Chapter 7 | An Odd Stranger | Featherland

There was one bird used to run about Greenlawn on a fine morning, hunting for tiny spiders and flies; he was a little, slim, dapper fellow, with a long tail, and whenever he jumped about a little way, or settled upon the ground, he used to make his long tail go wipple-wapple, up and down, as if he had shaken it loose; but it was only a funny habit of his, like that of Mrs Hedgesparrow, who was always shaking and shuffling her wings about. A fast runner was Mr Wagtail, and fine fun it was to see him skimming along the top of the ground in chase of a fly to take home to his wife, who used to live in a nest in the bank close by the hole over the pond, where old Ogrebones—blue-backed Billy the kingfisher, had his house, and used to spread the bones of his fishy little victims about the grass.

One day Walter Wagtail was running along the ground after a fly, and was going to snap him up, when—“bob”—he was gone in an instant; and Wagtail found himself standing before—oh! such an ugly thing, with two bright, staring eyes; a bloated, rough, dirty-looking body; four crooked legs, no neck, no wings, no tail, and such a heavy stomach, that he was obliged to crawl about with it resting upon the ground.

“Heugh! you horrid, ugly-looking thing,” said Wagtail; “you swallowed my fly. Where do you come from? what’s your name? who’s your father and mother, and what made you so ugly?”

“Ugly, indeed,” said the pudgy thing; “what do you mean by ugly? Just you go to the bottom of the pond and lie under the mud, old fluffy-jacket, and stop there for a week, and see how you would look with your fine gingerbread black and white feathers sticking to your sides all muddy and wet. Who would look ugly then? Not you! oh no.”

“But I shouldn’t be such a round, rough, clay-tod as you are, old no-neck,” said the wagtail, ruffling his feathers up at the very idea of getting them damp.

“No, you wouldn’t, you miserable whipper-snapper,” croaked the other, settling himself down on the flowerbed, so that he could hardly be told from the ground for colour. “No, you wouldn’t, but you would be—ho-ho-ho—you would be—ha-ha-ha—such a—he-he-he—such a—haw-haw-haw. There, I can’t help laughing,” said the round fellow, with his fat sides wagging about through his merriment. “You must excuse me, but I do think you would look so comical with all your feathers gummed down to your skinny sides, that wisp of a tail like a streak of horsehair, and those stilty legs sticking into your scraggy body—ho-ho-ho-ho—my fat sides! How I wish I had ribs, for then I could stop laughing easier; but you are such a droll little chap.”

“Get out,” said the bird, wagging his tail with fury, for he was very proud of his genteel appearance; “get out, you old dusky dab, or I shall kick you. I feel quite disgusted with your appearance. What are you doing here?”

“Doing?” said the other, rubbing the tears out of his eyes; “doing? why, getting my living the same way as you do—fly-catching.”

“Fly-catching,” said the other with a sneer; “how can you catch flies? Why, you can’t run a bit. I suppose you wait till they tumble into your mouth, don’t you? Who are you? What’s your name?”

“My name?” said the other; “well, you are not very civil, but I don’t mind telling you. My name’s Toad—Brown Toad—and I’d a great deal rather be such an ugly fellow, as you call me, than a weazen, skinny, windbeater like you. How do I catch flies? Why, so, my boy; that’s how I catch them,” and just then the toad crept to within two or three inches of a great fly that had settled upon a leaf, darted out his long tongue, which stuck to the fly, and it was drawn into the toad’s great mouth in an instant. “That’s the way I catch flies, my boy, and a capital way too, isn’t it?”

“Hum,” said the wagtail, rather astonished at the ease with which the fly was caught; “it wasn’t so bad, certainly; but you know you are precious ugly. Why, you have no waist.”

“Waste!” said the toad, “no, there’s no waste about me; it’s all useful what there is of me.”

“Ugh! you stupid,” said the other; “I mean waist over your hips, where you ought to wear your belt or sash.”

“Oh! ah! I see,” said the toad. “No, I’ve no waist, and don’t want any, but I know a little chap that has; he’s a little black and yellow fellow, who goes buzzing about, making a fine noise, and likes sweet things; he’d suit you, only he has such a tickler in his tail. His name’s Wops, or Wasp, or something of that kind.”

“Oh! I know the conceited little plum-stealer; he’s poisonous, like you are.”

“Pooh!” said the toad, “poisonous! I’m not poisonous. I’m not even ill-tempered, so as to poison people’s minds, much more poison their bodies. That’s an old woman’s tale; they say I spit poison, because they’ve seen me catch flies; and are stupid enough, like you, to think me ugly, just as if that made any difference. I creep about here and catch my flies, and enjoy myself well enough.”

“But you can’t fly,” said the wagtail vainly; “I can.”

“Pooh! I know,” said the toad; “and you can’t swim. I can.”

“But you can’t run and catch flies,” said the other, getting cross.

“No, but I can sit down and catch them,” said the toad, “and that’s easier.”

“Boo! old bark-back; where’s your tail?” said the wagtail, now quite cross to find that the ugly old toad was quite as clever as he, and a deal better-tempered.

“Tail,” said the other contemptuously; “what’s the use of a tail only to wag? Do you want me to pull it?” And then he made believe that he was going to get hold of the wagtail’s long feathers, but the bird flew off in a fright, thoroughly vexed and disappointed, because the nasty, black-looking, rough toad could beat him in everything he said.