Frankie frog was hopping mad. His faithful friend, Freddie frog, had croaked it. Doris, the dithering dormouse, had delivered duff directions. Frankie was lost. It looked like he would be a little late to lament his late mate at Friday’s froggie funeral.

Frankie was wearily warm and hugely hungry, meaning it was a most miserable memorial morning. He languished by a lily near the loch thinking longingly of a lovely lunch of good food. “Fifty-five flied fries” came to mind. By this Frankie did not mean chips coated in demised flies. He meant a flock of flies, fairly fried in a big bit of best butter. Yum, yum. A bothersome, blustering bluebottle buzzed busily by and Frankie caught it in flight, settling for a light bite.

How would he reach the Cheery Cherry on time? He would have to hop to it. The Cheery Cherry was a tree, not a pub. Frogs don’t frequently frequent popular people pubs. Frankie fretted and fidgeted and finally decided to ask the toad he saw in the road.

“Tister Moad, which way would I walk to the Cheery Cherry?” Mr Toad blinked blankly. “Tister Moad?” he quietly quizzed with quite a quaint quiver.

“Indeed, I do know the way, and if I might say,
A toad such as I, if I could fly,
Would be there in a flash, without having to dash.
The route to take is by yonder lake,
Go left, not right, and you will see the sight,
Of a peaceful dell, where an old fence fell.
This is the place, to change your pace.
If you try, you’ll climb up high.
Here is the place of which you speak,
the Cheery Cherry that you seek.”

“Do you always talk like a boetry pook?”

“Only at rhyme time,” teased the toad. He peered passively at Frankie.

“Watch out for the howl of the owl.
For though it’s not yet dark,
he’ll be flying around the park,
And whatever his mood,
a frog is his favourite food.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Frankie rightly responded. With that, a happy helpful toad toddled towards toad town.