Songs of the Fields 



bumblebee; the poet who put the snail into met- 

 rical measure preferred to remain anonymous, and 

 other writers have ranged through nature and 

 lifted their voices for almost every living creature; 

 but when our own Riley brought every reader of 

 his lines down to earth and in harmony with a hop- 

 toad, he sang the greatest song of all, for they 

 occupy a place with humanity set aside for cater- 

 pillars, snakes, and bats. From time immemorial 

 men have shuddered on seeing a toad. In connec- 

 tion with it such pleasing fiction has been culti- 

 vated as that to touch one would develop warts on 

 your fingers and make your cow give bloody milk. 

 Also they were a component part of the brews 

 compounded by witches. 



These silly superstitions, passed from genera- 

 tion to generation, were splendid protection to the 

 toad. Let it alone ! Who wanted warts on his fin- 

 gers and blood in his milk? You may be very 

 sure it was left alone. "It 's a toad! Don't touch 

 it!" rang the cry. 



So the hop-toad homes in the bushes and un- 

 der the vines, sleeping during the heat of the day, 

 and coming out in the evening for his food. He 

 consumes untold numbers of gnats, mosquitoes, 

 small flies, fireflies, and tiny worms on grass blades. 

 The home that boasts a hop-toad is particularly 

 fortunate, for he is a great scavenger, and his wel- 

 come should be hearty. For years we have had 

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