Crickets

Among my garden-dwelling friends are crickets. The big crickets are my friends. One of our more frequent topics is garden politics. Sometimes different insects will ally themselves with other factions. For example, neither the crickets nor I saw it coming when the ants sided with the spiders.

But the crickets are masters of music, and often they will play their soft melodies on the summer air. I sit and listen, interjecting an occasional "ribbit" to replace lack of percussions. You may be under the impression that this is a trait of frogs. You would be wrong, because I am a toad and I ribbit.

The big crickets are my friends; the little crickets are my supper. When I eat the big cricket's children, it can sometimes be awkward.

Mother

"Walter"

"Yes, Mother"

"Walter"

"Yes, Mother"

"Walter"

"Yes, Mother"

"You look green today"

Garden Musings

Being the thoughtful toad I am, one fine afternoon I sat considering the complexities of life's philosophical questions. Why is a leaf green? Why does it have to rain? Why does the sun go down? These last two are displeasing phenomena to say the least. As a result, my main goal in thinking on these subjects was to devise a way to stop these unpleasantries. However, being but a toad - even if a thoughtful one at that - I find I am powerless in the face of the whims of celestial bodies or meteorological disturbances. That, my friends, is the plight of us toads. We have minds quick enough to perceive the inconveniences of this life, but are equipped with but sad, webbed toes.

Don't get me wrong, I love my toes. I spend several hours a day contemplating them. I stare, almost unconscious, for many hours, soaking in the sun and staring at my toes. They are webbed toes. Green, webbed toes.

Today I became too hot in the sun, so I've taken to the shade of a lamb's ear plant. They have soft foliage and afford a great deal of cool shade in the garden. I sit by their base and stare at my toes.

About the time I begin to feel chilly, I realize it's because the sun has set and my day is at a close. Not that this signals any behavioral change for me. But with this knowledge, I then continue to stare or eventually close my eyes and stare into the dark, shaded by eyelids in lieu of lamb's ear. But I still see my toes. I always stare at my green, webbed toes.

Thus is the happy life of toad.

Your toe-staring friend,
Mr. W. C. Peabody

A Note From the Editor

Mr. W. C. Peabody, for lack of better phrasing, is a toad. And I don't mean figuratively. Our garden dwelling friend endures many hardships in his sun-bathing, flower-sniffing life. Between the rain and the watering can alone, he must constantly be wary of the threat of sudden downpour. Mr. W. C. Peabody does not like downpours.

So as has been demonstrated above in the terrific example of dreaded downpour, our friend does not have it easy. Life can be hard when it can all be summed up into grass squatting and loitering in a leaf's shade. As a result, Mr. W. C. Peabody feels his life is worth discussing and so has decided to chronicle his various adventures, harrowing and otherwise.

Yours in Garden Toad Adventures,
Miss Emma Greene
Mr. W. C. Peabody's Representative & Editor.