Mr Frog Quotes

And Poppy, remember that someday you will meet a frog who will turn into a handsome prince." "Good," Beatrix said. "Because all she's met so far are princes who turn into frogs." "Mr. Bayning is not a frog," Poppy protested. "You're right," Beatrix said. "That was very unfair to frogs, who are lovely creatures.

These days when you kiss a prince you often run the risk of turning him into a frog. But don't let the ogres in shining armor get you down. There is no need for distress - you don't want to be anyone's damsel anyway. Simply remind yourself that you are busy racking up those 'frequent failure points' that will eventually pay for an all expenses paid trip to Mr Right.

Sometimes you have to realise that somebody is not coming back and there will be no happy ending. You don't get the prince, you get the frog. And sometimes after a while the frog doesn't seem so bad and you realise that the prince was not in fact that much of a prince.

And then, just when I know I can live content without Shug, just when Mr. ___ done ast me to marry him again, this time in the spirit as well as in the flesh, and just after I say, Naw, I still don't like frogs, but let's us be friends, Shug write me she's coming home. Now. Is this life or not? *I be so calm.* If she come, I be happy. If she don't I be content. And then I figure this the lesson I was suppose to learn.

Well, Mr Katagiri, I have not been frogging all these years for nothing. I keep my eye on the important things in life.

The door was opening again. The seer does not like to dwell upon what he saw entering the room: he says it might be described as a frog - the size of a man - but it had scanty white hair about its head. It was busy about the truckle-beds, but not for long. The sound of cries - faint, as if coming out of a vast distance - but, even so, infinitely appalling, reached the ear. ("The Haunted Doll's House")

Passersby looked at us curiously. In the porch, Mr. Whitman held the church door open for us. “Hurry up, please,” he said. “We don’t want to attract attention.” No, sure, there was nothing likely to attract attention in two black limousines parking in North Audley Street in broad daylight so that men in suits could carry the Lost Ark out of the trunk of one of the cars, over the sidewalk, and into the church. Although from a distance the chest carrying it could have been a small coffin . . . The thought gave me goose bumps. “I hope at least you remembered your pistol,” I whispered to Gideon. “You have a funny idea of what goes on at a soiree,” he said, in a normal tone of voice, arranging the scarf around my shoulders. “Did anyone check what’s in your bag? We don’t want your mobile ringing in the middle of a musical performance.” I couldn’t keep from laughing at the idea, because just then my ringtone was a croaking frog. “There won’t be anyone there who could call me except you,” I pointed out. “And I don’t even know your number. Please may I take a look inside your bag?” “It’s called a reticule,” I said, shrugging and handing him the little bag. “Smelling salts, handkerchief, perfume, powder . . . excellent,” said Gideon. “All just as it should be. Come along.” He gave me the reticule back, took my hand, and led me through the church porch. Mr. Whitman bolted the door again behind us. Gideon forgot to let go of my hand once we were inside the church, which was just as well, because otherwise I’d have panicked at the last moment and run away.

Mr. Bayning is not a frog,” Poppy protested. “You’re right,” Beatrix said. “That was very unfair to frogs, who are lovely creatures.” As

The students had, for example, a special ceremony in which they granted each Nobel-Prize-winner the special “Order of the Frog.” When you get this little frog, you have to make a frog noise.

You are far too generous,” he said. She smiled, a real smile this time. “I am rarely accused of that, Mr. Bridgerton.” He laughed. Right out loud in the middle of the ballroom. Kate realized with discomfort that they were suddenly the object of numerous curious stares. “You,” he said, still sounding most heartily amused, “must meet my brother.” “The viscount?” she asked with disbelief. “Well, you might enjoy Gregory’s company as well,” he allowed, “but as I said, he is only thirteen and likely to put a frog on your chair.” “And the viscount?” “Is not likely to put a frog on your chair,” he said with an utterly straight face. -Colin & Kate

I don't know - maybe the world has two different kinds of people, and for one kind the world is this logical, rice pudding place, and for the other it's all hit-or-miss macaroni cheese. I bet if those tree frog parents of mine put rice pudding mix in the microwave and got macaroni cheese when the bell rang, they'd just tell themselves, "Oh, we must have put in macaroni cheese mix by mistake," or they'd take out the macaroni cheese and try to convince themselves, "This looks like macaroni cheese, but actually it's rice pudding." And if I tried to be nice and explain to them that sometimes, when you put in rice pudding mix, you get macaroni cheese, they would never believe me. They'd probably just get mad. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you, Mr Wind-up Bird?

