Firefly Glen And a Song Well-Sung is a Sung-Well Song So Sing

The strangely-coloured male flew upright, staring Toad down with fiery eyes like a fury. He puffed himself up at the shoulders and backside, aggressively showing his brawn and impressive bulk at her. Toad almost laughed, but kept on mild alert instead, watching him move about like a rooster bouncing his comb and feathers all about. He could be dangerous, she knew, but his behaviour told more of a "don't $%*# with me" attitude. He didn't seem like he wanted to tear her to pieces, though he probably could have.

Burrs, he spoke of. As the boy told her of his woes, she made a scrunched face, now trying desperately to maintain compsure. Here I thought you were tired of your tail hairs, Toad chuckled, taking a gentle step toward him. Let me help you, I can probably see them better, and I've done this before. She hazarded taking one more step, even slower this time, waiting for him to allow her close. Of course, she told the truth. There was no reason for her not to. In her home pack, she had assisted on several occasions with the removal of thorns, burrs, and stickers in both fur and flesh. Romping about in thicketed areas appeared a fun pasttime among puppies and the coming-of-age. Toad was often there to pick out the nonsense, as in the rest of life.