“Ghosts, me lud, ghosts!” ejaculated the carp; “we can’t call ‘em — they’re ghosts. We can’t call ghosts from the nasty deep, me lud.” “No, no, of course not, my poor fellow,” replied the judge, soothingly; “of course not. You’re a most intelligent carp, and I’m delighted to have met you. Just come to lunch with me to-day, will you?”
At this the carp gave a despairing cry and fell out of the witness-box. “I wonder why they don’t like lunching with the judge!” Alice thought. “Somebody’s thinking in court,” shouted the pike, excitedly. “I won’t have it. The next person who thinks, I’ll commit to my lunch for contempt of Court.”
Then Alice thought she knew why nobody liked to be present at the judge’s lunch. At this moment Mike, the penguin, came waddling into Court as fast as he could in a wig and gown and wiping his beak on his sleeve. “Hope I haven’t kept the Court waiting, me lud,” said Mike, “but I’ve only just been called to the bar. The barmaid said—” “Stop!” said the judge, “is the barmaid here?” “No, me lud, in the next pond — Spiers and Pond.” The judge looked disappointed. “Ah! hum!” he said, “um — not here; well, who said she was? Proceed.” “I appear in this case, me lud.” “Well, who for?” asked the pike. “I don’t care, me lud,” said the penguin, “suppose we say the prisoner?” “All right,” replied the pike, “be quick.”
“Me lud,” began Mike, with a bow, “and gentlemen of the jury,” (with another) “in the whole course of my professional experience I have never approached any case whatever, having, unfortunately, been too frequently called to the bar. The barmaid always — but that is another story. Unaccustomed as I am to public-hou — I beg pardon — public speaking, I feel, me lud, that on this occasion if I failed to plead the cause of my unfortunate client with all my force and all my strength and all my power, that I — in fact, that I should not succeed in bringing these various qualities into requisition in this particular case. Me lud, my client is charged with being fed at twelve and three. I fail, me lud, to see the gravity of this charge. I am authorized to say that my client will gladly consent to be fed on as many more occasions as the Court may consider proper. As to the few trifling murders involved, that, my lud, I contend is a matter too small for the consideration of this Court. Murder, as we all know, is a small failing practised by the most honourable birds and fish every day. Even your ludship yourself has lunch. The same hand that ministers unto my unfortunate client at twelve and three provides lunch, me lud and gentlemen of the jury, for all of us. What! did you never see the keeper? Did you never hear of a jolly young Waterman? Me lud and gentlemen, you with darters— ‘erring darters, I may say — of your own, I — I throw myself upon — upon the nearest chair, and implore you to remember the temptation to which my client has been subjected, and how pleasant you would be fried yourselves.”
The penguin, pulling out an immense handkerchief, flung himself on a chair where the grey mullet had placed a bent pin. Rising again immediately, and dropping his handkerchief, the penguin put the grey mullet into his pocket and said: “Call the godwit.”
The godwit hopped into the witness-box and stood on one leg. “Be careful, sir,” said the pike, sternly. “Hold u your head, and don’t stand on one leg. It’s insolent!” The godwit immediately put down his other foot and straightened up. “I have heard,” said the penguin, “of people coming into court without a leg to stand on.” At this a gudgeon laughed, and was immediately taken into custody for the judge’s lunch. “Now then, sir,” said the judge to the godwit, “tell us what you know.” “I don’t know anything,” said the godwit; “it saves so much trouble.” “Did you ever see the prisoner committing murders at twelve and three?” asked the penguin. “No, never!” “Why was that?” “Because the centre tanks were in the way,” answered the godwit, “and I couldn’t see her at all.” “There, me lud,” cried the penguin, triumphantly; “here is an irreproachable witness who didn’t see the crime; what do you ask more than that? Further, there is proof that he couldn’t have seen it. I have any number of witnesses to testify the same thing. Call the avocet.”
“Call the what?” said the usher, very loudly. He was deaf, and a flounder. “Call the what?”
