The Very Particular Frog

Reginald was a frog.

A small, green, very particular frog.

Every morning, all the other frogs in Willow Pond hopped onto lily pads and sat down. Just like that. Any old lily pad. Can you imagine?

Not Reginald.

Reginald would swim up to a lily pad, climb on with one careful foot, and say, "Hmm. No. Too bumpy."

He'd swim to the next one. "Too soft."

The next one. "Too round."

The next one. "Smells like Tuesday."

"What's wrong with Tuesday?" asked his friend Dolores, who was sitting perfectly happy on a perfectly fine lily pad.

"Everything," said Reginald.

So Reginald kept swimming.

He swam past the cattails where the dragonflies buzzed. He swam past the mossy rock where the turtles sat in the sun. He swam all the way to the far side of Willow Pond, where nobody ever went because it was shady and full of old sticks.

And there — tucked between two reeds — he found it.

The most beautiful lily pad he had ever seen.

It was wide and flat. It was the perfect shade of green. It had one single dewdrop sitting right in the middle, sparkling like a tiny diamond.

"Oh," whispered Reginald. "Oh my."

He climbed on slowly. One foot. Two feet. Three feet. Four.

He sat down.

It was perfect.

He folded his hands. He closed his eyes. He smiled his small frog smile.

And then — FLUMP — the lily pad flipped right over and dunked him into the water!

Reginald came up sputtering, with a piece of pondweed on his head like a little hat.

He stared at the lily pad. It bobbed there, upside down, not even sorry.

"Well!" said Reginald.

He climbed back on.

FLUMP!

Back in the water. More pondweed. Now he had two hats.

"WELL!" said Reginald, louder.

He climbed on a third time, very slowly, very carefully, holding his breath —

FLUMP!

This time he went all the way under and came up with a tiny snail on his nose, looking very confused.

From across the pond, Dolores was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her own lily pad.

Reginald looked at the snail on his nose. The snail looked at Reginald.

"Don't say anything," said Reginald.

The snail said nothing. Snails are good at that.

Reginald swam all the way back across Willow Pond. Past the old sticks. Past the mossy rock. Past the cattails. He was tired. His legs were heavy. The pondweed dragged behind him like a soggy cape.

Dolores scooted over on her lily pad. "There's room," she said.

Reginald looked at it. It was a little too round. A little too soft. There was a brown spot on one edge shaped like a bean.

He climbed on anyway.

He sat down next to Dolores. The lily pad dipped a tiny bit but held steady. The snail was still on his nose. He didn't even mind.

The sun was warm. The water went plink, plink, plink against the edges. Somewhere, a cricket started to sing.

"This one's bumpy," said Reginald.

"Yep," said Dolores.

Reginald stretched out his legs. He tilted his face toward the sun. The little snail slid off his nose and settled on the lily pad between them, right on the brown spot shaped like a bean.

"It's not terrible," Reginald said quietly.

Dolores smiled.

The three of them sat there together — one particular frog, one patient frog, and one very quiet snail — as the afternoon turned golden and the pond hummed its soft, old song.