Mr. Thompson was lying in the shade on the bank of a small pond. He had
come out to read, he said, but no sooner had he thrown himself on the
soft turf than an irresistible desire to sleep came upon him; so,
pillowing his head on his book, he closed his eyes.
"Cut-a-ka-chunk, cut-a-ka-chunk," croaked a big green frog down in the
pond.
"I wish you'd keep still," growled Mr. Thompson.
"He's-goin'-to-sleep, he's-goin'-to-sleep," answered the frog, in a deep
bass voice.
"Just-hear-him-snore, just-hear-him-snore," piped a little green fellow,
sitting on a lily pad.
Mr. Thompson was getting angry. "I'm not asleep," he shouted.
"Don't-you-get-mad, don't-you-get-mad," urged the old frog.
This was too much. Mr. Thompson sat up and looked around. Directly in
front of him, in the edge of the pond, sat a great bull-frog, dressed in
a green coat, a canary-colored vest, and dark brown knee-breeches. He
winked at Mr. Thompson sociably, and remarked, "How-do-you-do?
how-do-you-do? how-do-you-do?"
"Pretty well," answered Mr. Thompson; "but I'm very sleepy."
"Come-take-a-swim," advised the frog, laconically.
"I would," said Mr. Thompson, hesitating, "only I'm afraid I'd get wet,
and spoil my clothes."
"Never-hurts-mine, never-hurts-mine," answered the frog, jumping into
the pond and taking a few strokes.
"But you see my clothes are not like yours," explained Mr. Thompson.
"Look-just-the-same, look-just-the-same," answered the frog.
Mr. Thompson looked down at his vest; the white had changed to
lemon-color; his sober black pantaloons were metamorphosed into natty
snuff-colored knee-breeches; and worst of all, his alpaca duster had
become a tight green cut-away coat.
"If Angelina should see me in this rig, what would she say?" murmured
Mr. Thompson, in despairing tones.
"Better-come-in, better-come-in," croaked the frog, with something like
a smile on his broad mouth.
"I guess I will," thought Mr. Thompson, and plunging head first he dived
into the pond. He soon came up with his mouth full of mud. That, of
course, annoyed him, but he was more interested in how the mud got into
his mouth, for, diving as he did, he should have struck the top of his
head. He put his hand up to feel. Horror! instead of touching the top of
his head, he thrust his hand into his mouth. He felt again; _his mouth
was on the top of his head_. He climbed up on a lily pad, and looked at
his reflection in the water. He could hardly believe his eyes; there was
no Mr. Thompson; only a great green and yellow frog. The other frog was
sitting not far off, watching him with an air of amusement.
"There are some boys on the bridge, and they are going to throw stones
at us," whispered the old frog. Mr. Thompson forgot his sudden change of
appearance, and assuming his most pompous manner, he shouted,
"You-mustn't-do-that, you-mustn't-do-that."
"You old fool," bellowed the old frog, as he plunged into the water.
Mr. Thompson thought discretion to be the better part of valor, and
followed.
"He's gone under," remarked one of the boys, regretfully. "Wouldn't he
have made a splendid fry?"
Mr. Thompson rose with his nose under a lily pad and shuddered. His
friend came up beside him. "What did you want to speak for when those
boys were there? You only let them know where we were," he said, rather
crossly. "That is the reason we wear green coats, so that we can sit
among the lily pads and not be seen."
Mr. Thompson replied that he had forgot himself, and spoke without
thinking. "So that's the reason for wearing green coats?" he added.
"Yes," replied the old frog. "Now you see my son here wears brown long
clothes," he added, pointing to a pollywog that wiggled up to him. "That
is because he stays on the bottom, and if he sees a boy, he keeps still,
and his enemies think that he is a lump of mud or a stone."
"Ah," said Mr. Thompson, "and green coats have been in fashion for a
long time?"
"Ever since the days of Homer. Don't you remember in Homer's poem, 'The
Battle of the Frogs and Mice,' he says, 'Green was the suit his arming
heroes chose'?"
"Oh yes," answered Mr. Thompson.
"My great-grandfather was in that battle, and my uncle was the original
frog who would a-wooing go," continued the old frog; "but you know he
got eaten up. He was a French frog, I think; at least I never saw an
American frog with an opera hat."
How much more the old frog would have said Mr. Thompson never knew, for
there on the bank he saw his beloved Angelina, sitting beside his
deserted book, weeping as if her heart would break.
"I am here, dear one," he shouted. At the same moment he felt a
sensation of dampness, and found himself lying half in the pond. He rose
and accompanied Miss Angelina home; then, after putting on dry clothes,
he related his adventures to a company of his friends. All were
interested except one skeptical young man.
"But if my story is not true, how did I come in the pond?" argued Mr.
Thompson.
"You got asleep, and rolled in; then when you felt wet, you dreamed that
you were a frog," said the skeptical young man.
"That's not at all likely," sniffed Mr. Thompson, indignantly.
"Likely or not, it's undoubtedly true."
"Listen," said Mr. Thompson. Then far down in the marsh was heard the
faint sound of the frog's chorus:
"Thompson-got-wet, Thompson-got-wet--
Ha, ha, ha, ha;
Guess-he-is-yet, guess-he-is-yet--
Ha, ha.
Had-to-go-home, had-to-go-home--
Ha, ha, ha, ha;
He'd-better-not-come, he'd-better-not-come--
Ha, ha."
"What do you say to that?" cried Mr. Thompson, shaking his head
triumphantly, as he walked off to bed.