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 laziest, happiest, poorest Frog alive. He never had anything himself, and couldn’t give away on feast days so much as a mosquito’s ear. Yet somehow he always managed to point out food and shelter to all who came his way, and could tell anyone anything about the entire swamp.

»Oh, I suppose we’ll have to ask him, to ask him, to ask him,« grumbled Father. »We’ll move away at sunset.«

That twilight found the Frog family packed up and on its way across the swamp, Father wheeling the cart with all the household goods and Mother helping the two tiny sons who had not left home. The journey was long and dangerous, for Crane and Snake both lay in wait for them in the banks of bulrush and grass, and the shadows of juniper and fern. Frightened, unhappy, grieving, they moved on their way. Father mourned his lost treasure at every turn of the cart-wheels, and Mother worried lest Tiny return and not find them waiting in the old home.

Father Frog led them at last to Jumping Jack’s hut under the lily pads, and called the poor fellow out to question him.

»Prrrrr!« What was that? Mother Frog put her hand to her heart, as she remembered the little song Tiny used to sing.

»My good fellow,« said Father Frog, »we must have a good clear pool wherein I might count my treasure of golden stars.«

»Prrrrr! Prrrrr!«

»Oh, Sir,« cried Mother Frog, »that voice, that voice, that voice. Who sings like that through the swamps? Is it a water sprite, or a nightingale?«