The Frog
he slept in the treetops on a natural couch in the high branches which he had discovered. The wind playing softly in the willows lulled him to sleep. His couch swayed softly like a cradle while the yellow lanternmoon splashed down its gorgeous light upon the whispering swamp.
When morning came the little man would scramble down from the treetops. With a shout of glee he would cast off his green suit and plunge into the cool yellow water. What cared he that the water was oozy mud? In the coral-dawn it shone like gold. It laved his face like some sweet elixir. Each time he rose to the surface he was a golden statue, the glistening yellow mud clinging like paint to his skin. All about him frogs croaked and gurgled and gloried in the swamp. When he had splashed about as long as he desired, he sped to where there was a bit of a waterfall. Under this he stood till the last vestige of gold had been washed from him. Then came the sun, drying his body, toning-up his happiness. When he was dressed he would wander throughout his garden, touching, caressing occasional flowers that were his especial friends.
Sometimes he raised a dew-drenched rose to his lips or a gorgeous pond lotus. But he never plucked a flower. For he hated to give pain and he knew as an aid philosopher has written that one cannot pluck a flower without troubling a star. Stars are the great lovers of flowers. Flowers blossom joyously, lift up
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