A Window in Arcady 
when a rustle among the dry leaves awakens me to the 
neighborly presence of that humble fellow-traveler on 
life’s pathway, Bufo, the hoptoad. There he sits, stolid as 
the truth, homely as sin, and his eye, like Bunsby’s, fixed 
on the coast of Greenland. He is one of the most com¬ 
panionable of good fellows. Unlike the fearsome rabbit, 
he does not care if I do move a muscle or two; he will 
not disturb the current of my thoughts by irrelevant chatter 
like the scolding squirrel; never, like the busy bee, does 
he suggest industrious habits to me when I would have a 
respite from work and indulge my soul. In short, in the 
gentle art of “far niente” he is a past master. But all 
this, be it remembered, by daylight. When evening draws 
on and the twilight is filling the corners of the earth, he 
wakes up and takes a lively interest in the universe. Then 
he hops abroad in quest of bugs and slugs, which he 
dearly loves, launching the while upon the patient ear 
of night that gurgling song of content which we all know 
and which our alphabet can only represent as ur-r-r. 
Popular superstition has dealt unkindly with our warty 
friend. His undeniable homeliness, his horny forehead and 
his love of darkness all doubtless contributed to make him 
regarded in the Middle Ages as the devil’s representative 
on earth, and his skin was supposed to be poisonous to 
the touch. You will remember that a toad which sweltered 
venom was the first to go into the witches’ hellbroth in 
“Macbeth.” Even to this day the toad, like the snake, is 
generally regarded with aversion, and children will tell 
you that to handle one will give you warts. Nevertheless 
the little beast is quite harmless and is really a benefactor, 
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