A toad came across a pond in the woods and, thirsty from her travels, decided to pause a while to drink, but when the frog who lived in the pond saw her squatting in the shallows, uninvited, he was not pleased.

“This is my pond,” he declared. “You can’t just hop in and drink whenever you want without asking.”
“Sorry,” replied the toad. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, you must have known it belonged to someone.”
“Not really,” the toad explained. “I was thirsty. It’s been a warm night.”
“It’s warm for everyone,” the frog snapped back.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” the toad replied.
“I’ll let it go this time,” the frog concluded. “But I trust in future you will ask first, and perhaps you will see fit to return the favour one day.”

A few nights later, the toad happened to pass by the pond again. The frog came over and asked how she had been and what she’d been doing.

“To tell you the truth, I’m a bit hungry,” the toad replied. “I’ve been looking for something to eat for an hour now, but haven’t had any luck.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” said the frog. “I’m starving. Which reminds me, I was wondering, if you find something, could you bring a portion back here.”
“You want me to catch something for you?” said the toad.
“If you could. Just a morsel, a small slug, a moth perhaps.”
The toad paused to consider how she might transport these provisions when normally they took a rather direct route from tongue to stomach.
“If you don’t want to do it, just say,” continued the frog, growing impatient for an answer.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” the toad explained. “It’s more that I don’t know how.”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” cried the frog. “I do you a favour but you can’t do this little thing for me in return. You’d find a way if you really wanted to.”
“You’re right,” replied the toad.

And then she puffed her cheeks, turned her back on the frog, and crawled away.

Generosity is wasted on a selfish nature.

 Richard Parkin, 2024