t was morning in the brown wasteland, and jolly round red Mr. Sun was doing his best to shine through the gray pall, as he did every morning. Old Mother Westwind hurried out from her home behind the Distant Ruins, to set her merry little Breezes loose in the Black Forest, and in the Brown Wasteland.
All the little folks of the Wasteland hurried about their business. Peter Rabbit cautiously poked his head out of his hole and sniffed the air. Little Oscar Chipmink ran to and fro in the tree-tops, cursing the absence of his favorite mutant acorns, which had been carried off by Sammy Jay the day before.
But there was one animal who was not awake. Grandfather Frog was sleeping. Yes sir, old Grandfather Frog was asleep, with his eyes closed and his hands folded over his yellow waistcoat. One of the Merry Little Breezes blew a foolish green fly right past his nose, and he didn’t so much as stir. Little Oscar Chipmink threw a walnut at the old tire he was sitting on, but not even that was enough to make him open his eyes. Old Grandfather Frog was asleep, and dreaming of the days when the world was young, and there were other frogs in the world.—After Thornton W. Burgess