Music of the Wild 



In my home all my literary and artistic ef- 

 forts have a critic; the keenest they ever know: 

 one who cuts to the hone and spares not. She 

 My Critic is actuated solely by love. Being sensitive to 

 criticisms from other sources, she would point out 

 all the flaws in my work herself, and so prevent 

 others from seeing them too late to be avoided. 



"You never are going to put in that hop-toad !" 

 she exclaims. 



"Why not?" 



"Because this is a music-book, and the song of 

 a hop-toad is not worth mentioning." 



"Well, if it can not sing much it can set a 

 poet singing, which amounts to the same thing. 

 Listen !"- 



Howdy, Mister Hop-Toad ! Glad to see you out ! 

 Bin a month o' Sundays sence I see you hereabout. 



Mister Hop-Toad, honest- true-Springtime^don't you love it? 

 You old rusty rascal you, at the bottom of it ! 



Swell that fat old throat o' yourn and lemme see you swaller ; 

 Straighten up and h'ist your head ! You don't owe a dollar ! 



Hulk, sulk, and blink away, you old bloat-eyed rowdy ! 

 Hain't you got a word to say? Won't you tell me howdy?" 



Why should a hop-toad have a voice, or strain 



The Song his throat, when he can compel a poet to sing for 



Hop-Toad ki m lifc e that? Burns sang for a louse and a field 



mouse, Bryant for a mosquito, Emerson for the 



190 



