EXPLORATIONS 



assembled in convention up stream and 

 had just heard the story, particularly well 

 told. I knew them. They were the wood 

 frogs, holding their annual convention, in- 

 deed, in the water all along the marshy 

 margin of the swamp. Once a year they 

 come down, as people go to the seashore, 

 disporting themselves in the waves and 

 making very merry about it. They were 

 not laughing at me. They were simply 

 shouting their happiness at being thawed 

 out and rinding it springtime once more. 



Their voices, pitched about an octave 

 below middle C, and all on one note, 

 sound not unlike a great flock of ducks 

 gabbling wildly, but they are really more 

 nearly musical than that. After the con- 

 vention is over they go back to the woods, 

 where you will find them sitting among 

 the leaves, though you will never see them 



till they see you. And when you do see 

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