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“I just want you to be hoppy,” he croaked.
“And so I am!” she chirruped back, blinking her large wet eyes to hold back her tears.
“I just worry for the children. ‘One foot in sea and one on shore’, so to speak, you know. However will they face the great wide world with stubby feet and half-gone tails? I can’t imagine them on land! How will THEY ever be hoppy!?”
And she burst into dewy tears which streamed down her still-smooth face toward her wide and weeping mouth. He held her close, wiping her tears with the pads of his fingers. He was ever a calming presence, and always cool.
“Coââ… Coââ…” he murmured smoothingly.
“Oh, I love it when you speak French,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
Night settled on the pond. The bullfrogs across the way boasted into the night air. He and she slipped under the quiet sheet of the water’s surface, blinked each eye once or twice, and fell asleep. From their many pollywogs, who did eventually grow big strong legs and were as hoppy as any frog can be, they heard not a peep.
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