COPYRIGHT 1914
BY
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO.
[Illustration: The Froggie who would sing]
“Croak! Croak! Croak!” sang the frog one fine summer evening.
“Really,” he thought, “I have a very fine voice,” and the fishes putting
their heads out of the water thought so too. But fishes have no voice
at all, so perhaps that was why they thought the singing of the frog so
wonderful. Then, too, he was their next-door neighbor, and the doings of
next-door neighbors are sometimes thought more wonderful than the doings
of persons at a distance—though at other times it may be just the other
way about.
Froggie was very proud of his voice, and as he knew the fishes were
proud of it too, he thought he would be sure to charm the world with
his singing. So he set off across the fields and sang to the little
field-mouse and the mole.
[Illustration]
But the field-mouse thought her own shrill note far finer than Froggie’s
coarse croaking, and did not pay much attention to him—in fact her
attention was very much taken up with a beautiful nest she had made of
grass, to keep her little ones warm and dry; while blind mole did not
even put his head above the ground to hear the singing, he was so busy
burrowing tunnels and making his wonderful fortress.
Froggie left them in disgust, and journeyed on till he came to a garden.
“Surely,” he thought, “in this beautiful place my singing will be
welcome.”
But no one paid any attention to Froggie there; the bees were too busy
gathering nectar and pollen from the flowers to make honey and bee bread,
to feed the young bees at home in the hive.
The summer was going fast and they knew they had also to get in store
for the winter, so they had no time to pay attention even to the finest
singing; while the bumble bee was buzzing away as fast as he could to get
back to his nest on some mossy bank.
The butterflies had only a little while to live; and perhaps the only
thing they were thinking about, besides sipping some sweet juices from
the flowers, was where to find a nice leaf on which to lay some eggs, so
that when the little caterpillars were hatched they should have something
to eat. The caterpillar was just spending his life eating as much as he
could, so that he could turn into a beautiful moth by and by, and fly
about in the evening.
[Illustration]
The snail was going along very slowly, it is true, but as quickly as he
could, only thinking of finding some safe spot where a thrush could not
find him and break open his shell and eat him up. As for the spider, his
one care was to catch a passing fly or daddy-long-legs and make a good
meal.
Even the flowers themselves did not pay any attention to poor Froggie.
Their own bright colors, they thought, were finer than any singing.
Besides, they were wondering whether the sunshine would last long enough
to ripen their seeds, so that they could come up again as flowers next
year.
So in the evening Froggie hopped all the way back to his native pond,
where he found a brown bird singing a most beautiful song. It was the
nightingale.
“Really,” thought Froggie, “I am no singer after all!”
But one of the little fishes who saw his disappointment still thinks he
has a wonderful voice.