A poem by Thomas Westwood...
Said a little black Tadpole to another,
That happened to be his elder brother,
"Pray, what strange creature is that I hear
Croaking so loud?" "A Frog, my dear,"
Said the brother, "and there he sits." "I ne'er
Saw an uglier monster, I declare,"
Cried little Taddy, wriggling his tail
In an offhand fashion that could not fail
To show his contempt. "It's really a pleasure
And satisfaction no words can measure,
To think that we are so smooth and slim,
So handsome, so very unlike him."
To be sure, "said his brother, bobbing and blinking,
To be sure, I'm just of your way of thinking."
The air was mild, and the sun was strong,
The Tadpoles were turned to Frogs ere long;
The little one croaked, the big one croaked.
At last said the younger, "Of course, we joked
That day in the ditch; for there's no denying,
And in fact it's a truth past all replying,
That whether in mere or marsh or bog
The handsomest creature, by far, is a frog."
'To be sure," said his brother, bobbing and blinking,
"To be sure, I'm just of your way of thinking."
Thanks and Acknowledgements
Image enhanced by Lisa.