"Well, that's the difference between a lake and a pond.
Now, set that down for a traveller's fact. Now, where do
you go to fish?"

"To the lakes, of course; there are no fish in the ponds."

"Exactly," said Mr. Slick, "that is what I want to bring
you to; there is no fish in a pond, there is nothin' but
frogs. Nova Scotia is only a pond, and so is New Brunswick,
and such outlandish, out o' the way, little crampt up,
stagnant places. There is no 'big fish' there, nor never
can be; there ain't no food for 'em. A colony frog!!
Heavens and airth, what an odd fish that is? A colony
pollywog! do, for gracious sake, catch one, put him into
a glass bottle full of spirits, and send him to the Museum
as a curiosity in natur. So you are a goin' to make your
two nice pretty little smart boys a pair of colony frogs,
eh? Oh! do, by all means.

"You'll have great comfort in 'em, Squire. Monstrous
comfort. It will do your old heart good to go down to
the edge of the pond on the fust of May, or thereabouts,
accordin' to the season, jist at sun down, and hear 'em
sing. You'll see the little fellers swell out their
cheeks, and roar away like young suckin' thunders. For
the frogs beat all natur there for noise; they have no
notion of it here at all. I've seed Englishmen that
couldn't sleep all night, for the everlastin' noise these
critters made. Their frogs have somethin' else to do