and forced it down his throat and held it down 

 while he kicked and squirmed out of it. 



Though less beautifully clothed than Hyla, our 

 common toad, Bufo, is just as carefully clothed. 

 Where the rain drips from the eaves, clean, 

 narrow lines of pebbles have been washed out of 

 the lawn. On one side of the house the shade 

 lies all day long and the grass is cool and damp. 

 Here, in the shade, a large toad has lived for two 

 summers. I rarely pass that way without seeing 

 him, well hidden in the grass. For several days 

 lately he had been missing, when, searching more 

 closely one morning, I found him sunk to the 

 level of his back in the line of pebbles, his spots 

 and the glands upon his neck so mingling with 

 the varied collection of gravel about him that 

 only a practised eye, and that sharp with expec- 

 tation, could have made him out. 



In a newly plowed field, with some of the fresh 

 soil sticking to him, what thing could look more 

 like a clod than this brown, shapeless lump of a 

 toad? But there is a beauty even in this un- 

 lovely form ; for here is perfect adaptability. 



Our canons of the beautiful are false if they 

 do not in some way include the toad. Shall we 

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