ing hard for the brush along the fence. He 

 scarcely seemed to touch the ground, but 

 skimmed over the grass as if transformed into a 

 midget jack -rabbit. His case was urgent ; and 

 little wonder ! At the opposite end of the log, 

 raised four or five inches from the grass, her eyes 

 hard glittering, her nose tilted in the air, and 

 astonishment all over her face, swayed the flat, 

 ugly head of a hognose-adder. Evidently she, 

 too, had never seen a toad get away in any such 

 time before ; and after staring a moment, she 

 turned under the log and withdrew from the 

 race, beaten. 



Hungry snakes and hot, dusty days are death 

 to the toads. Bufo would almost as soon find 

 himself at the bottom of a well as upon a dusty 

 road in blazing sunshine. His day is the night. 

 He is not particular about the moon. All he 

 asks is that the night be warm, that the dew lay 

 the dust and dampen the grass, and that the in- 

 sects be out in numbers. At night the snakes are 

 asleep, and so are most of those ugly, creaking 

 beasts with rolling iron feet that come crushing 

 along their paths. There is no foe abroad at 

 night, and life, during these dark, quiet hours, 

 [126] 



