I'm Such A Clever Toad.

The Smell Of That Buttered Toast Simply Spoke To Toad, And With No Uncertain Voice; Talked Of Warm Kitchens, Of Breakfasts On Bright Frosty Mornings, Of Cozy Parlour Firesides On Winter Evenings, When One's Ramble Was Over And Slippered Feet Were Propped On The Fender; Of The Purring Of Contented Cats, And The Twitter Of Sleepy Canaries.

Badger Hates Society, And Invitations, And Dinner, And All That Sort Of Thing.

There He Got Out The Luncheon-basket And Packed A Simple Meal, In Which, Remembering The Stranger's Origin And Preferences, He Took Care To Include A Yard Of Long French Bread, A Sausage Out Of Which The Garlic Sang, Some Cheese Which Lay Down And Cried, And A Long-necked Straw-covered Flask Wherein Lay Bottled Sunshine Shed And Garnered On Far Southern Slopes.

Don't, For Goodness' Sake, Keep On Saying 'don't'; I Hear So Much Of It, And It's Monotonous, And Makes Me Tired.

No Animal, According To The Rules Of Animal-etiquette, Is Ever Expected To Do Anything Strenuous, Or Heroic, Or Even Moderately Active During The Off-season Of Winter.