“I tried at first to think of nothing but frogs. But, as if on purpose, not one showed himself. I was sure they were hiding in the shadow of the boat. I went up quite close to the St. Jacques, and still nothing jumped into the water. Decidedly, and in spite of all my good intentions, I was not to take my swimming lesson that day. But what were those three green spots that I saw down there on the white edge of the boat? They were,—yes, they were three frogs taking a nap at their ease, as if the St. Jacques belonged to them. “One could not tolerate a thing of that sort. I stepped gently over the edge of the boat to chase away the trespassers. Paf, paf, paf, with a single hop, each of them made one of those famous dives of which my father had spoken. Now or never was the moment to ask them for a lesson. I did not fail to do so. I was lost in admiration of their talent. Papa was right; a frog swims to perfection. It swims so correctly and elegantly that by its vigorous, regular movements, one understands clearly what one ought to do if one happened to be in its place. This sort of lesson, illustrated by an example, shows one much better what movements to make than when the gardener holds you under the stomach, and shouts you don’t know what in your ears. If father should throw me into the water, I should think of the frogs: I should do as they did, and I should certainly swim. [Illustration: “_What a beautiful boat she was!_” _Drawn by Clinton Peters._] “I had reached this point in my resolutions, when the sound of something heavy falling suddenly into the water made me raise my head. The noise was followed by a cry, and this cry by five or six others. “That which made the noise was something which looked like a big blue package, which was squirming and beating the water frequently, across by the opposite bank. “I looked with all my eyes, and was filled with horror in recognizing the little boy—still in dresses—of the gardener across the stream whom I had sometimes seen from the bank. The poor little one—I should be more correct in saying the poor big one—had evidently escaped from his mother, and had taken advantage of the occasion to come alone to the river, and turning a summersault by mistake, was now in danger of drowning. He was not exactly happy. He cried like a little madman in the instants when his crimson face emerged from the water, and, by a sort of instinct, beat the water with both hands and feet.