Kim called me a slut under her breath in H&P, and Mr. Wallace heard her and gave a lecture on the negative effects of labels, and how words like that serve to limit women’s sexual expression, and how there’s a whole history of words that basically mean slut8 and yet there are no equivalent epithets for men whatsoever, and didn’t that say something about how women are viewed in our culture? He said a more accurate term could be: “a girl who’s using sexuality in an attempt to gain approval from the opposite sex….” Or, if you look at it a different way, “a liberated, open girl who likes boys and feels comfortable expressing affection, but is misunderstood.” Blah blah blah. I’m sure he meant well, but I wanted to call Kim a megaslut right back and not think about it anymore

Then, just when I know I can live content without Shug, just when Mr. _ done ast me to marry him again, this time in the spirit as well as in the flesh, and just after I say Naw, I still don't like frogs, but let's be friends, Shug write me she coming home. Now. Is this life or not? I be so calm. If she come, I be happy. If she don't, I be content. And then I figure this the lesson I was suppose to learn.

When tadpole was born, I spent a sleepless night on the maternity ward gazing intently into her inky, newborn eyes, grappling to come to terms with the indisputable fact that this was an actual person looking back at me, not just a version of Mr Frog, or me, or both, in miniature. From the outset she seemed to know what she wanted, and I realised I could have no inkling of the paths she would choose to follow. But if I watch her life unfold carefully enough, perhaps I will see clear signposts pointing to who or what she will become. Because when I look backwards, ransacking my own past for clues with the clarity that only hindsight can bring, several defining moments do stand out. Moments charged with significance; snapshots of myself which, if I were to join the dots together, lead me unswervingly to where I stand today.

So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her “Ode to an Expiring Frog,” sir.’ ‘I don’t think I have,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You astonish me, Sir,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter. ‘It created an immense sensation. It was signed with an “L” and eight stars, and appeared originally in a lady’s magazine.

It commenced — ‘“Can I view thee panting, lying On thy stomach, without sighing; Can I unmoved see thee dying On a log Expiring frog!”’ ‘Beautiful!’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Fine,’ said Mr. Leo Hunter; ‘so simple.’ ‘Very,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?’ ‘If you please,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘It runs thus,’ said the grave man, still more gravely. ‘“Say, have fiends in shape of boys, With wild halloo, and brutal noise, Hunted thee from marshy joys, With a dog, Expiring frog!

Anyhow, he say, you know how it is. You ast yourself one question, it lead to fifteen. I start to wonder why us need love. Why us suffer. Why us black. Why us men and women. Where do children really come from. It didn't take long to realize I didn't hardly know nothing. And that if you ast yourself why you black or a man or a woman or a bush it don't mean nothing if you don't ast why you here, period. So what you think? I ast. I think us here to wonder, myself. To wonder. To ast. And that in wondering bout the big things and asting bout the big things, you learn about the little ones, almost by accident. But you never know nothing more about the big things than you start out with. The more I wonder, he say, the more I love. And people start to love you back, I bet, I say. They do, he say, surprise. Harpo seem to love me. Sofia and the children. I think even ole evil Henrietta love me a little bit, but that's cause she know she just as big a mystery to me as the man in the moon. Mr. ______ is busy patterning a shirt for folks to wear with my pants. Got to have pockets, he say. Got to have loose sleeves. And definitely you not spose to wear it with no tie. Folks wearing ties look like they being lynch. And then, just when I know I can live content without Shug, just when Mr. ______ done ast me to marry him again, this time in the spirit as well as in the flesh, and just after I saw Naw, I still don't like frogs, but let's us be friends, Shug write me she coming home. Now. Is this life or not? I be so calm. If she come, I be happy. If she don't, I be content. And then I figure this the lesson I was suppose to learn.