“Never mind,” said the penguin. “That ain’t what you said before,” roared the usher; “don’t you go playin’ jokes on me.” The avocet was already in the witness-box behind the usher, and while the penguin and the flounder shouted at one another the judge suddenly leaned over and snapped the witness up. He sank back in his chair placidly munching the avocet, while the jury, who had been attempting to unlock their box and sneak away before the pike’s lunch-time, all stared with such hushed astonishment that the cod-sounds (the foreman was a cod) could be heard distinctly all over the court.
When at last the avocet’s legs had finally vanished, the judge, leaning back complacently, said, “I don’t think we’ll wait for that witness; he seems to have disappeared. Hope nothing’s happened to him.”
“Call the thunder-fish,” said the penguin. Everybody drew aside and prepared to make way for something tremendous. “Here I am,” said a very small voice in court, and a fish about four inches long wriggled shyly into the box. “Tell the jury what you know of the case,” said the penguin.
“The case? Oh, yes — the case,” the thunder-fish replied, nervously; “it’s a very good case, I’m sure. Glass sides and an iron frame; I’ve nothing to complain of in the case, except that sometimes one runs his nose against the glass without thinking. I have heard it called an aquarium. But, then—”
“What do they call you a thunder-fish for, you wretched tittlebat?” demanded the judge. “I don’t know, I’m sure,” answered the thunder-fish, meekly, “unless it’s because it’s easy to spell on the label; some ain’t.” “Oh!” said the pike, and swallowed the thunder-fish. “I was going to invite that witness to lunch with me,” he went on, after a pause, “but I shan’t now.”
Bill, the shag, was called, and examined by the penguin. “How are you?” “Pretty bobbish.” Here a voice from the gallery cried “Bobbish! why, you ain’t got a bob in the world; you’re only threepence an ounce.”
“Who is that person?” asked the judge, angrily. “That’s the tittlebat,” said the usher; “if I hadn’t got both eyes on one side of my head, I shouldn’t have seen him.” “Here, come,” protested the tittlebat, “you’re not a whale, you know. I may be a tittlebat now, but I have been whitebait — shall be again soon.” “Ah!” mumbled the flounder to himself, “sometimes I’m a sole!” “If it hadn’t been the tittlebat,” said the pike, “I’d invite him to lunch for his disrespect. But it’s no use asking tittlebats to lunch — you’re as hungry as ever afterwards. That’s why he’s impudent.”
The penguin resumed the examination. “You are a diving bird of some experience yourself,” he said. “Now tell me how often are you fed?” “Often?” replied the shag, with contempt; “it ain’t often; it’s only twice a day. Call that often?”
Here the judge interposed. “Let’s have the verdict now,” he said, “and then there will be more time for lunch. If this is a good witness you can call him some other time, you know — in another case.” Then, turning to the jury, he snapped, “What’s your verdict?”
The jury trembled and tried to hide behind each other. “We — we’ll think about it, me lud,” said the foreman. “What!” cried the judge, excitedly; “think in this court? I won’t have it — it’s disrespectful. Anybody caught thinking will be committed to my lunch for contempt of Court. I won’t have it.” Whereupon he immediately fell asleep.
“Well, your ludship,” said the foreman, “as we mustn’t think, and there’s only two notice-boards in the house, and one was used for the charge, we shall have to use the other for the verdict. ‘Beware of Pickpockets,’ me lud.” But the pike snored on, and so did Alice.
ZIG-ZAG BATRACHIAN
THE frog and the toad suffer, in this world of injustice, from a deprival of the respect and esteem that
is certainly their due. In the case of the frog this may be due largely to the animal’s headlong and harlequin-like character, but the toad is a steady personage, whose solemnity of deportment, not to speak of his stoutness, entitles him to high consideration in a world where grave dulness and personal circumference always attract reverence.
