JOY ALONG THE WAY: AWAITING OLD MR. TOAD III

Most of the props for the new joyous season seem to be in place and someone has ordered, "Action!" The squirrels start their trips across the high wires and the blue jays set up squawking hazards for them to overcome. It is a comic part of the annual pageant. The purple martins dip and soar and chatter happily. You get only a glimpse of why they are called purple when they glide at a certain angle in bright sunshine. The air has been sprayed with autumn olive, lilac and bush honeysuckle perfume that doesn't go away like Jontu or Anais Anais.

There are two new community cats, one black as moonless midnight. Haven't had a chance to make friends with them yet. They are shy. They meander along under the lattice fence row and stroll lazily around the far shrubbery but skedaddle when I approach, calling a friendly, "Kitty, kitty."

Iris and peony buds grow fat and various seeds are sown. I eagerly await the first little hummocking of the soil which indicates they're on their way. It is a daily, sometimes twice daily adventure.

The only one of the cast of characters not yet to make an appearance is Old Mr. Toad. I should say, some descendant of Old Mr. Toad, for OMT belonged to some of my long ago springs. His appearance on stage was always a bit undignified, coming out from under the hollyhock clumps sideways or upside down under my leaf rake. I always apologized profusely and tenderly placed him back from where I had so rudely raked him. I'll find his great, great grandson some time soon, maybe in the mint patch or where the ferns grow.

Relatives of some sort to the Mr. Toad family are the tree frogs, or tree toads as some call them. One or more has come to our community to give their haunting calls. Such calls seem to be coming from somewhere along Creek LaCroix as it winds its way through the Park, but knowing that the call is deceptive as to distance, it just might be in my near neighbor's tree, or even one of my own.

I did find one once in one of my yard trees. He looked just like a large wart on the bark. A blinking eye caught my attention. Although these creatures like to go high up in a tree, this one I saw was low enough on the trunk for me to see the funny little toes that resemble tiny suction cups. This, of course, along with a little stickiness, is what enables them to climb trees while Old Mr. Toad's family has to remain grounded and travel only by short hops.

I love to hear the tree frog, although, to me, it sounds a lonesome chord. This must have to do with some past association but I can't quite come up with the association. My childhood spring and summer nights were noisy with tree frogs, bull frogs, peepers, distant hounds yelping, maybe a fox bark now and then. I certainly wasn't lonesome then. There were six others in various bedrooms, sharing the sounds with me.

Perhaps it is the insistent call of the frog and I think he thinks no one is answering. Maybe he can't hear or doesn't stop long enough to listen. Whatever.

I sit on the porch at late twilight now and listen, all alone, but still not lonesome. It is about the only night creature now, besides man, that is making a noise. The inhabitants of cocoons and chrysalises are still in silent making.

Old Mr. Toad's family is stingy with sound. Only when terrified or hurt do they emit a squeak. Even when I rake one out from under a clump of leaves he doesn't vocally protest, knowing, perhaps, that I love the old squatty, spotty fellow and mean no harm.

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosely is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.