A group of frogs were on a jolly jaunt through the woods, croaking happily and generally being amphibious. Their leader, Ferdinand, a rather portly frog with a penchant for oversized lily pads, was particularly boisterous. Suddenly, Ferdinand and Bartholomew, a younger frog known for his surprisingly pessimistic outlook, tumbled head over heels into a deep, dark pit.
The other frogs gathered at the edge, peering down. It *was* a pretty deep pit. Like, “I’d need a really long ladder, maybe a crane” deep.
“Well, boys,” croaked one frog sympathetically, but not too sympathetically, “looks like you’re croaked.” (Get it? Croaked? Because they’re… frogs… and… dead…)
Another frog chimed in, “Yeah, it’s a long way down. You’re toast.” He then added, helpfully, “Unless you like being toasted frogs. Then, you know, carry on.”
Bartholomew, predictably, started to lament his fate. “Oh, woe is me! I’ll never see another fly again! My lily pad collection will be unfinished!”
Ferdinand, however, was having none of it. He puffed out his chest (as much as a frog can puff out a chest) and started shouting, “Don’t you dare give up on me, you pessimistic lily pads!”
He then looked around the pit. There wasn’t much to grab onto. The walls were smooth, and the only thing remotely helpful was a particularly slimy, rather disgruntled-looking worm.
Ferdinand looked at the worm and then at Bartholomew. “Bartholomew,” he said, his voice filled with determination, “climb on my back!”
Bartholomew, bewildered but trusting Ferdinand’s strangely optimistic energy, did as he was told. Ferdinand then began to push off the pit walls, using the worm as an unlikely (and frankly, somewhat disgusted) handhold. He propelled himself upwards with a surprising amount of froggy strength, using his powerful legs and the worm’s slimy assistance. It was slow going.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Ferdinand and Bartholomew clawed their way up the pit. The other frogs watched, mouths agape. They were absolutely certain that this was doomed to fail, but they couldn’t look away. It was like watching a particularly slow, slimy car crash.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity (but was probably only about 15 minutes), Ferdinand and Bartholomew tumbled onto the edge, exhausted but triumphant.
The other frogs were speechless. Ferdinand, covered in mud and slime, simply grinned. “Never underestimate a fat frog with a goal!” he declared. He then added, turning to Bartholomew, “And next time, bring a ladder.”
Bartholomew, still slightly traumatized, merely nodded weakly. He looked at the worm, now draped dramatically over Ferdinand’s head, and mumbled, “I’m never eating worms again.” The other frogs, learning a valuable lesson about never judging a frog by its size or the seemingly insurmountable depth of a pit, finally broke into applause. Even the worm seemed somewhat impressed.
