The next evening six people sat down at the President’s table: the
Doctor and his wife, his niece, Kitty Camden and her brother Searles,
Miss Hetty Poiret and myself. Kitty Camden was tall and stately while
Hetty Poiret was quite small, with a rather shy manner and a sweet
smile. Searles was younger than his sister, rather boyish in manner but
a nice ingenuous lad. He was tall like his sister and nervous; his hands
twitched, and he threw out his head from time to time as if his collar
hurt him.
“There are several ages represented here,” said the Doctor, “I think I
must tell my frog story.”
“Oh, no, Henry!” said his wife.
“Do, Doctor!” I broke in, “I have never heard it, and I like your
stories.”
“There, Helen,” said the Doctor, “you see one person likes my stories.”
“We all like them, Doctor,” said Hetty Poiret.
“Well,” he began, “there is a place down below Philadelphia where the
Schuylkill empties into the Delaware. The shores are low, flat and
marshy. Tall grass grows down to the river’s edge; and here the tiny
little frogs gather in the shallows as evening falls and peep shrilly:
Schuyl—kill! Schuyl—kill! Schuyl—kill!
“Further up the river a creek flows in. There are trees along the bank.
There is a very narrow beach with the banks rising abruptly and
prevented from falling in by the tree roots. Here the middle-sized frogs
gather in the evenings and call in middle-sized voices: Wis—sa—he—con!
Wis—sa—he—con! Wis—sa—he—con!
“Further up, the stream is deeper. There are high banks which shelve off
rapidly into deeper water. Along the edges solemn shadows form as the
sun sets, and here the big bullies gather and croak in solemn tones:
Man—yunk! Man—yunk! Man—yunk!”
“I like that story,” said Helen, “it is cute.”
“Yes, I like it, Doctor, that’s a good one,” I said.
“You never told me that one before,” said Kitty Camden, reproachfully.
The Doctor laughed. Then he began telling us about his travels. His wife
had accompanied him, and occasionally she broke into the narrative to
remind him of something he had forgotten. I have forgotten most of what
he told us but I remember one part clearly. He said they had traveled
over the Splugen on the Via Mala in a one-horse victoria driven by a
black-browed, surly Italian. Coming down the southern slopes they passed
through great groves of giant chestnuts. Nothing else would grow there,
for immense rocks covered the surface and made cultivation impossible.
These trees bore crops of the large Italian chestnuts with which we are
familiar from seeing them on our fruit stands. These are gathered by the
peasants and stored in bags in the lofts overhead until they are well
dried. They are then taken down and beaten with sticks. This breaks the
hulls which are winnowed out. The meat is then beaten to flour in
mortars and _polenta_ or mush made of it which forms almost the only
food of the peasants.