Not far from our house, in that desirable but not very residential region which we have erst described as the Forest of Arden, there is a pond.  It is a very romantic spot, it is not unlike the pond by which a man smoking a Trichinopoly cigar was murdered in one of the Sherlock Holmes stories. (The Boscombe Valley Mystery!) It is a shallow little pond, but the water is very clear; last winter when it was frozen it always reminded us of the cheerful advertising of one of the ice companies, it was so delightfully transparent.  This pond is a kind of Union League Club for the frogs at this time of year; all night long you can hear them reclining in their armchairs of congenial mud and uttering their opinions, which vary very little from generation to generation.  Most of those frogs are Republicans, we feel sure, but we love them no less.

In this pond Gissing had his first swim one warm Sunday recently.  The party set out soon after breakfast.  Gissing was in the van, his topaz eyes wild with ambition.  Followed a little red express-wagon, in which sat the Urchiness, wearing her best furry hat which has, in front, a small imitation mouse-head with glass eyes.  The Urchin, wearing a small Scotch bonnet with ribbons, assisted in hauling the wagon.  Gissing had not yet been tested in the matter of swimming:  this was a sober moment.  Would he take gladly to the ocean? (So the Urchin innocently calls our small sheet of water, having by a harmless ratiocination concluded that this term applies to any body of water not surrounded by domestic porcelain.)

Now Gissing is passionate in the matter of chasing sticks hurled abroad.  On seeing a billet seized and held aloft with that sibilant sound which stirs his ingenuous spirit to prodigies of pursuit, his eyes were flame, his heart was apoplexy.  The stick flew aloft and curved into the pond, and he rushed to the water’s edge.  But there, like the recreant knight in the Arthurian idyl, he paused and doubted.  There was Excalibur, floating ten feet from shore.  This was a new experience.  Was it written that sticks should be pursued in this strange and alien element?  He barked querulously, and returned, his intellect clouded with hesitation.  What was this etiquette?  He was embarrassed.

Another stick was flung into the trembling mere.  This time there was no question.  When the gods give the same sign twice, the only answer is obey.  A tawny streak crossed the small meadow, and leaped unquestioningly into the pond.  There was a plunging and a spattery scuffle, and borne up by a million years of heredity he pursued the floating enemy.  It was seized, and a large gulp of water also, but backward he came bearing it merrily.  Then, also unknowing that he was fulfilling old tradition, he came as near as possible to the little group of presbyters and dehydrated himself upon them.  Thus was a new experience added to this young creature.  The frogs grew more and more pensive as he spent the rest of the morning churning the pond hither and thither.