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8th hour, Monday
Dear Daddy-Long-Legs,

I hope you aren't the Trustee who sat on the toad? 

It went off— I was told— with quite a pop, so probably he was a fatter Trustee.

Do you remember the little dugout places with gratings over them by the laundry windows in the John Grier Home? 

Every spring when the hoptoad season opened we used to form a collection of toads and keep them in those window holes; and occasionally they would spill over into the laundry, causing a very pleasurable commotion on wash days. 

We were severely punished for our activities in this direction, but in spite of all discouragement the toads would collect.

And one day— well, I won't bore you with particulars— but somehow, one of the fattest, biggest, JUCIEST toads got into one of those big leather arm chairs in the Trustees' room, and that afternoon at the Trustees' meeting— But I dare say you were there and recall the rest?

Looking back dispassionately after a period of time, I will say that punishment was merited, and— if I remember rightly— adequate.

I don't know why I am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct. 

The only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact that no rule exists against it.