legs, heads, and tails all in their dead winter 

 sleep. Their common enemy, the frost, had 

 taken them unawares, and driven them like 

 friends into the crevice of the rocks, where they 

 would have slept together until the spring had 

 not the quarrymen unearthed them. 



There is much mystery shrouding this humble 

 batrachian. Somewhere in everybody's imagina- 

 tion is a dark cell harboring a toad. Heading 

 down through literature, it is astonishing how 

 often the little monster has hopped into it. 

 There is chance for some one to make a big book 

 of the fable and folk-lore that has been gathering 

 througn the ages about the toads. The stories 

 of the jewels in their heads, of their age-long en- 

 tombments in the rocks, of the warts and spells 

 they induce, of their eating fire and dropping 

 from the clouds, are legion. 



And there seems to be some basis of fact for 

 all these tales. No one has yet written for us 

 the life-history of the toad. After having 

 watched the tadpole miracle, one is thoroughly 

 prepared to see toads jump out of the fire, tumble 

 from broken marble mantles, and fall from the 

 clouds. I never caught them in my hat during 

 [318], 



