The denizens of the Frog Kingdom have been wonderful hosts. They have allowed me to stay in their fertile land this past week, and I've spent every night in the Court of the Frog King, learning their ways and exchanging stories.

Their songs and dancing rituals have been the most interesting. Last night they performed one of their most sacred rites for me--the tale of Marty the Masher. The Frog King himself led the routine, standing before his throne on his long, rubbery legs, with his crown set at a cocky angle, soft shoeing with his scepter. All the members of the court picked up their instruments and accompanied his melancholy melody:

Folks, here's a story 'bout Marty the Masher
He was a smooth green atom smasher
One of King Solomon's Frogs he wanted to be
But Marty met an end that he couldn't foresee.

Then, he sang a call and response with his court:

Ribbit Ribbit! (ribbit ribbit!)
Croaaaaaaaak! (croaaaaaaaak!)
Chirp Chirp Chirp! (chirp chirp chirp!)
Croaky croak. (croaky croak.)

At that point the frog musicians went into their "free jazz" routine for awhile, then stopped abruptly. After a moment, the King took the spotlight once again.

He went to the city to become a frog of power
He hooked up with the wizard in the highest tower
They wired Marty up to a mighty machine
The kilowatts they used were beyond obscene

Ribbit Ribbit! (ribbit ribbit!)
Croaaaaaaaak! (croaaaaaaaak!)
Chirp Chirp Chirp! (chirp chirp chirp!)
Croaky croak. (croaky croak.)

Marty grew mighty under the wizard's care
He became clairvoyant and could fly through the air
But soon his powers began to fade
And the wizard lost interest and threw him away.

Ribbit Ribbit! (ribbit ribbit!)
Croaaaaaaaak! (croaaaaaaaak!)
Chirp Chirp Chirp! (chirp chirp chirp!)
Croaky croak. (croaky croak.)

Poor Marty's time had really run out
His brains and insides had turned to sauerkraut
In preserving his remains, the wizard didn't dwaddle--
And Marty came home inside of a bottle.

And with that, the curtain at the back of the stage was dropped, and there was a frog--quite clearly dead, in a sealed jar of what must have been formaldehyde.

All the frogs stopped their song and dance and froze, with their little arms pointing at the bottle.

The forest was completely silent.

"Aw, we're just pullin' your leg, Louis," croaked the King.

All the members of the Court started laughing hysterically.

The flood caught the frogs by surprise. Or at least it didn't seem like something they'd planned for. The water rushed in, inundating their twig and mud huts and they swam for it, a few of them gathering their meager possessions in bindles on sticks slung over their tiny shoulders. I soon lost track of them in the deluge, and let the rushing waters carry me away.

I was clutching a log to stay afloat. My long body hair naturally traps air and helps keep me buoyant, as well as warm, but I had no idea if I was headed for falls or snags or other dangers in the rushing waters. As the sun went down things were more harrowing, and as the water grew wide I sensed deeper, more sinister undertows.

Finally, through the dark, I saw lights. Tiny lanterns perhaps? Sidelights on a fishing boat? I had no idea if I was still in a river or had opened up into a sea. And though hypothermia wasn't a problem, my arms were growing numb from clutchng log so tightly. I did what I could to kick towards the light, and though it seemed to get me nowhere, I had no better goal. I closed my eyes and kicked against the current. I kicked and kicked and kicked some more.

Suddenly there was a THUD. I raised my head out of the water and looked up into the lamplight.

"Mooooarrrrrrrr?"

It was a broad, hairy, heavy-browed face. Much like my own.

Big shaggy arms lifted me from the water.

There is a mighty system of rivers that runs through North America that only the Sasquatch know. And it's there that they pilot their steamboats.

After being sufficiently dried and fed a nourishing broth, I left my hammock in the crew's quarters and stepped out onto the deck of the Orroarer. Two tall, fancy-topped chimneys, with a gilded device of some kind swung between them; a fanciful pilot-house, a glass and 'gingerbread', perched on top of the 'texas' deck behind them; the paddle-boxes are gorgeous, decorated with woodland scenes and gilded rays painted above the boat's name; the boiler deck, the hurricane deck, and the texas deck are fenced and ornamented with clean white railings; the decks are filled with passengers of all kinds--Centaur, forest elves and gnomes, great oozing black sentient fungi.

And the Sasquatch crew, swabbing the decks, pumping water into the organic fusion reactors, securing cargo, taking soundings of the river.

The captain of this vessel is known as Hairy Bob (Exec). He was very interested in my story and agreed to allow me to not only stay on the crew, but to learn the ways of piloting a Sasquatch Steamboat directly from him, himself. In the week or so I've been here I've realized that being a Sasquatch Steamboat pilot is the most beautiful life I've ever seen, and such pilots are the only unfettered and entirely independent beings that live in the earth. I am so very lucky to be among them.