She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and Peter’s, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down on Peter’s lap at triple speed to the beat. Oh no no no no. Please, no. Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peter’s running onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s hand. “Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have sex in the hot tub.” My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at Peter. “All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering and laughing. Peter’s being frog-marched off the stage, and he frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me. The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me, face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!” I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and everyone saw Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss of my life and everybody saw. Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like, wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Everybody saw us.” “Yeah…that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork. She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though. Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry. No guy has ever set the record straight for me.

During her first weeks of working at Bright Ideas, Lydia had noticed that not all the customers were actually customers, and a whole category of lost men began to formulate in her mind. They were mostly unemployed, mostly solitary, and they--like Joey--spent as much time in the aisles as the booksellers who worked there.They napped in armchairs and whispered in nooks and played chess with themselves in the coffee shop. Even those who didn't read had books piled around their feet, as if fortressing themselves against invading hordes of ignoramuses, and when Lydia saw them folded into the corners for hours at a time, looking monastic and vulnerable, she thought of Mr. Jeremy Fisher, Beatrix Potter's dapper frog who was often portrayed reading a newspaper with his lanky legs in the air. They were like plump and beautiful frogs scattered across the branches of the store, nibbling a diet of poems and crackers.

It’s terrible, what happened to you. I’m dreadfully sorry.” “Oh, there’s nothing to be sorry about,” Poppy said brightly. “I’m perfectly fine!” “You’re very brave,” Belinda replied. “And Poppy, remember that someday you will meet a frog who will turn into a handsome prince.” “Good,” Beatrix said. “Because all she’s met so far are princes who turn into frogs.” Looking perplexed, Belinda managed a smile and left them. “Mr. Bayning is not a frog,” Poppy protested. “You’re right,” Beatrix said. “That was very unfair to frogs, who are lovely creatures.

Were your parents happy with your report card?” Dad was asking Jackson when Willie got back with the shovel. “Yeah. I got an A in math. Last quarter I got a B. My dad gave me a dollar.” “Good for you,” Dad said. “An A is worth a dollar in my book.” “How about fifty cents for Cs?” Willie suggested hopefully. He had Cs in social studies and science, Mr. Grey’s courses. “Fine, minus a dollar for every D. That would leave you owing me how much, Willie?” “See you later,” Willie said and pushed Jackson out the door.

You know what I’ll miss even if it does turn out to be nice in Texas?” she said finally. “What?” “You. I never had a friend as good as you, Willie. You make me laugh.” Embarrassed, he said, “Yeah, well, that’s what a goofup is good for.” She stood up then, and in the dark before the smoky fire, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. “There,” she said. “Now you’re not a goofup anymore. I’ve transformed you.” “Wow!” he said. “Wow!” He was so overwhelmed, he didn’t even help her douse the fire or collect the bundle of things she’d brought with her. And when she’d finished and told him to come, he followed her back to her house like a robot while Booboo pranced beside him enjoying the adventure. Willie was still in a daze, but when Mr. Carter insisted on driving him home he said, “You don’t have to. I can walk.” “The ladies would never allow that. You get in the car, Willie.” “Bye, Willie. See you in school,” Marla said. “Yeah,” he said. “See you. Bye, Mrs. Carter.” Booboo followed Willie into the car without waiting for an invitation. He settled on the seat with his paws on Willie’s lap and promptly fell asleep. Willie stroked the dog’s fur. It was so good to have Booboo back.

