"But the buds are not open yet," she said.
"No matter; I should value the spray just as much, since you gathered
it."
"Why, Burt," she cried, laughing, "on that principle I might as well give
you a chip." But she gave him the buds and escaped.
"Amy," Webb asked at the supper-table, "didn't you hear the peepers this
afternoon while out walking?"
"Yes; and I asked Alf what they were. He said they were peepers, and that
they always made a noise in the spring."
"Why, Alf," Webb resumed, in mock gravity, "you should have told Amy that
the sounds came from the _Hylodes pickeringii_."
"If that is all that you can tell me," said Amy, laughing, "I prefer
Alf's explanation. I have known people to cover up their ignorance by
big words before. Indeed, I think it is a way you scientists have."
"I must admit it; and yet that close observer, John Burroughs, gives a
charming account of these little frogs that we call 'hylas' for short.
Shy as they are, and quick to disappear when approached, he has seen
them, as they climb out of the mud upon a sedge or stick in the marshes,
inflate their throats until they 'suggest a little drummer-boy with his
drum hung high.' In this bubble-like swelling at its throat the noise is
made; and to me it is a welcome note of spring, although I have heard
people speak of it as one of the most lonesome and melancholy of sounds.
It is a common saying among old farmers that the peepers must be shut up
three times by frost before we can expect steady spring weather.
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