wet shingle. Now what can have 

 brought this creature back in so strange a fashion ? My own belief is that the 



