The Frog
table. One was sucked under by the purling ooze. It was a beautiful morning. The flowers lifted up their heads to a sky that was cloudless. Bees droned in the fragrant air. A bird sang shrilly. The swamp-garden was a vault of liquid gold. Blindly Pu Chiang rushed into the forest. He was mad. Helpless. On into the swamp he plunged, into the golden mud that was bottomless. As he sank he ceased screaming. Only a few bubbles on the yellow water proclaimed that he had passed.
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