IN FEATHERS AND FUR. 
61 
twilight, when everything else is still. It must be admitted it is 
rather a harsh voice, and in old times, when the finest palaces were 
surrounded with frog-ponds, servants were kept stirring the water 
by the hour, to prevent the poor little fellows from singing. 
During the summer my little neighbor is a great eater, 
devouring a host of insects, worms, and such things. And so 
anxious is he to have them perfectly fresh, that he catches them 
alive and eats them at once. But in the fall he becomes melan- 
choly and leaves off his food. And when the weather gets too 
cool for his light coat — he has no fur or feather overcoat, you 
know — he buries himself snugly in the mud at the bottom of his 
native pond, and goes to sleep for the winter. 
A pretty good nap, I should think. 
He is often frozen, but he don't seem to care for that. The 
first warm weather of spring brings him out, lively and bright as 
ever. 
