IT'S RAINING FROGS! By MILTON LESSER George didn't like the idea of little red frogs raining down on him from a clear sky. But a pretty girl falling into his arms was quite another matter! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy December 1950 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "_We shall pick up an existence by its frogs.... Wise men have tried other ways. They have tried to understand our state of being, by grasping at its stars, or its arts, or its economics. But, if there is an underlying oneness of all things, it does not matter where we begin, whether with stars, or laws of supply and demand, or frogs, or Napoleon Bonaparte. One measures a circle, beginning anywhere._" --_Charles Fort, LO!_ * * * * * It was raining. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, but it was raining. George wished it were raining cats and dogs, but it wasn't. Anything would be better than this. It was raining frogs. Little red frogs. It was strictly a local rain. The frogs seemed to germinate from a spot somewhere above George's head, and then they spread out and came tumbling down in a cone-shaped area some fifteen feet across. The worst part of it was that George was in the center of the cone. [Illustration: It was as if a hole had opened in space, pouring forth the stream of red frogs....] The frogs fell on him. They seemed to be concentrated most heavily in the center of the cone, and a good percentage of them landed on him--mostly on his head--and then bounced off to fall on the sand. George didn't like it. He moved. He got up off the sand and ran half a dozen paces closer to the surf, but he still felt the little red frogs striking him. The spot was still directly, over his head; George was not sure how high up. He was still the center of the cone. "Myra! Hey, Myra," George called his wife. He could see her head bobbing up and down in the waves and the powerful strokes of her arms through the water showed George that she had heard him call. But she would be angry. As soon as he shouted, the frogs stopped falling. First the downpour became a drizzle, and then there were no frogs at all. Myra would be very angry. She was all wrapped up in this new idea of hers, and she would be angry. If he hadn't yelled, more frogs would have fallen--and there's no telling what else, George thought.