Frogs are Sentimental

You shouldn't pick at your scabs, says Nerida.

It helps me to think, says Arthur.

About what? asks Nerida.

How I got them, says Arthur.

Did you fall off your bike? asks Nerida.

Got them surfing, says Arthur.

I LOVE surfing, says Nerida. Pity there's no surf where we're going.

There is in Gladstone, says Arthur. It's the last good surf spot.

Last? says Nerida.

And it's in crocodile country, says Arthur.

Lucky were not stopping there, says Nerida.

Yes, lucky, says Arthur.

There won't be crocs in Kroombit Tops will there? asks Nerida.

Only frogs, says Arthur. 

You're kidding, says Nerida. 

Yes, says Arthur, I am.

Are you really into them? asks Nerida.

Frogs, says Arthur. I've known a few. 

One jumped into a pool, where it was nice and cool, then there was just one speckled frog, sings Nerida.

Did you just make that up? asks Arthur.

No I learned it in kindergarten, says Nerida. Whenever someone says 'nice and cool' I remember it.

I didn't say nice and cool, says Arthur.

But you reminded me about frogs, says Nerida. Is there a frog poem you remember?

Yes, says Arthur. I remember a poem by four green and golden bell frogs, called Saint Roley the Good.

How did it go? asks Nerida.

Saint Roley the Good/ Did he eat us? No! Although he could/ We lost ninety percent of our brothers / Through development schemes/ He shared with us his last mollusc/ And we shared our dreams.

That's beautiful, says Nerida. 

Frogs are sentimental, says Arthur.