Yesterday, in my opinion, was althogether more lion than lamb. The Lord of Thunder was busy at work. He has dark wings and the claws and head of a rooster, carries a hammer chisel, and is surrouded by fiery drums. The noice brought by the Thunder God is even more disagreable than distemper shots, says Ada, the oldest of the inmates here. Ada then expressed some strong views, like "how much Better it would be if we were all in a dark closet, with sofa cushions over our heads and our eyes shot!"










As I pointed out before, the peasant dogs also detest rainwater and stand on the soaked lawn, lifting their feet or gather under the garden furniture.










When the rain stopped, I went out to look for something to entertain myself. It was then I find a little frog! I declared that the frog was My Pet Frog! Concealing the doctile animal in my beard I hurried indoor and settled in my basket. The frog was as good as gold and kept perfectly quiet. Uncertain whether it was a boy frog or a girl frog I decided to call it Eggbertina. Then I yawned and went to sleep.










Unfortunately, Eggbertina became restive, and was confused by the wooly expanse of a vetbed blanket on which it found itself. Eggbertina made a bold leap to the floor and was discovered by Granny. Worse luck! Poor Eggbertina was caught and let out into the dark oblivion.










"Viggo, did You bring that frog into the house?"










"Mine", I tried to explain. "My Pet Frog. It had a name. I called it Eggbertina."










"Absolutely never again", decreed Granny, paraphrasing a well-known raven. One then sank into a Huff and refused to speak to Granny, until just before dinnertime.

All the flowerpots are carried outdoors again and the garden is full of greenery, thanks to the rain. I pursue more optimistic researches at ground level. Those who go around with their noses in the air never find any lucky four-leafed trefoil!.