In a week or two, in this part of the world, we will begin to hear the nicest sound ever, the singing of the spring frogs. I can’t tell you if they’re telling the world they’re newly awake, or whether they are making it known that getting a mate is the topmost thought on their mind, and the sooner it happens the better.
There doesn’t have to be a reason, the chorus is simply lovely, and I wish it would go on a lot longer than it usually does.
The farm was perched on high ground with low wet areas, fed by many ditches around it. Frogs inhabited those places, and when, in spring, the eggs became tadpoles and then turned into tiny green frogs, there was no outburst of singing, as far as I can remember, but a mighty migration from their deep pools to everywhere else.
Why, I had no idea, I was just a child then; it was what they did, and for days the farm lanes were filled with the little green fellows, which meant that they regularly got run over in their thousands by the tractors and the like.
It was terrible to see, and one day I decided I had to do something about the situation, and starting at the top of the lane I began to sweep the Kermits into the ditches in an attempt to save their lives. When I missed the noon meal for two days running, Grandpa came to see what I was doing, and I clearly remember that he watched me busily sweeping for a while, and then he said.
“Do you know where the frogs are going?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe by brushing them off the road you are making it more difficult for them to get there. Why don’t you let them make up their own mind about where they are going? Come inside and have your dinner.”
It’s true, what the Sam Hill do we know about the lives being lived around us? We cannot play God, but we can be respectful of fellow travellers along the Road of Life, and give them room to do their own thing.