The toad found a hole, a combination of sunken earth and the gaping maw of a half buried log. All in all, the place was lowly indeed but a step up from squatting in a field—a step in the right direction.

From within the hole, the toad ate. He grew. He held court over whatever lowly animals would listen and give heed to his snippets of purloined logic and lank life lessons. In time he was even handing down sentences and demanding that tributes be brought to him.

On a Sunday, not that the day of the week is particularly important, Raynee Jakobs happened upon the hole, her wide brown eyes growing wider still at the site of the rotund amphibean. She gave a low whistle; he answered with a rolling croak.

“You’s a biggun, Mr. Toad,” she whispered.

Defying all species related capacity in the process, he rasped back, “You’s a small one, man-child.”

Eyes impossibly wide, she ventured, “Is you a magic toad?”

“I will be,” rumbled the answer from within the hollow, “and you, my sweet chil’, is gonna he’p me.”