Old Rough the miser

“I did not mention the name of the little brown frog,” answered Signor Trillo, haughtily.

“But I desire to know zee name of zee leetle brown frog, Monsieur,” persisted the excited basso. “I myself know one leetle brown frog, and I wish to know zee name of her of whom you sing.”

“That is my concern alone,” replied the tenor, in the same haughty manner. “The name of her whose beauty I sing shall remain deeply written on my heart, and the wealth of the world would not tempt me to disclose it.”

“What depth of soul!” softly murmured Katrina, “what delicacy of feeling!” and all the assembled guests gazed admiringly on the noble-spirited tenor.

“But you sall disclose zee name of zee leetle brown frog!” exclaimed the basso, fiercely. “I seek one leetle brown frog, and I suspect, Monsieur, zat zis is zee one. On your honneur, I demand zee name of zee leetle brown frog.”

“The honor of the fair sex is dearer to me than my own,” answered the tenor, “and I refuse to disclose the name of her whose praises I sing.”

A murmur ran through the assembly at these chivalrous words,—the crickets and grasshoppers boldly sang out their admiration, the frogs and toads croaked approval, the fireflies rushed excitedly about, while the susceptible Katrina gave utterance to several sighs, as she murmured,—

“What nobility of thought! what tenacity of purpose! Happy little brown frog, to inspire such wealth of affection in so intense a nature!”

As the admiration of the tenor increased, disapproval of the basso’s conduct grew in proportion, and severe were the indignant glances cast upon him.

“I say to you zat you have no honneur! I say to you zat you are no noble in your native land! I say to you zat you are no Italien! I say to you zat you are one Yankee! I say to you zat you are one coward and one imposteur!” And the excitable basso paused, quite out of breath.

For an instant after these audacious words there was a pause; but by degrees the buzz of the assembled guests grew louder and louder, until not a sound could be heard above the angry hum. All their indignation was centered on the bold basso, who had dared to insult the noble signor who held such a high position in his native land.

“You shall retract your words, sir!” said the signor, when the voices of his admirers had subsided sufficiently to allow him to be heard. “You shall not insult a tree-toad of noble birth with impunity! You shall answer for this insult.”

“I say to you once more zat you are not of noble birth,—zat you are one Yankee imposteur, sair! You know well zat zee peoples in zis land feel zemselves proud to make zee acquaintance of zee great Italien noble; zat when he go to zem and say: ‘Behold me, I have no food to eat; it is not possible for so great a noble as I to work for my food; will you zee goodness have to give me from your abundance till I hear from my noble friends in Italy?’ zen all zee peoples feel theirselves proud to give to zee noble foreigner. Zat is how it is, I know it; and I say zat you are one imposteur, sair, and I challenge you to deny it, sair!”

“What’s the use of all this quarrelling?” cried a gay voice, and a sprightly young brown frog hopped between the two disputants, and looked pertly about her.

“Brownella!” exclaimed the basso in astonishment. “Do I see you at last?”

“I suppose you do, if you look this way,” answered Brownella, saucily.

“The lady shall decide the matter,” said Signor Trillo.

“Brownella, have you forgotten the vows we plighted, the sonnets I have sung beneath your window?” asked the basso, tenderly.

“Oh, bother!” ejaculated Brownella, with a coquettish toss of the head.

“Have you forgotten how I, zee greatest basso-profundo on zee earth, have sat night after night in zee cold, wet bog, chanting your praises? Have you no remembrance of zis, I ask?”

“I told you our voices didn’t blend well,” replied Brownella, pertly. “How absurd for a soprano and basso-profundo to try to sing together! We should only make a spectacle of ourselves.”

“If zee hearts blend, what matter about zee voices?” asked the basso, fondly.

“I never yet made an object of myself, and I don’t intend to begin now,” answered Brownella, saucily.

“Will you choose, Brownella, between this basso and me?” asked the tenor, who had manifested great satisfaction in the brown frog’s replies to the basso. “Which shall it be, this fat basso, or the tenor with the noble pedigree?”

“I don’t fancy fat bassos,” replied the saucy Brownella, hopping to the tenor’s side, while all the assembled guests sent up a hum of approval.

There was nothing left for the basso but to accept his disappointment as he best could, and with great ferocity he said to the tenor, “You sall have occasion to show if you are one coward. I sall have zee pleasure to meet you, Monsieur, to-morrow evening in zee meadow by zee bog.”

“I shall be there without fail,” replied the tenor, haughtily; and abruptly saluting the hostess, the basso hopped angrily away.

The next night, as soon as the moon appeared, the basso proceeded to the bog in the meadow, to meet, in mortal combat, the tenor who had so deeply insulted him. Toward the faithless Brownella, he seemed to bear no resentment, concentrating all his wrath on the foreign singer who had stolen from him the affections of the little brown frog.

Not long did the basso sit on the moist edge of the bog before the guests who had assembled the evening before at the Widow O’Warty’s reception began to arrive, all eager to witness the contest between the two great singers.

The poetical Katrina and the talented Excelsior were among the early arrivals, the poetess improving the time that elapsed before the arrival of the tenor in composing a sonnet to the genius of her remarkable son.

Why did not the tenor appear? What could his absence mean? The guests were beginning to ask themselves these questions, as time went on and the tenor failed to appear.

Groups of frogs were earnestly discussing the merits of the two combatants, some offering wagers as to the result of the contest; here and there bands of crickets and grasshoppers were talking over the quarrel of the evening before in their shrill voices; and the fireflies darted about impetuously, often soaring far out of sight, and always returning with the information that the tenor was nowhere to be seen.

