The Croaker

Once, by the edge of a pleasant pool, Under the bank, where 't was dark and cool, Where bushes over the water hung, And grasses nodded and rushes swung-- Just where the brook flowed out of the bog-- There lived a gouty and mean old Frog, Who'd sit all day in the mud, and soak, And do just nothing but croak and croak.

'Till a Blackbird whistled: "I say, you know, What is the trouble down there below? Are you in sorrow, or pain, or what?" The Frog said: "Mine is a gruesome lot! Nothing but mud, and dirt, and slime, For me to look at the livelong time. 'Tis a dismal world!" so he sadly spoke, And voiced his woes in a mournful croak.

"But you're looking down!" the Blackbird said. "Look at the blossoms overhead; Look at the lovely summer skies; Look at the bees and butterflies-- Look up, old fellow! Why, bless your soul, You're looking down in a muskrat's hole!" But still, with his gurgling sob and choke, The Frog continued to croak and croak.

And a wise old Turtle, who boarded near, Said to the Blackbird: "Friend, see here: Don't shed your tears over him, for he Is wretched just 'cause he likes to be! He's one of the kind who won't be glad; It makes him happy to think he's sad. I'll tell you something--and it's no joke-- Don't waste your pity on those who croak!"

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