IS 
House & Garden 
D 
Kn“ n THE WISDOM OF TOADS 
may not think it a high ambition, hut 
for me there is quite as much uplift in it as in prowling among the 
dead images of the Vatican, and there are days in life when it 
means more than all the art of the Uffizi. 
The best sonnet ever written needs mending when compared 
with the song of a hop-toad. A toad is always singing the green 
life of the world, the amplitude of light. This doesn't keep him 
awake the whole year round, but no inspired soul could ever claim 
the distinction of such enduring pleasure. Still, when you think 
of it, who can say that he hasn't some underground ballads of 
his own, concerning which we have no knowledge? 
I have never discovered that the toad grows any handsomer 
year by year, but it's the tendency of the most of us to wane a 
little. I have sometimes thought a frog in his white choker and 
apple-green trousers was a little prettier than a toad, that he spoke 
with a wiser tongue, had better lungs, and greater poetic powers; 
but he is not of such reflective turn of mind as is the toad. Then, 
one can get near enough to a toad to obtain some spiritual refresh¬ 
ment; I have not always found it so among men. 
T HERE is always something about a toad that suggests shrewd¬ 
ness and good sense. In the first place, he minds his own 
business. Like myself he is a creature of the earth, possessed of 
personality, an absolute believer in the resurrection—a day by 
day reappearing, as fresh and sure as spring appears, a continuous 
sequence of hopes, dreams and aspirations, growing out of the 
creative breath and light of things, redeeming us from evil, win¬ 
ning us toward good. My friend, the toad, may not understand 
all this (neither do I), but he seems to have that same confidence 
in life that I have, accepts his blessings complacently, as a matter 
of course, and believes in being at peace with the world. 
The toad is mentally alert from the first of May till things freeze 
up, and lends a helping hand all through fly-time. I suppose we 
must admit that a toad will work on Sundays, but he must have 
his three meals a day and they are not otherwise procurable. If 
you have ever investigated a toad’s bedroom, I am sure you found 
it scrupulously neat, with obvious precautions against the intrusion 
of strangers, a place of forgetfulness, promise and vision. How 
much this all seems like our own little apartments! I suppose 
this veiled existence of rest and seclusion is quite as necessary to 
his growth and intellectual development as it is to ours. 
T HE physiognomy of a toad’s 
soul is something we know 
but little about. It may be a 
quadrangle or a cube, but I would 
not dare say there are not some 
dormant possibilities, some psy¬ 
chic emotion, a definite law of the 
utmost importance in the evolu¬ 
tion of nature hidden away some¬ 
where in a toad’s anatomy. A 
toad may have a clarified sight 
deeper than any human vision; he 
may understand the mysterious 
suggestions of nature much better 
than I. He certainly has the grav¬ 
ity of a philosopher, and fine 
manners, though he may have but 
a limited knowledge of Greek his¬ 
tory. Who knows that he is not 
the reincarnation of some genius 
who has gone out and left his 
empty chamber with us? You 
might think this a rather crude 
experience, a dubious fate; it may 
be a step far nearer divinity than 
ever before. Look about you next 
election day and see if this ap¬ 
pears an impossibility. 
There may be such a surprise 
in store for our very selves. The 
idea is not of my invention ; it is 
only an echo, and probably a mis¬ 
conception, though I sometimes 
seem to have a dim remembrance of 
having passed through a hopping 
stage, somewhere in my past exist¬ 
ence ; it may he but the harassing recollection of unusual anima¬ 
tion after my grandfather had used an oily-birch on me. (He 
always made me go to the woods and cut these instruments of 
torture myself, and I recall too that I slipped my knife into them 
here and there so they would break easily.) 
A TOAD is really a sociable creature, once you gain his confi¬ 
dence. One little fellow yesterday relieved my mind of some 
troublesome problems, and at the same time propounded some 
very perplexing ones. In the first place he began to moralize about 
being dumb of spirit, and having no definite aim in life. We have 
had these garden-talks on many previous occasions. 
“Why,” said he, “I know plenty of people that are snowed up 
all the year round. They seem to have experienced a hard frost 
somewhere, and go about with icicles hanging all over them; a hot 
tamale wouldn’t thaw them out. They are born critics. They 
couldn't plant a hill of beans without chilling it so the seed would 
never come up. The laws of dissolution and new growth do not 
enter into their religion, and yet for some inconceivable reason 
they're all the time talking about ‘the other world.’ ” 
Then he wanted to know why it was that Christians painted 
death with such gloomy significance, such barrenness and desola¬ 
tion, and went around in black clothes when there was such beau¬ 
tiful scenery to be had in my back yard. 
“Look at the streak of sunlight on that rhubarb leaf,” said he. 
“Oh,” I said, “you old hump-backed poet, I suppose you think 
death is sunrise, and we never reach the vanishing point.” 
“Exactly,” he replied. “If you had been with me all winter, 
you'd feel just as I do about it. Look at that long wavy grass 
over there, and go smell of it. People come out here in my quar¬ 
ters, trailing their silk dresses, and don't seem to have the sense 
of a clucking hen. Why, a hen has imagination enough to know 
that when she sets on an egg it’s ten chances to one there’s going 
to be a gratifying of her inclinations later. She’s just as sure as 
if ‘success’ were written all over that egg in red chalk. That hen 
has spiritual intentions, so has the egg, and there’s a whole con¬ 
stellation of good things in sight. Oh, the folly of wise men, and 
the wisdom of fools! I’m finding new vistas every day, opening 
new chapters to new stories. See that worm over on that currant- 
bush? Good morning.” 
So it is, my little friend is 
always leaving some lovely im¬ 
pression with me of the simplicity 
of life, and its tremendous possi¬ 
bilities ; the delight of rising early, 
and the symbolic import of kind¬ 
ness. He looks me straight in the 
eye, does not appear anxious to at¬ 
tract attention or shine in society, 
but instead finds companionship in 
alluring avenues of thought, and is 
always preaching respectability, 
“greatness is not,” and making the 
most of what many folks would 
consider his humble environment. 
VIGNETTE OF TWILIGHT 
The strong sweet smell of earth was in the air, 
And quiet leaves were falling everywhere 
As I walked through the wood; mysterious boles 
Of white-streaked ash, like disembodied souls, 
Stood hushed in dim recesses, while, afar, 
The limpid brilliance of the evening star 
Shed silver down the sky....then limitless space 
Star-scattered, bloomed above my upturned 
face.... 
Harry Kemp. 
H E needs a little tonic once in 
a while, hops out under the 
balsam-firs and gets it. He lias- 
caught the music of the garden,the 
song of the rainbow, the shower- 
dazzle, and the fantasy of the 
dusk. All day long the shade of 
a rose he makes his temple; a ma¬ 
jestic thing to him, I have no> 
doubt. So it is to me. He is con¬ 
tinually saying, 
“Live in the open, with the rus¬ 
tle and sweet air; health of the 
spirit is health of the body. Be a 
good listener, take life as you find 
it. All things are an illusion ex¬ 
cepting those which cannot be es¬ 
timated by a rule or measure.” 
Herbert Randall. 