At last whispers were heard suggesting that perhaps after all the tenor would not appear; that he was purposely keeping away.

All this time the basso sat silently on the margin of the bog, glaring fiercely about him in every direction, hoping to catch sight of his adversary,—silent except for an occasional deep-voiced croak expressive of wrath.

As the moon rose higher into the sky, and star after star came out, and still the tenor did not appear, the hum of voices grew louder, and took on an angry tone; and as is often the case with impulsive natures, the very ones who had the evening before been the most enthusiastic over the Italian tenor, now were the first to suspect him of intentionally staying away, and to accuse him of cowardice.

The boldness of the bull-frog, as he sat silently and ferociously awaiting his rival’s coming, began to make an impression in his favor; and before long, audible remarks disparaging the tenor were heard.

At this point, a fine large fire-fly was seen flying rapidly toward the company, and when he reached them, he sank exhausted on the moist grass that surrounded the bog. All looked eagerly toward him, for they knew he had news to tell them. As soon as he recovered his breath sufficiently to speak, he said,—

“It’s of no use waiting any longer; he isn’t coming.”

“Where is he?” was asked on all sides.

“Taken himself off, nobody knows where,” answered the fire-fly, as well as he could for want of breath.

“To think of the times I’ve hunted food for the lazy thing!” exclaimed a toad, angrily.

“And I too!” was heard from many voices.

“An’ think on the iligant reciption meself gave in his honor!” exclaimed the Widow O’Warty.

“And the sonnets I’ve dedicated to him!” murmured Katrina Diddo, dejectedly.

“It’s meself that always suspected he was dec’aving us,” said the widow.

“So I have always said,” remarked a stout frog, who had shortly before been one of the tenor’s most ardent admirers. “I’ve always said he’d turn out to be a fraud, and now I hope you’ll believe me.”

“The airs the cratur put on!” said the Widow O’Warty. “It’s aisy to spake about the foine relations of him whin it’s so far removed they are.”

“And to think of the poor little brown frog!” exclaimed another; “how he has deceived her!”

All the company, who so short a time before were enthusiastic on the subject of the noble foreigner, were now just as ready to denounce him.

All this time the bull-frog, who had been so imposed upon, had remained too deeply absorbed in his own wrongs to attend to the remarks of the company.

“Faith, an’ it’s sorry for ye I am, Johnny,” said the good-hearted widow, as the basso was about to take his departure. “He’s a villain, is Trillo, an’ that’s the troot.”

“I knew it would turn out this way,” remarked to the basso the stout frog who had before spoken. “It won’t do to trust these foreigners too far. I knew you were right, when you exposed him yesterday.”

“So did I,” said another of Signor Trillo’s former admirers.

“I sank you for your very kind opinions,” responded the basso, politely; “but you will pardon me if I say zat it is razer late to express zese good opinions. If I do not deceive myself, it was quite otherwise yesterday;” and with a courteous but frigid salutation, Johnny the basso dived into the pool, and was not seen until he reappeared on the other side, when he uttered a loud and agonizing “a-hung!”

The company looked at one another in astonishment at the cool reception their expressions of sympathy had met with from the great singer, and several murmured disapproval. The Widow O’Warty, whose good-nature always asserted itself, was the first to recover herself.

“It’s disapp’inted he is, an’ no wonder. An’ his thrubbles are not over yet, I’m thinking, for a dec’ateful cratur is that Brownella; an’ now that Trillo has taken his departure, it’s once more sthriving to obtain the affections of poor Johnny she’ll be.”

“It’s my opinion she’ll not succeed,” observed a young frog. “I think he’s tired of her long ago, and I’m sure there are plenty more attractive than that little dark-skinned Brownella.”

“She was always a saucy thing,” said the stout frog. “I always told my daughters to have nothing to do with her.”

“She had betther kape her spickled face to home, or it’s a warm reception the saucy cratur will find here,” remarked the widow. “But what in the world is the matter, that ye must needs frighten a body like that?” she continued, as a bat flew so closely to her, and with so little noise, that she started back in alarm. “Oh! it’s yourself, is it, Misther Flipwing? An’ fwhat in the world’s name is the matther?”

“Have you heard the news?” Flipwing asked, as he clung to the trunk of a tree in his favorite position, head downward.

“What news do ye m’ane? Is it that the raskill Trillo has absconded, afther recaving the attintions of the ‘tin million?’ Yis, we’ve heard it; an’ it’s small astonishment the news gave meself, for it’s meself that suspicted from the first that he was a dec’aver.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” replied the bat. “I mean about Squirrello’s youngster, you know.”

“No, I do not know,” said the widow, eagerly. “Will ye pl’ase to ixplain yourself, and acquaint us wid the news!”

“Well, then,” responded Flipwing, “Squirrello’s youngest has disappeared; either strayed away and got lost, or been entrapped. I’m in favor of the latter theory.”

“The purty little thing, wid the soft and bushy tail of him!” exclaimed the widow; “it’s sorry for him I am.”

“How did it happen?” demanded many voices.

Flipwing could not satisfy their curiosity. He could only tell them that the little squirrel had suddenly disappeared; that his parents had searched everywhere in vain for him, and that they were almost distracted with grief at their loss.

This news all heard with regret, and each determined to do his best to discover the fate of the lost squirrel.

“Yees have all heard of the sarvices Misther Flipwing has rendered on former occasions,” observed the widow; “an’ wid his hilp we’ll find the poor b’y.”