My darling, my angel boy!” she kept crying. “We didn’t know what happened to you.” “Mom, I’m fine. Nothing happened to me. It was Marla and Booboo who were in trouble.” Dad was standing straight backed with an embarrassed grin on his face, listening to Mr. Carter, who was saying, “…I just need to tell you what you probably already know. Your son is a real prince. My daughter says he’s the kindest and most understanding kid she’s ever met. You must be very proud of him.” “Yes,” Dad said. “Yes, Willie’s a good boy.” Willie blinked, hardly believing his ears. “Well, I’d better get home to my girls,” Mr. Carter said. “Willie--” He extended his hand and shook Willie’s firmly. “Thanks for all you’ve done for us.

Mr. Preston stands beside me. “Molly,” he says. “Be careful with that one.” “With Rodney? Why?” I ask. “Because that, dear girl, is a frog. And not all frogs turn out to be princes.

Children should have as much exposure as possible to animals. In all animals, including domestic, farm, and wild, are entire curricula. There are biology, sociology, genetics, economics, history, cultures, communication, language, hierarchies, governance, relationships sweeping story arcs, morality, even nutrition, just to name a few. Animals are the perfect microcosms. They are life. But it doesn’t count if the animals are just images or characters in a book. A poster of a kitten clinging to a branch with the words “Hang in there!” doesn’t count either. There is no greater example of the “flattening of content” that classes achieve than a “unit study” that examines, even purports to love, animals but does not actually engage any on a regular basis. Worse still, the more removed a culture is from animals, the more stylized and inaccurately the animals are inevitably represented. Tribes in Africa portray hippos as the deadly, fierce creatures they are. By the time most schoolchildren see them in the United States, they have morphed into “Mr. Hippo gets in his car to drive to work,” complete with his bright pink skin and marshmallow-shaped teeth. Dogs and cats, chickens and cows, songbirds and frogs are all there, waiting to be engaged. They have so much to teach us that any attempt to segregate environments of learning from them should never be accepted. In

Mr. Bear and Mr. Rabbit didn’t like each other very much. One day, while walking through the woods, they came across a golden frog. They were amazed when the frog talked to them. The golden frog admitted that he didn’t often meet anyone, but when he did, he always gave them six wishes. He told the bear and the rabbit that they could have three wishes each. Mr. Bear immediately wished that all the other bears in the forest were females. The frog granted his wish. Mr. Rabbit, after thinking for a while, wished for a crash helmet. One appeared immediately, and he placed it on his head. Mr. Bear was amazed at Mr. Rabbit’s wish, but carried on with his second wish, which was that all the bears in the neighboring forests were females as well. The frog granted his wish. Mr. Rabbit then wished for a motorcycle. It appeared before him, and he climbed on board and started revving the engine. Mr. Bear complained that Mr. Rabbit had wasted two wishes that he could have had for himself. Shaking his head, Mr. Bear made his final wish, that all the other bears in the world were females as well, making him the only male bear in the world. “So let it be done,” said the frog. At that point they both turned to Mr. Rabbit, curious as to what his last wish might be. Mr. Rabbit revved the engine, thought for a second, then said, “I wish that Mr. Bear was gay!” and he rode off as fast as he could!

Rick smiled as he grabbed the fat round toad from her back. “Got it.” Amelia breathed a sigh of relief when she saw what it was. “Oh. Just a frog.” “Correction. Toad,” said Mr. Witherbee. “There’s a difference. I guess Herman was just taking a swim and you were in his way.” Rick raised his brow. “You named him?” “You bet.” When Amelia looked at the toad, she smiled. “He’s cute. Can I keep him?” She was just joking around, but it made Rick laugh. “Sorry, missy,” said Mr. Witherbee. “No can do! He eats all the gnats and mosquitoes on this here pond, not to mention all the flies that can really get on a person’s nerves. He’s been my friend here for at least ten years.” Amelia raised her brow. “They can live that long?” “Hey, they can live up to fifteen years if taken good care of.” He smiled. “And I take very good care of Herman.”… Rick placed the toad on a rock. He then warned the little fellow, “Now you better watch out because some girl just might give you a kiss and you’ll turn into a prince.” Amelia laughed. “You’ve got that all wrong. It’s a frog that turns into a prince. Not a toad.

