The Hop Toad

The poets may sing of the places of note,

     Of the wonderful things that they see;

They may sing of the skies, of a fair maiden’s eyes,

     Of the oceans so boundless and free.

They may sing of the airship awing on its flight,

     Of the auto that flies down the road;

But my most humble muse today I would use

     In a song for the little hop toad.

Of the little hop toad by the side of the walk

     Where I go to the garden each day;

As he sits in the shade of a cabbage leaf made,

     Where the numberless garden bugs play.

As proud as a King, as glad as a lark,

     He’s busy as busy can be;

He scoops in the bugs and the various slugs

     With a skill that is pleasing to see.

Then a song for the toad, the little hop toad,

     The lowliest creature of all;

He charges you not for the good he has wrought,

     And he’s modest and silent and small.

Let others sing loud of the heroes and war,

     Of sunsets, and moonlights and morn;

I furnish an ode to the little hop toad

     Who guardeth my onions and corn.

July 14, 1912