d me of a certain harmonica which I used
to covet when my six-year-old ear began to awaken to the magic of
sounds. It consisted of a series of strips of glass of unequal length,
hung on two stretched tapes. A cork fixed to a wire served as a hammer.
Imagine an unskilled hand striking at random on this key-board, with a
sudden clash of octaves, dissonances and topsy-turvy chords; and you
will have a pretty clear idea of the Toads' litany.

As a song, this litany has neither head nor tail to it; as a collection
of pure sounds, it is delicious. This is the case with all the music in
nature's concerts. Our ear discovers superb notes in it and then
becomes refined and acquires, outside the realities of sound, that
sense of order which is the first condition of beauty.

Now this sweet ringing of bells between hiding-place and hiding-place
is the matrimonial oratorio, the discreet summons which every Jack
issues to his Jill. The sequel to the concert may be guessed without
further enquiry; but what it would be impossible to foresee is the
strange finale of the wedding. Behold the father, in this case a real
paterfamilias, in the noblest sense of the word, coming out of his
retreat one day in an unrecognizable state. He is carrying the future,
tight-packed around his hind-legs; he is changing houses laden with a
cluster of eggs the size of peppercorns. His calves are girt, his
thighs are sheathed with the bulky burden; and it covers his back like
a beggar's wallet, completely deforming him.

Whither is he going, dragging himself along, incapable of jumping,
thanks to the weight of his load? He is going, the fond parent, where
the mother refuses to go; he is on his way to the nearest pond, whose
warm waters are indispensable to the tadpoles' hatching and existence.
When the eggs are nicely ripened around his legs under the humid
shelter of a stone, he braves the damp and the daylight, he the
passionate lover of dry land and darkness; he advances by short stages,
his lungs congested with fatigue. The pond is far away, perhaps; no
matter: the plucky pilgrim will find it.

He's there. Without delay, he dives, despite his profound antipathy to
bathing; and the cluster of eggs is instantly removed by the legs
rubbing against each other. The eggs are now in their element; and the
rest will be accomplished of itself. Having fulfilled his obligation to
go right under, the father hastens to return to his well-sheltered
home. He is sc