“No wonder she was worried,” said Ruth. “Any one would want to know their own babies.”
“Mothers in our family never do,” declared Mr. Bufo. “They lay their eggs, and that’s the end of it. Mrs. Bufo knew that as well as I did. She only wanted something to worry about. All tadpoles are pretty much alike to begin with, but they don’t end alike. Toad egg tads always grow into toads; frog egg tads become frogs, and salamander egg tads will be salamanders and nothing else.”
All the while he talked Mr. Bufo had stopped every little while to swallow, not only air, but whatever in the way of insects came within his reach. So of course Ruth saw his tongue.
“Your tongue is just like Mr. Rana’s,” she said, after watching it for a few seconds.
“Our tongues may be alike,” agreed Mr. Bufo, “but there’s a vast difference in our legs. His are too long for any use, and his skin is so horribly smooth it gives me the shivers just to look at it. Of course I know I am not handsome, and that reminds me of some lines that have been written about me. Want to hear them?”
Then without waiting for an answer he swallowed some air and began:
“I’m a clumsy, awkward toad, And I hop along the road; ’Tis the only way we toads can well meander; While in yonder marshy bog Leaps my relative the frog, Very near my aunt, the water Salamander.
“And if you should ever stray Near a slimy pool some day, And along its grassy margin chance to loiter. Do not pass it idly by, For it is the spot where I Was born a lively tadpole in the water.
“I’m a homely, harmless thing; I catch insects on the wing, And in this I serve you all; it is my duty. And now tell me which is best, To be useless and well dressed, Or useful, even though I am no beauty?”
Mr. Bufo had scarcely finished, when his mate hopped out from some nearby bushes.
“I’d be ashamed,” she said, in a very puffy voice, “to sit there repeating that lovely poetry, with such shabby clothes as yours are. How many more times must I tell you to change them?”
“It doesn’t matter about his clothes,” said Ruth. “I think it is so lovely to hear him talk.”
“You haven’t heard him as often as I have,” puffed Mrs. Bufo, hopping almost into Ruth’s lap. “Besides, his clothes are a disgrace. They are not only faded and dull, but they are actually beginning to split up the back.”