they took
The path that led them to a brook,

[Illustration]

Whose sparkling waters danced along,
With a gushing, rushing, rippling song.
The ramblers, when they reached the brink,
Stepped down to bathe, and take a drink.
They loved to frolic, dive and dash
Beneath the water with a splash.
They washed and smoothed each glossy feather,
Then said, "let's have a swim together!"
As moving gracefully, they went,
They heard loud tones of sad lament.
They listened, and did sharply look
For cause of woe in that sweet brook;
And soon espied beneath some bushes,
Among the reeds and tall, green rushes,
A company of long-faced Frogs,
A delegation from the bogs;
Sitting with their up-turned faces,
In attitudes to please the Graces,
Around a stone, on which was speaking
A member of this grave marsh meeting.
The Ducks were pleased; they knew them all,
For very often they did call
At that sweet brook, to hear them sing;
They thought their music quite the thing.
"And now," said they, "we will draw near,"
For much they wished to see and hear
What was this fuss and noise about,
So joined the party to find out.
The Frogs received them with a smirk,
And gave their hands with nervous jerk.
Bowing and smiling in return,
The Ducks prepared themselves to learn

[Illustration]

From what the Orator might say,
The cause of all their friends' dismay.
Now the chief speaker in this scene,
Dressed in a suit of bottle green,
Folding his arms across his breast,
Again the meeting thus addressed:
"My friends," said he, "I'm rather hoarse,
And must be brief in my discourse;
But as these Ducks have joined our band,
I wish to have them understand
We have not come to this fair spot,
To break the peace or hatch a plot;
But we have met to form a plan
To waken in the heart of man,
Pity for our sad condition.
We would present a grave petition,
Beseeching of the men who rule,
That we, lone dwellers of the pool,
May be permitted to reside
In safety, with our scanty tribe.
We humbly say there's no occasion,
To send an army of invasion
Into our loved and quiet bogs,
To murder happy, harmless Frogs.
Take our own dear sons and daughters,
Drag them from their winter quarters,
Then, when no heart with pity melts,
To cut them up as food for smelts!