But once upon a certain time

But once upon a certain time, Ere Winter visited that clime, Two idle geese were babbling by, And little recked the frog was nigh. They talked of climes so far away, Where Summer holds eternal sway. They talked of pearly skies serene, Of woods forever robed in green, Of sunny ponds and fairy bogs,— The paradise of singing frogs. Then talked they of their journey thither, And prayed that they might have fair weather. The frog all meekly sat the while, Then deigned to ask with winning smile, While visions of those tempting skies Floated before his dazzled eyes: “Where is that land, most potent bird? Of it, good faith, I’ve never heard. Pray, let me follow, when once more You bend your course to that fair shore Where Winter never dare intrude To cast his spell of solitude.” At this the geese laughed loud and long, A hissing laugh that checked the song The frog had formed deep in his throat,— That song died in one gurgling note. And then the elder of the birds Addressed the frog the following words: “Thou silly elf, pray understand ’Tis many a league unto that land, And should’st thou e’er presume to go By single jumps and hops so slow, Why, sure old age would overtake Thee ere thou’d reach the fairy brake.” At this the frog at once began: “I’ve hit upon a novel plan. We’ll pluck some grass from yonder slope, And firmly twist it in a rope, ’Twill do, I think, with single fold, Then at each end you may take hold, And I will grasp the middle tight, A goose at both my left and right, We’ll cleave the upper air so light.” The frog scarce finished ere ’twould seem The geese consented to the scheme. They both affirmed with one accord Such wisdom they had never heard; Fitting the action to the word, They soon were sailing through the skies, Bound for the southern paradise. The frog swung on the grassy rope, And did not deign his mouth to ope. They travelled over many a rood Of bush and brake and solitude. At length a farmer, half amazed, Spied them aloft in mid-air raised, And much he wondered as he gazed, And loud the wise device he praised, And asked whose wisdom ’twas had planned The wondrous scheme his vision scanned. The frog, in whose own estimation, Centred the wisdom of creation, Could not the rustic’s praise pass by, Opened his mouth and shouted “I!”— Scarce had he risked his mouth to ope, When slipped his jaws from off the rope, And, like an arrow from a bow, He dashed upon the rocks below. Thus died the frog—was ever fate so dread? And to the realm of shades his spirit sped.