THE BULLFROG 



and goes plunging headlong into his 

 nether element, bellowing out his shame 

 and astonishment. 



Another day as you troll along the 

 channel an oar's length from the weedy 

 borders, you see him afloat on his lily- 

 pad raft, heeding you no more than 

 does the golden-hearted blossom whose 

 orange odor drifts about him, nor is he 

 disturbed by splash of oar nor dip of 

 paddle, nor even when his bark and her 

 perfume-freighted consort are tossed on 

 your undulating wake. 



As summer wanes you see and hear 

 him less frequently, but he is still your 

 comrade of the marshes, occasionally an- 

 nouncing his presence with a resonant 

 twang and a jerky splash among the 

 sedges. 



The pickerel weeds have struck their 

 blue banners to the conquering frost, 

 and the marshes are sere, and silent, and 

 desolate. When they are warmed again 

 with the new life of spring, we shall lis- 

 ten for the jubilant chorus of our old 

 acquaintance, the bullfrog. 

 69 



