Poison

Baby Pierre and Frog got off the bus on North Terrace. They crossed the road.

I wonder which one of these buildings is the Library? said Frog.

I don't know,said Baby Pierre. We should have asked the bus driver. Let's sit down here in the sun and decide what to do.

They sat on a lawn in front of a building with open doors from which angry-looking people were emerging to the faint strains of a cello concerto. At the top of the steps was a movable sign that read SOLD OUT.

This is nice, said Frog. I can hear music. It sounds like Dvorjak.

So it does, said Baby Pierre. But look behind you.

Frog looked. A man with a mask and a backpack was squirting brown liquid onto the grass in a seemingly random fashion. Squirt, squirt, squirt, went the man. Then he went away.

Do you think it was poison? asked Frog.

Yes, said Baby Pierre. And now look. People are sitting on the grass that he poisoned, and eating their lunch.

He pointed to a young woman and a small child who were doing just that.

There's nothing wrong with poison, said Frog. It only kills bad things.

Frog! said Baby Pierre. You talk like a tomato!

Sorry, said Frog. I am a tomato. We are different, you and I.

A defeatist tomato, said Baby Pierre.

You'll be here long after I've shrivelled up and died, said Frog, disconsolately.

No I won't, said Baby Pierre. Get up. We're moving on.