This tale takes place around 1952, when I was 10 and my friend, Tom, was 11.

We spent Saturday at the pumping station on Fruit Street, like many other Saturdays, at work with my father.

In the morning, Tom and I went up the brook trying to catch small trout (unsuccessfully). Then we explored the old sand pit off North Street. We returned around noon and had our usual Saturday lunch of hot dogs cooked over an outside fire.

After lunch, we started fooling around in the brook and caught a couple of frogs. I found an old gallon bottle and made a few holes in the cover, and we put frogs in the bottle. When it was time to go home, we had caught 12-14 frogs. What to do with them? Let’s have frogs legs to eat!

We got to my house and started into the kitchen with the frogs. My mother spotted us. “Get those things out of my kitchen!” So much for Plan A. Tom said, “We can go up to my house; my mother may even cook them for us.” Into Tom’s kitchen we went. His mother spotted the frogs and exclaimed, “Get those things out of my kitchen!” So much for Plan B. I said, “Let’s go to our campsite by Arms’ old sawmill and cook them.” (The old sawmill was at the bottom of Ash Street Hill, where Carriage Hill Road is now.)

So we put some camp cooking gear in a knapsack and grabbed some carrots and potatoes out of my father’s garden, and off we went to Plan C.

We proceeded to the campsite, lit a fire, cooked the potatoes, carrots and frogs legs, and had a delightful meal.

This was the only time I have eaten frogs legs. They were good, but I decided the frogs needed their legs more than I did!