Towards the end of the summer we had trained them so well that once in a long while we could actually get them all still at once, and all facing the right way as they sat upon that board.  Oh! it was a beautiful sight, and worth any amount of trouble and work!  Twenty-one frogs in a row, all in fresh green suits, with clean white shirt fronts, washed every day.  The General and Myron W. Whitney always looked as if they were bursting with pride, and as they were too fat and lazy to move, we could generally count upon their good behavior.

We thought that if we could only get them to look down into the pool, which made such a lovely looking-glass, and just see for once what a beautiful picture they made,—­sitting so straight and still, and all so nicely graded as to size,—­they would like it better and do it a little more willingly.

We thought, too, the baby frogs would be ashamed, when they looked in the glass, to see that while the big frogs stayed still of their own free will, they had to be held down with forked sticks.  But we could never discover that they were ashamed.

So when everything was complete my little sister used to “let go” of the baby frogs (for, as I said, she had to hold them down while we were forming the line), and I would begin the lesson.  Sometimes they would listen a minute, and then they would begin their pranks.  They would insist on playing leap-frog, which is a very nice game, but not appropriate for school.  Tiny Tim would jump from the foot of the class straight over all the others on to Myron W. Whitney’s back.  Baby Mine would try to get between Croaker and Goldilegs, where there wasn’t any room.  Nimblefoot would twist round on the board and turn his back to me, which was very impolite, as I was the teacher.  Finally, Hop-o’-my-Thumb would go splash into the pool, and all the rest, save the good old General, would follow him, and the lesson would end.  I suppose you have heard frogs singing just after sunset, when you were going to bed?  Some people think the big bull-frogs say, “JUGO’RUM!  JUGO’RUM!  JUGO’RUM!” But I don’t think this is at all likely, as the frogs never drink anything but water in their whole lives.

We used to think that some of the frogs said, “KERCHUG!  KERCHUG!” and that the largest one said, “GOTACRUMB!  GOTACRUMB!  GOTACRUMB!” Perhaps you can’t make it sound right, but if you listen to the frogs you can very soon do it.

We thought the frogs in our froggery the very best singers in all the country round.  After our mother had tucked us in our little beds and kissed us good-night, she used to open the window, that we might hear the chirping and humming and kerchugging of our frogs down in the dear old garden.

As we wandered dreamily off into Sandman’s Land, the very last sound we heard was the cheerful chorus of our baby frogs, and the deep bass notes of Myron W. Whitney and the old General.

FROEBEL’S BIRTHDAY.