Ballads for little folk . WHAT THE FROGS SING. Ive got such a cold I cannot sing,Said a bull-frog living close to the spring, And it keeps me all the time so hoarse,That my voice is very base of hate to live in this nasty bog ;It isnt fit for a decent frog:Now theres that bird, just hear the noteSo soft and sweet, from out her throat,He said, as a thrush in the tree aboveWas trilling her liquid song of love: And what pretty feathers on her back,While mine is mottled, yellow and black ;And then for moving she has her wings,They must be very handy things ; —And this all comes, as one ma
Ballads for little folk . WHAT THE FROGS SING. Ive got such a cold I cannot sing,Said a bull-frog living close to the spring, And it keeps me all the time so hoarse,That my voice is very base of hate to live in this nasty bog ;It isnt fit for a decent frog:Now theres that bird, just hear the noteSo soft and sweet, from out her throat,He said, as a thrush in the tree aboveWas trilling her liquid song of love: And what pretty feathers on her back,While mine is mottled, yellow and black ;And then for moving she has her wings,They must be very handy things ; —And this all comes, as one may see,Just from living up in a tree ;Shed look as queer as I do, Ill bet,If she had to live down here in the wet,And be as hoarse, if doomed to trampAbout all day where her feet got damp. As the world is managed, I do declare,Things do not seem exactly fair ; What the Frogs Sing. I 7 7 For instance, here on the ground I lie,While the bird lives up there, high and dry ;Some frogs maynt care, perhaps they dont,But I cant
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksubjectchildre, bookyear1874
