THE TRIBES ON MY FRONTIER. 



is oftener the frog's fate than imprisonment. Every one 

 will call to mind the case of the young rip whose amorous 

 career was cut short by the lily-white duck that gobbled 

 him up ; and herons are worse than ducks, for they do not 

 wait till he goes a-wooing, but stalk into his haunts, and 

 from the far-darting serpent neck and scissor beak of a 

 heron escape is hard. Then the marsh harrier pounces 

 down among the rushes on the croaking veteran who had 

 outlived these perils, and bears him away in its talons. 

 But the arch-enemy is the dhdman, or water-snake, and it 

 is more cruel than the rest, for it takes an hour or two to 

 swallow its victim. It is impossible to conceive a fate of 

 more unmitigated horror than that of a frog being sucked 

 down by a snake, its foot already undergoing digestion, its 

 leg stretching all the way down the enemy's slimy throat, 

 and its body slowly but surely following. Happily frogs 

 cannot have much imagination, yet they must realize the 

 situation to some extent, for they give expression to the 

 anguish of their souls every few minutes in a wail so un- 

 speakably woeful, that it would melt the hardest heart. It 

 has often melted mine to such an extent, that I have gone 

 out with my stick to slay the snake, and release the frog. 

 Once I saw the tables turned. I was watching a wily 



