46 A SONG OF THE NIGHT 



Shakespeare never could have thought of the Toad 

 as ugly or venomous had he known whose voice it 

 was that told of spring to the silent earth under the 

 belated moon. The jewel is a happy tradition. 

 When a Toad sheds his skin, which, being a great 

 economist, he invariably swallows, patches of new 

 skin, generally on the head, present a surface of glassy 

 smoothness. These, accidentally seen at a favourable 

 angle in the moonlight, glisten like crystals of ice. 

 As we know the Toads better and learn that their 

 jewels are unreal we also learn to appreciate them for 

 what they are. They are neither ugly nor venomous, 

 and if they are not adorned with jewels they are 

 gifted to charm the ear of spring with the sweetest 

 of night voices. 



There are other voices calling in the loneliness of 

 the great awakening. The Leopard Frog must be a 

 most impatient suitor, for his harsh, brief, colloquial 

 baritone seems intolerant of delay. It is passing 

 strange that a Frog so handsome in form and colour 

 should find expression in such hard, aggressive tones. 

 The little Hylas are almost forgotten in the loud and 

 varied chorus. They are diminutive members of the 

 family, but their persistence forces recognition. That 

 shrill, gurgling '* preep I preep I ** repeated again 

 and again in indifference to other expanding night 

 sounds, tells where they are floating among the weeds^ 

 inflating and emptying their little vibrant throats. 