The opening lines of a certain famous poem have without a doubt done much to damage the dignity of the frog. “The frog he would a-wooing go” is not, perhaps, disrespectful, although flippant; but “whether his mother would let him or no” is a gross insult. Of course, it is a matter upon which no self-respecting frog ever consults his mother; but the absurd jingle is immortal, and the frog’s dignity suffers by it. Then there is a certain pot-bellied smugness of appearance about the frog that provokes a smile in the irreverent. Still, the frog has received some consideration in his time. The great Homer himself did not disdain to sing the mighty battle of the frogs and mice; and Aristophanes gave the frogs a most important chorus in one of his comedies; moreover, calling the whole comedy “The Frogs,” although he had his choice of title-names among many very notable characters — Aeschylus, Euripides, Bacchus, Pluto, Proserpine, and other leaders of society.
Still, in every way the frog and the toad are underesteemed — as though such a thing as a worthy family frog or an honourable toad of business were in Nature impossible. It is not as though they were useless. The frog’s hind legs make an excellent dish for those who like it, as well as a joke for those who don’t. Powdered toad held in the palm is a fine thing to stop the nose bleeding — or, at any rate, it was a couple of hundred years ago, according to a dear old almanac I have.
On the same unimpeachable authority I may fearlessly affirm a smashed frog — smashed on the proper saint’s day — in conjunction with hair taken from a ram’s forehead and a nail stolen from a piebald mare’s shoe, to be a certain remedy for ague, worn in a little leather bag. If it fails it will be because the moon was in the wrong quarter, or the mare was not sufficiently piebald, or the nail was not stolen with sufficient dishonesty, or some mistake of that sort.
Personally, I am rather fond of frogs and toads. This, of course, in a strictly platonic sense, and entirely apart from dinner.
A toad I admire even more than a frog, because of his gentlemanly calm. He never rushes at his food ravenously, as do so many other creatures. Place a worm near him and you will see. He inspects the worm casually, first with one eye and then with the other, as who would say: “Luncheon? Certainly. Delighted, I’m sure.” Then he sits placidly awhile, as though thinking of something else altogether. Presently he rises slightly on his feet and looks a little — very little — more attentively at the worm. “Oh, yes,” he is saying— “luncheon, of course. Whenever you like, you know.” And he becomes placid again, as though interested in the general conversation.
After a little he suddenly straightens his hind legs and bends down over the worm, like a man saying, “Ah, and what have we got here now? Oh, worm — ver au naturel — capital, capital!” After this there is nothing to do but to eat, and this the toad does without the smallest delay. For leisurely indifference, followed by a business-like grab, nothing can beat a toad. Almost before the cover is lifted, figuratively speaking, the worm’s head and tail are wriggling, like a lively moustache, out of the sides of the toad’s mouth.
The head and tail he gently pats in with his hands, and there is no longer any worm; after which the toad smiles affably and comfortably, possibly meditating a liqueur. I have an especial regard for the giant toad in one of the cases against the inner wall of the reptile-house lobby. There is a pimpliness of countenance and a comfortable capaciousness of waistcoat about him that always make me wonder what he has done with his churchwarden and pewter. He has a serene, confidential, well-old-pal-how-are-you way of regarding Tyrrell, his keeper. Of late (for some few months, that is) the giant toad has been turning something over in his mind, as one may perceive from his cogitative demeanour. He is thinking, I am convinced, of the new Goliath Beetle. The Goliath Beetle, he is thinking, would make rather a fit supper for the Giant Toad. This because he has never seen the beetle. His mind might be set at rest by an introduction to Goliath, but the acquaintanceship would do no good to the beetle’s morals. At present Goliath is a most exemplary vegetarian and tea-drinker, but evil communications with that pimply, dissipated toad would wreck his principles.
Why one should speak of the Adorned Ceratophrys when the thing might just as well be called the Barking Frog, I don’t know.
Let us compromise and call him the Adorned C., in the manner of Mr. Wemmick. I respect the Adorned C. almost as much as if he were a toad instead of a frog, but chiefly I admire his mouth. A crocodile has a very respectable mouth — when it separates its jaws it opens its head. But when the Adorned C. smiles he opens out his entire anatomical bag of tricks — comes as near bisecting himself indeed as may be; opens, in short, like a Gladstone bag.
From a fat person, of course, you expect a broad, genial smile; but you are doubly gratified when you find it extending all round him. That, you feel, is indeed no end of a smile — and that is the smile of the Adorned C.
