[Illustration: “A LOUD SPLASH AND MR. RANA’S LONG LEGS DISAPPEARED IN THE BROOK”]
“But you do go in sometimes,” said Ruth. “I’ve seen you.”
“Of course I do,” agreed Mr. Rana. “I must keep my skin wet, and that reminds me it’s pretty dry now, so I will have to leave you. Good-by for the present.” And before Ruth could say a word there was a loud splash and Mr. Rana’s long legs disappeared in the brook.
[Illustration: “‘I’M RIGHT OVER HERE IN THE SHADE’”]
“Yes, and good riddance,” croaked a voice that was not Mr. Rana’s.
“It’s nice having things talk to you,” she said, “but it keeps you jumping.”
“Use your eyes, and you wouldn’t have to jump,” went on the same voice. “I’m right over here in the shade. My blood’s cold, and I can’t stand the hot sun.”
It was her friend the garden toad. Ruth could see him plainly now. He looked more puffy than ever, as he sat under the bushes, swelling his leathery throat with importance. “If my cousin can talk to you I guess I can too,” he added. “I’m Mr. Bufo, and I’m quite as interesting as he is.”
Ruth was only too willing to agree to this, though, as she whispered to Belinda, she thought frogs and toads had very good opinions of themselves.
“I have a wife,” croaked Mr. Bufo when Ruth had sat herself on the ground close to him, “a worrying wife. Do you know it’s a bad thing to have a worrying wife?”
Ruth didn’t know, but she nodded her head in agreement.
“A bad thing,” repeated Mr. Bufo. “In the Spring, after Mrs. Bufo had laid her eggs, she gave me no peace. Of course, like all toads, she laid them in the water, but, instead of being reasonable about it, she was always asking me how she was to know them from the eggs Mrs. Rana and Mrs. Urodillo had laid. Theirs were in the water too.”
“Please, who is Mrs. Urodillo?” asked Ruth. “I know Mrs. Rana is a frog.”
“Mrs. Urodillo is a water salamander,” answered Mr. Bufo, not over pleased at being interrupted. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. Mrs. Bufo was afraid she wouldn’t know her own eggs. Well, I tried to argue with her.”
“‘Didn’t you lay yours in double strings?’ I asked, ‘and didn’t you with motherly care enclose them in thin but strong tubes?’ Of course she couldn’t deny it. ‘But I won’t know my own tadpoles,’ she kept insisting.”