Chapter III: Canto I

A frog dwelt once upon a time
Far up within the northern clime,
’Twas pleasant sure, when Summer threw
O’er wood and lake and mountain blue,
Her fairy mantle; then the frog,
Exulting loud in many a bog,
Sang siren songs in brake and bush,
Such as would fairly put to blush,
Or fill, good faith, with envious rage
The modern artist of the stage;
And well he might, the pesky elf
Could even understand himself;
And as his voice still louder rang,
He understood the words he sang;
He sang, and leaping sang so clear,
The very breezes paused to hear;
He sang till even the Echoes tired,
To bear his songs no more aspired.
But why dilate upon this song,
Or why a tedious tale prolong?
When Winter raised his elfin wand,
The frog retired to his pond;
His voice was hushed, the winds that kissed
The placid lake his ditties missed,
Straight in a tempest rage they flew,
And colder, wilder, louder blew,
Till Summer could no more endure,
And fled to southern climes secure.
But when cold Winter, tired grown,
Would drop his wand a moment down,
That self-same instant you might hear
The frog’s shrill voice pipe loud and clear.
The Winds delighted sank again,
And gently swept the barren plain;
And Summer, stirred by some strange force,
Straight to the Northland took her course.