But, notwithstanding this smile, the Adorned C. is short of temper. Indeed, you may only make him bark by practising upon this fact. Tyrrell’s private performance with the Adorned C. is one that irresistibly reminds the spectator of Lieutenant Cole’s with his figures, and would scarcely be improved by ventriloquism itself.
The Adorned C. prefers biting to barking, and his bite is worse than his bark — bites always are, except in the proverb. This is why Tyrrell holds the Adorned C. pretty tight whenever he touches him. The one aspiration of the Adorned C. is for a quiet life, and he defends his aspiration with bites and barks. Tyrrell touches him gently, cautiously, and repeatedly on the back until the annoyance is no longer to be tolerated, and then the Adorned C. duly barks like a terrier. Now, the most interesting thing about the Adorned C., after his mouth, is his bark, and why he should be reluctant to exhibit it except under pressure of irritation — why he should hide his light under a bushel of ill-temper — I can’t conceive.
It is as though Patti wouldn’t sing till her manager threw an egg at her, or as though Sir Frederick Leighton would only paint a picture after Mr. Whistler had broken his studio windows with a brick. Even the whistling oyster of London tradition would perform without requiring a preliminary insult or personal assault.
But let us account everything good if possible; perhaps the Adorned C. only suffers from a modest dislike for vain display; although this is scarcely consistent with the internal exhibition afforded by his smile.
With the distinction of residence in the main court of the reptile-house itself, as also with the knowledge of its rarity, the Smooth-clawed Frog sets no small value on himself.
He lives in water perpetually, and is always bobbing mysteriously about in it with his four-fingered hands spread out before him. This seems to me to be nothing but a vulgar manifestation of the Smooth-clawed Frog’s self-appreciation. He is like a coster conducting a Dutch auction, except that it is himself that he puts up for the bids of admiring visitors.
With his double bunch of four fingers held eagerly before him he says — or means to say—”’Ere — eight! Ain’t that cheap enough? Eight! Going at eight. Who says eight? Now then — eight; for a noble frog like me!” Presently, he wriggles a little in the water, as though vexed at the slackness of offers; then he drops one of the hands and leaves the other outstretched. “‘Ere — four! Anythink to do business. Four! Nobody say four? Oh, blow this!” and with a jerk of one long paddle he dives among the weeds. “Them shiny-lookin’ swells ain’t got no money!” is what I am convinced he reports to his friends.
The Smooth-clawed Frog has lately begun to breed here, a thing before unknown; so that his rarity and value are in danger of depreciation.
But such is his inordinate conceit of himself that I am convinced he will always begin the bidding with
eight.
If you rejoice in the sight of a really happy, contented frog, you should stand long before White’s Green Frog, and study his smile. No other frog has a smile like this; some are wider, perhaps, but that is nothing. A frog is ordained by Nature to smile much, but the smile seems commonly one of hunger merely, though often one of stomach-ache. White’s Green Frog smiles broad content and placid felicity. Maintained in comfort, with no necessity to earn his living, this is probably natural; still, the bison enjoys the same advantages, although nobody ever saw him smile; but, then, an animal soon to become extinct can scarcely be expected to smile.
In the smile of White’s Green Frog, however, I fear, a certain smug, Pecksniffian quality is visible. “I am a Numble individual, my Christian friends,” he seems to say, “and my wants, which are few and simple, are providentially supplied. Therefore, I am Truly Happy.
It is no great merit in my merely batrachian nature that I am Truly Happy; a cheerful countenance, my friends, is a duty imposed on me by an indulgent Providence.” White’s Green Frog may, however, be in reality a frog of excellent moral worth: and I trust that Green’s White Frog, if ever he is discovered, will be a moral frog too.
By-the-bye, some green frogs are blue. That is to say, individuals of the green species have been found of the skyey colour and sold at a good price as rarities. When it was not easy to find one already blue, the prudent tradesman kept a green frog in a blue glass vase for a few weeks, and brought it out as blue as you might wish.
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 185