Under a log not far away Yan found a little Lizard that tumbled out of sight into a hole.  It was the only living thing there, so he decided that the “Peeper” must be a “Whistling Lizard.”  But he was determined to see them when they were calling.  How was it that the ponds all around should be full of them calling to him and playing hide and seek and yet defying his most careful search?  The voices ceased as soon as he came near, to be gradually renewed in the pools he had left.  His presence was a husher.  He lay for a long time watching a pool, but none of the voices began again in range of his eye.  At length, after realizing that they were avoiding him, he crawled to a very noisy pond without showing himself, and nearer and yet nearer until he was within three feet of a loud peeper in the floating grass.  He located the spot within a few inches and yet could see nothing.  He was utterly baffled, and lay there puzzling over it, when suddenly all the near Peepers stopped, and Yan was startled by a footfall; and looking around, he saw a man within a few feet, watching him.

Yan reddened—­a stranger was always an enemy; he had a natural aversion to all such, and stared awkwardly as though caught in crime.

The man, a curious looking middle-aged person, was in shabby clothes and wore no collar.  He had a tin box strapped on his bent shoulders, and in his hands was a long-handled net.  His features, smothered in a grizzly beard, were very prominent and rugged.  They gave evidence of intellectual force, with some severity, but his gray-blue eyes had a kindly look.

He had on a common, unbecoming, hard felt hat, and when he raised it to admit the pleasant breeze Yan saw that the wearer had hair like his own—­a coarse, paleolithic mane, piled on his rugged brow, like a mass of seaweed lodged on some storm-beaten rock.

“F’what are ye fynding, my lad?” said he in tones whose gentleness was in no way obscured by a strong Scottish tang.

Still resenting somewhat the stranger’s presence, Yan said: 

“I’m not finding anything; I am only trying to see what that Whistling Lizard is like.”

The stranger’s eyes twinkled.  “Forty years ago Ah was laying by a pool just as Ah seen ye this morning, looking and trying hard to read the riddle of the spring Peeper.  Ah lay there all day, aye, and mony anither day, yes, it was nigh onto three years before Ah found it oot.  Ah’ll be glad to save ye seeking as long as Ah did, if that’s yer mind.  Ah’ll show ye the Peeper.”

Then he raked carefully among the leaves near the ditch, and soon captured a tiny Frog, less than an inch long.

“Ther’s your Whistling Lizard:  he no a Lizard at all, but a Froggie.  Book men call him Hyla pickeringii, an’ a gude Scotchman he’d make, for ye see the St. Andrew’s cross on his wee back.  Ye see the whistling ones in the water put on’y their beaks oot an’ is hard to see.  Then they sinks to the bottom when ye come near.  But you tak this’n home and treat him well and ye’ll see him blow out his throat as big as himsel’ an’ whistle like a steam engine.”