Chigwooltz the Frog. 77 



a triangle with my canoe, I dangled a red ibis impar- 

 tially between them. For two or three long minutes 

 neither moved so much as an eyelid. Then one 

 seemed to wake suddenly from a trance, or to be 

 touched by an electric wire, for he came scrambling 

 in a desperate hurry over the lily pads. Swimming 

 was too slow; he jumped fiercely out of water at the 

 red challenge, making a great splash and commotion. 



Fishing for big frogs, by the way, is no tame sport. 

 The red seems to excite them tremendously, and they 

 take the fly like a black salmon. 



But the moment the first frog started, frog number 

 two waked up and darted forward, making less noise 

 but coming more swiftly. The first frog had jumped 

 once for the fly and missed it, when the other leaped 

 upon him savagely, and a fight began, while the ibis 

 lay neglected on a lily pad. They pawed and bit 

 each other fiercely for several minutes; then the 

 second frog, a little smaller than the other, got the 

 grip he wanted and held it. He clasped his fore 

 legs tight about his rival's neck and began to strangle 

 him slowly. I knew well how strong Chigwooltz is 

 in his forearms, and that his fightings and wrestlings 

 are desperate affairs; but I did not know till then 

 how savage he can be. He had gripped from behind 

 by a clever dive, so as to use his weight when the right 