If you want something as good as money, Mr. Bee gave him the freshiest honey.

The shallow and self-centered view that sees what is worthy in nature as that which resembles us seems vapid and petty by comparison. We try so hard to show that chimpanzees, or monkeys, or dogs, or cats, or rats, or chickens, or fish, or frogs are like us in their thoughts and feelings; in doing so we do nothing but denigrate what they really are. We define true intelligence and true feeling in human terms, and in so doing blind ourselves to the wonder of life's diversity that evolution has bequeathed earth." -Mr. Budiansky

Kissing a woman over her compassionate behavior toward frogs would be illogical.

As Zacharias approached his conveyance, the scope of the undertaking to which he had agreed began to dawn upon him. The chaise that was to bear him and Prunella to Fobdown Purlieu was indeed waiting. It was doubtful whether it was capable of doing anything else. Turrill was a good-humoured man on the whole, whose anxieties about driving the Sorcerer Royal had been eased by Mr. Wythe’s being as pleasant-spoken and openhanded a gentleman as he had ever met (“Even if he is black as coal, I am sure that is none of his fault, and it would be a dull world if God had cut us all from the same pattern”). It was no wonder he felt hardly used upon this occasion, however, and Zacharias was not surprised to be addressed in terms of reproach. “You hadn’t ought to have done it, sir,” said the coachman. “You may turn me into a frog for it, but I must speak my mind, and I say you hadn’t ought to have done it. If I had not given satisfaction, you had only to say the word and I should have hopped to it, not wishing to offend any gentleman of such a liberal disposition as yourself, and not being such a fool as to desire to vex a sorcerer besides. There was no call to go a-magicking the chaise—and where you got the squashes for it out of season, I am sure I don’t know.” “Neither do I,” said Zacharias, bending down to examine what had previously been a wheel, and was now an enormous squash.

The self-assured Mr. White had made a single big bet and kissed one frog expecting it to turn into a prince, but had forgotten the rule of frogs and princes. You need to kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince!

Sicky Frog looked miserable. “Why is she so scared of Hecate?” I asked. Sicky Frog had no answers. “Good talk,” I said. “Hope you feel better soon.” Second idea: I stopped by my history teacher’s classroom. Dr. Sharma had her prep period when I had English. Since we were watching a movie that day in English, I figured I could miss a few minutes. Dr. Sharma was pretty cool—and not just because she’d said Very good, Mr. Jackson the day before. She knew a lot about ancient cultures. She’d been bugging me to pick a topic for my paper on a forgotten historical figure. I’d been avoiding it, since I’d met so many forgotten historical figures and killed them all. Now, though, maybe I could ask Dr. Sharma what she knew about Hecuba, queen of Troy. She might be able to tell me something that would help me find the hellhound. If it saved me from breaking my brain against a mountain of history books, all the better. I strolled up to her open doorway and froze when I looked inside. The man who was eating a late breakfast at Dr. Sharma’s desk was definitely not Dr. Sharma. His dark hair and beard were flecked with gray. He wore a rumpled tweed jacket, tie, and dress shirt, with a flannel blanket over his lap. His old-fashioned wheelchair had hand-pushed steel wheels and well-worn black leather armrests. He held a half-eaten bagel in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in other. I registered all these details with perfect clarity, but somehow, I still did not recognize him. The best way I can describe the feeling is like bungee jumping. One second, you’re at the top of a cliff. The next,

Christian, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu, Mormon, Zoroastrian, they were all the same as far as she could see. They all thought they were the best, and that God loved their lot more than any other lot. When she was making her slow, laborious way through Mr. Byrd's stories and their lessons, it often struck her how much the tales of frogs and princesses, of dark woods and talking mirrors, of spells and wishes and considerable suffering and occasional joy and people doing all kinds of ugly things to each other resembled the ones in the Bible.