“I SUPPOSE it’s a beacon from Beacon Hill,” said Wendell.

“Now, that’s not bad,” conceded the Pixie. “I may use that some time. No,” triumphantly, “it’s a frog from the Frog Pond.”

“Je-hoshaphat!” exclaimed Wendell. “You’ve got me this time.”

The Pixie grinned. “I certainly think so,” said he.

For if ever a frog made its lair in the Frog Pond, it was long before the present memory of man. The Frog Pond is a pool on the Beacon Street side of Boston Common. In shape it is somewhat like a lima bean. It has a concrete bottom. Near one end there is a gushing fountain and at the other a drain, that keep the water fresh. In warm weather, hundreds of Boston children “go swimming” there every day,—brown-skinned, black-eyed Italians, little Russian Jews, a small sprinkling of native Bostonians, quite a large handful of little negroes, “Parthians{31} and Medes and Elamites,” no doubt, and “the dwellers in Mesopotamia”; but never, never a frog.

In winter, when the pool is frozen, it is a skating pond, and Flag Staff Hill, just above it, makes an ideal start for a sled to go whizzing down across the icy glare of the Frog Pond. Popular opinion has it that it was this very slide on the Common that was made famous in the winter of 1774 and 1775 by the contest between the youngsters of Boston and General Gage’s redcoats, then quartered on the town, who tried to spoil the slide with sand and ashes. Instead of submitting timidly, the boys carried their complaint to General Gage himself, who assured them that they should be undisturbed in future and said in comment, “How can we hope to beat the notion of liberty out of this people? The very boys breathe the air of liberty!”

Historical truth compels me to state, however, that the Frog Pond was not the scene of this interesting passage. It was undoubtedly on School Street, in the neighborhood of the historic Latin School, that the boys’ slide was spoiled, and it was done by the servant of General Haldimand, who was in command under General Gage, though General Gage was indeed the court of appeal that decided in favor of the Latin School boys. As to the servant, I think his idea was a good one, for I have disastrously tried to walk down School Street myself on an icy day.

But if the Frog Pond was not the actual site of this historic strike for liberty, it may be called the direct spiritual descendant of whatever frozen pool had that honor. For the boys and girls of the Frog Pond in{32} these modern days “breathe the air of liberty”; and the grown people of Boston know it, and the police know it. The Frog Pond, within close view of the Massachusetts State House, within three minutes’ walk of Boston’s financial center, and within a stone’s throw of the shopping district, belongs exclusively to the youngsters. Any grown person may occupy a bench on the walk and watch the fun, but he mustn’t complain if he happens to get splashed. Neither must he object to large groups of girls and boys all around him, struggling to exchange wet bathing suits for dry clothes without the shelter of a dressing room. The youngsters are required to put on their bathing suits at home; but after the swim who can be expected to traverse blocks and blocks of city streets in a wet bathing suit? They do the best they can to create for themselves a privacy that doesn’t exist. They bring newspapers and old blankets and sit under them on the grass to dress; they form close rings around each other at critical moments; and the Mayor of Boston consents, because he is very human and very sensible; and the Common police, who have all known the delights of the Frog Pond and the difficulties of dressing in public in their own boyhood days, turn their backs; and the majority of staid Boston citizens, walking home to dinner past the Pond after office hours, approves genially, and is of the opinion that the small minority that disapproves would better walk home by some other path.

To the Frog Pond, then, Wendell bent his steps the following afternoon. He wore his bathing suit{33} under his shirt and trousers, though it was somewhat late in the season for bathing. The warm weather had brought out a number of adventurous souls, Sammy Davis among them.

“Hi, Wendell, come on in,” yelled Sammy.

“How is it?” asked Wendell.

“Fine! Warm as can be.”

Wendell didn’t believe it. He knew the old trick of telling the newest comer how warm the water is. He stood undecided on the brick walk.

“Seen any frogs in there, Sammy?” he asked.

Of course it was a foolish question, but it popped out before he could check it.

“Frogs? Naw!” said Sammy in exaggerated denial.

“Frogs! Yah!” said the other boys, and hooted in derision.

“I seen a frog,” piped up a bright-eyed colored baby in a bathing suit improvised from underclothes, who sat on the stone curb and paddled his wriggling brown feet in the water.

“Seen a frog! Yes, like fun you did,” jeered his big brother.

“I did seen a frog,” reiterated the baby. “There, on the grass. There he is now.”

Wendell looked where the brown finger pointed. Could he believe his eyes? There on the grassy slope of the hill below the Soldiers’ Monument actually sat and blinked a green and speckled frog.

The brown baby and Wendell were not the only people who had seen him. A shout went up from the water, and at the same time an echoing shout arose{34} from a group of small boys who were climbing around on a captured German tank on the crest of the hill. The boys on the tank began to scramble down.

The frog sat and blinked stupidly. It seemed dazed or injured, but as the tank contingent cast themselves down the hill, it leaped with that surprising suddenness that characterizes frogs, and with its long legs shooting behind, plunged head first down the slope and into the water. For the first time within the memory of this generation, there was a frog in the Frog Pond.

