moment. On their sleepy faces were depicted fear and anger.
What had woke us all up so suddenly? The morning was just breaking, and
my frogs, though in the dark pocket of the coach, had found it out; and
with one accord, all twelve of them had begun their morning song. As if
at a given signal, they one and all of them began to croak as loud as
ever they could. The noise their united concert made, seemed, in the
closed compartment of the coach, quite deafening. Well might the Germans
look angry: they wanted to throw the frogs, bottle and all, out of the
window; but I gave the bottle a good shaking, and made the frogs keep
quiet. The Germans all went to sleep again, but I was obliged to remain
awake, to shake the frogs when they began to croak. It was lucky that I
did so, for they tried to begin their concert again two or three times.
These frogs came safely to Oxford; and the day after their arrival, a
stupid housemaid took off the top of the bottle to see what was inside;
one of the frogs croaked at that instant, and so frightened her that she
dared not put the cover on again. They all got loose in the garden,
where I believe the ducks ate them, for I never heard or saw them again.

ON RATS

From 'Curiosities of Natural History'

On one occasion, when a boy, I recollect secretly borrowing an
old-fashioned flint gun from the bird-keeper of the farm to which I had
been invited. I ensconced myself behind the door of the pig-sty,
determined to make a victim of one of the many rats that were accustomed
to disport themselves among the straw that formed the bed of the
farmer's pet bacon-pigs. In a few minutes out came an old
patriarchal-looking rat, who, having taken a careful survey, quietly
began to feed. After a long aim, bang went the gun--I fell backwards,
knocked down by the recoil of the rusty old piece of artillery. I did
not remain prone long, for I was soon roused by the most unearthly
squeaks, and a dreadful noise as of an infuriated animal madly rushing
round and round the sty. Ye gods! what had I done? I had not surely,
like the tailor in the old song of the 'Carrion Crow,'

"Shot and missed my mark,
And shot the old sow right bang through the heart."

But I had nearly performed a similar sportsman-like feat. There was poor
piggy, the blood flowing in streamlets from several small punctures in
that part of his body destined, at no very distant period, to become
ham; in vain attempting, by disma