"The Meadow Edge," Barnaby croaked, puffing out his emerald chest. "I hear the wildflowers are tall enough to shade a king."

The journey was perilous. He had to navigate the "Silver Serpent"—a garden hose left on by the giants in the nearby farmhouse—and scale the treacherous "Stone Peaks," which the giants called a rock garden. Every few minutes, Barnaby would find a damp patch of clover to recharge his skin, looking much like a green, deflated balloon until the moisture soaked back in.

As he trekked toward the Great Willow, he encountered a field mouse named Pip, who was frantically fanning himself with a clover leaf.

Stepping off his mossy porch, Barnaby’s belly made a satisfying schloop sound against the muddy bank. He didn't hop; he strolled. He navigated the tall forest of sawgrass with the confidence of an explorer, his gold-rimmed eyes scanning for adventure (or, more realistically, a particularly slow dragonfly).

By noon, he reached his destination. The wildflowers weren't just tall; they were a canopy of violet and gold. Barnaby found a flat, cool stone beneath a Queen Anne’s Lace. The shade was perfect, the air smelled of sun-baked earth, and the rhythmic buzzing of the cicadas acted as a summer lullaby.

"Terribly bright out, Barnaby," Pip squeaked. "Where are you bound in this heat?"

Barnaby was a bullfrog of significant ambition and even more significant girth. On the morning of July 21st—a day so gold and humid it felt like swimming through warm honey—Barnaby decided he had sat on his lily pad long enough. It was a day for a walk.

He didn't make it back to the pond until the moon was a silver sliver in the sky. He was exhausted, dusty, and his legs felt like overcooked noodles, but as he climbed back onto his lily pad, he let out a contented "ribbit." It had been a very fine walk indeed.