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:

Do n't shed your tears over him, for he

Is wretched just‘ cause he likes to be!

He's one of the kind who wo n't be glad;

It makes him happy to think he's sad.

I'll tell you something — and it's no joke —

Do n't waste your pity on those who croak!”