Wendell cast off his clothes and shoes and shot in after it. Whew! but the water was cold! And how to locate the frog? A needle in a hay stack couldn’t compare with it.

Excitement reigned in the Frog Pond. Every one gave chase. The water was not clear enough to show the reptile plainly, but occasional glimpses of it spurred on its hunters. They made futile grabs below the water; they swam and dove after that frog. Several times some boy’s hand closed over it, only to find its slippery length wriggling through his fingers. At length it was captured by Izzy Icklebaum, who brought it triumphantly to the surface and held it in a tight grasp.

“Oh, Izzy, give it to me,” begged Wendell. “I’ll give you anything you want for it.”

Izzy lent a business-like ear to this offer.

“You will, eh?” he said, showing a large degree of interest. “Will you give me your aeroplane?”

In spite of his deep regret, there was not even a moment’s hesitation on Wendell’s part.{35}

“It’s yours,” he said. “Here, give us the frog here in my stocking. Put your hands ’way in with him. That’s the big idea. Now I’ve got him.”

Released by Izzy, the frog gave a futile leap, only to find itself entangled in the stocking foot. The capture was complete. Wendell put on his clothes over his wet bathing suit, slipped his feet stockingless into his shoes, slung the frog over his shoulder and started for home.

“I’ll come in for it this aft.,” shouted Izzy after him.

“Right-o,” returned Wendell over his shoulder, and sped on, his heart lightened of a tremendous burden, the last of the three tasks accomplished.

True to his word, Izzy came over an hour later and bore off the aeroplane. Wendell tried not to care. He pinched the frog gently through the stocking to make sure it was there, and anticipated the Pixie’s disappointment.

The Pixie certainly was surprised. Wendell handed him the stocking and told him to feel inside, and when the Pixie’s hand came in contact with the cold smooth skin of the frog, it gave the Pixie his first shock. He got his second when Froggy, catching a glimpse of light through the opening, leaped violently out, almost in the Pixie’s face.

“Well, I suppose that’s settled,” said the Pixie, when the frog had finally come to rest in a corner of the room. “You really found it in the Frog Pond?”

“Yes, I did,” said Wendell, “really and truly. So now I’ve finished the tasks, I’m glad to say.”

“Well, I must say it’s a great relief to me,” re{36}turned the Pixie. “I never do know what to do with boys when I find them belonging to me. It’s a great responsibility. I’m glad I’m not a mother.”

In spite of his relief, the Pixie continued to look gloomy and to fiddle uneasily with a pencil on Wendell’s desk. At last he broke out:

“Of course, I’m not doubting your word, but you know and I know that you couldn’t find a frog in the Frog Pond because there aren’t any.”

“But this one really was,” said Wendell, distressed to see that the Pixie was not quite convinced that he spoke the truth. “I saw him jump in myself, and Izzy Icklebaum fished him out.”

“Well, it’s very fishy! I can’t account for it,” said the Pixie.

He remained in a brown study for several seconds; then a bright thought illumined his little old face.

“I have it. I bet I have it. Which side did the frog jump in from?”

“Why, it came jumping down the hill from the Soldiers’ Monument. When I first saw it, it was near the top of the hill.”

“Of course it was!” cried the Pixie, slapping his leg. “That’s where the old Kobold lives. This is just like his work. He never had an original idea in his life.”

“You mean—?” questioned Wendell.

“I mean this isn’t a real frog at all. It’s a person changed into a frog—by enchantment, you know. He’s always doing it, pulling that frog stuff. Why, I can count one, two, three—seven times anyway he’s used that same spell since Cinderella’s god{37}mother first suggested it. I should think he’d be tired of it himself.”

The frog sat and blinked at them with its goggle eyes. Wendell didn’t like its stare. He began to feel uneasy. Suppose it was enchanted. Suppose it should go back to its natural shape. He somehow felt sure he shouldn’t like that shape, whatever it might be.

“Of course, this complicates things for you a bit,” said the Pixie briskly.

“For me?” faltered Wendell.

“Yes, you’ll have to break the spell, you know. You seem to forget this is your fairy story, young man.”

“But how?” queried Wendell. “It seems to me this business of living in a fairy story is just nothing but getting out of the frying pan into the fire.”

“Well, you wished it, you know,” said the Pixie. He uncrossed his legs, crossed them the other way, gazed around the room, hummed a little tune. He seemed to be washing his hands of all responsibility.

“Sometimes if you throw a frog against a wall it will do it,” volunteered the Pixie. He spoke as if he had no interest in the matter.

“Do what?” asked Wendell.

“Break the spell, of course.”

Wendell hated to do it. He didn’t like the frog, to be sure, but that was no reason for hurting it. However, he advanced, under the compulsion of the Pixie’s words, grasped the smooth, cold creature, and hurled it against the wall—then jumped back startled.