subject: The Chin Bubble Of Hyla [print this page] There was something more wonderful than color protection in the Hyla tree frog in Guadalupe. That was his lower chin. There, on his lower chin, extending down to his forelegs and up around his nose was a bubble like a balloon; a bubble big as Hyla himself, or rather as big as all the rest of him put together. For this bubble was part of him, nothing more or less than the skin of his lower jaw blown out to form a drum. And into his drum Hyla was saying "scratch-it, scratch-it," over and over and over. With each "scratch-it" the bubble puffed out bigger than ever and in between notes the place where his ribs would be, if he had any, would swell up with the breath he intended to use in saying the next "scratch-it." All in all, when going good, he gave his call about once every second or so, which would mean, if nothing happened to stop him, that over thirty thousand "scratch-its" would be necessary to get a night by. Occasionally something would stop him: a loud splash nearby or the rumble of a distant train or car. Then he would become quiet suddenly, letting his bubble float on the water in which he sprawled. If another splash came or the rumble grew too loud he would sit upright and give a big gulp, whereupon that bubble of the under chin would disappear promptly just as if swallowed, and the puffed out sides would suddenly cave in with a big lost breath, all of which would make of Hyla a little midget not over thumb-size again. When all was quiet again, Hyla, with his overpowering, indefinable urge to call, would pump up his balloon and start again. Very shortly every tree frog in the pond had joined in the refrain of the leader. After Hyla had been at the puddle on the Guadalupe for some days calling, the quiet female frogs came down, no longer able to resist the call of spring and the persistent serenade. With the arrival of the females, mating occurred and soon curious little masses of eggs, like tiny grains of tapioca in jelly, were attached here and there to fallen twigs in the water. From the eggs tadpoles were predestined to emerge in a few days, and before long a new crop of tree frogs would be due to leave the water and to spread out over the land. Not caring for tadpole offspring, Hyla will shortly come back to his ivy vine beneath the monkey puzzle tree beside my window. I shall know it because, no doubt, a few short notes will come again, last vestiges of the great call of earlier days. Gone then the alder catkins, gone the urge of spring, gone the ache for travel and for water; comes instead a peaceful little tree frog content to remain eleven months until again February brings the world new catkins and his call of "scratch-it."
