The house of Frogs had never been built. It had grown, like every amphibious abode, from damp earth and the roots of fragrant flowers. It had no door, but a doorway; no glass, but window frames. Its sides curved above Mr and Mrs Frog and the bairns as though a bowl had fallen atop them, or been placed there by a curious child with mischievous designs – but in truth there was no safer place for a Frog.
Sometimes Mrs Frog thought back to when they had not had a house, living like savages on the lily pads, and felt happy.