He him reversed and the unhappy belched two handfuls
of shot (et le malheureux, etc.). When
Smiley recognised how it was, he was like mad.
He deposited his frog by the earth and ran after that
individual, but he not him caught never.
It may be that there are people who can translate
better than I can, but I am not acquainted with them.
So ends the private and public history of the Jumping
Frog of Calaveras County, an incident which has this
unique feature about it—that it is both
old and new, a ‘chestnut’ and not a ‘chestnut;’
for it was original when it happened two thousand
years ago, and was again original when it happened
in California in our own time.
P.S.
London, July, 1900.—Twice, recently, I
have been asked this question:
‘Have you seen the Greek version of the “Jumping
Frog"?’
And twice I have answered—’No.’
‘Has Professor Van Dyke seen it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then you supposition is at fault.’
‘Why?’
‘Because there isn’t any such version.’
’Do you mean to intimate that the tale is modern,
and not borrowed from some ancient Greek book.’
’Yes. It is not permissible for any but
the very young and innocent to be so easily beguiled
as you and Van Dyke have been.’
‘Do you mean that we have fallen a prey to our
ignorance and simplicity?’
‘Yes. Is Van Dyke a Greek scholar?’
‘I believe so.’
’Then he knew where to find the ancient Greek
version if one existed. Why didn’t he look?
Why did he jump to conclusions?’
‘I don’t know. And was it worth
the trouble, anyway?’
As it turns out, now, it was not claimed that the
story had been translated from the Greek. It
had its place among other uncredited stories, and
was there to be turned into Greek by students of that
language. ’Greek Prose Composition’—that
title is what made the confusion. It seemed
to mean that the originals were Greek. It was
not well chosen, for it was pretty sure to mislead.
Thus vanishes the Greek Frog, and I am sorry:
for he loomed fine and grand across the sweep of the
ages, and I took a great pride in him.
M.T.
[1] Sidgwick, Greek Prose Composition, page 116
You have heard from a great many people who did something
in the war; is it not fair and right that you listen
a little moment to one who started out to do something
in it, but didn’t? Thousands entered the
war, got just a taste of it, and then stepped out
again, permanently. These, by their very numbers,
are respectable, and are therefore entitled to a sort
of voice—not a loud one, but a modest one;
not a boastful one, but an apologetic one. They
ought not to be allowed much space among better people—people
who did something—I grant that; but they
ought at least to be allowed to state why they didn’t
do anything, and also to explain the process by which
they didn’t do anything. Surely this kind
of light must have a sort of value.
