Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Frog Pond

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Frog Pond

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

No matter what Mr. Thompson said, it was a good day for frogging and fishing. The morning sun had

that bright double halo that meant the whole day would be clear. I got up before Mom, took some old

pie from where she hid it last night, grabbed my wading shoes and net, and lit out for the creek. I had to

leave real quiet. I'm not supposed to be going down to the creek any more. They say it's dangerous

down there.

But the creek ain't dangerous if you know what you're doing. You just have to stay away from pink

water spots, and you're safe all the way.

I took the long way around the Baxter place. I think Pop was right about them; something's wrong there.

Dr. Baxter ain't been at Town Meeting for a long time—Pop thinks that maybe some sick people moved

in on the Baxters.

So I walked through the brambles on the edge of the woods where the new trees are growing. It was

sunny and fine, and the breeze came in nice and sweet from the north. No cities up that way, not for

hundreds of miles.

Caught some crickets along the way, the big kind with the long wings. They make good bait for the

stickery fish in the shallows. All I got to do is tangle them up in the net and put it down in the water. The

stickery fish go right for 'em. Mr. Thompson, he says that it ain't safe to eat 'em, which just shows you

how much he knows. I eat 'em all the time.

I headed right for Rotten Log Hollow. There's a nice big hole in there, and a gravel bar, and you can

catch lots of frogs there if you're careful. They like to hide under that old broken pipe, under the foam. I

got maybe a dozen there, last time out.

First I walked along the bank, looking down into the water to see what was there, you know. It was still,

and there wasn't a lot of foam piling up. There wasn't any fish either, so I sat down in the warm gravel,

ate my pie, and pulled on my wading shoes. They've got high tops that Pop always tells me to pull all the

way up, but I ain't bothered with that for years. Heck, a little water can't kill me.

After a little while I went into the water real cautious—careful not to scare the frogs. I worked my way

out into midstream and started peering around for frogs. I had my net in my belt, but I don't use it

much—not for frogs.

So there I was in the creek, careful as could be, when all of a sudden this bunch of rocks and grass

comes rolling down the bank, and this city fellow comes down after it, trying to grab hold of bushes on

the way. He hit the pipe and it stopped him, but he sure messed up the water.

A couple of minutes went by, and he started to get up. He had a heck of a time doing it. He kept flailing

his arms around and pulling himself back onto the pipe.

I was mad because he'd scared the frogs, so I yelled out, "Hey, mister, don't do that!"

Boy, did he look up fast. You'd of thought I was a C.D. man or something the way he snapped around.

His eyes got wild, and he shook all over. Before he could fall again, I called out, "It's just me, mister,

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Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Frog Pond

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