"Quick, quack, quock, quirk!"
Quite contented, Quentin the frog hopped out of a quagmire. His living quarters were in the squelchy mud of the pond. He lived there with his wife Querilla and his children, the squiggly tadpoles.
It was a pleasure to listen to these eloquent frogs. They quok-quok-quocked all day long. What they did best was sing in a quartet. Quentin quivered as he sang the low notes, quoaark, quoaark, quoaark. Querilla was the queen of the quick high quavers and the children all squeaked like little pigs.
Not all of their neighbours liked this music. There were a few querulous quibblers - the water rats were always picking a quarrel with it. Obviously they were not very musical, they didn't know quality when they heard it. "How many tadpoles do you have?", enquired the Squacco Heron.
"Quok, there's such a quantity of them that I'm not quite sure myself. There are less whenever some of them make the acquaintance of a stork", Quentin answered. "But Querilla and I always seem to acquire more tadpoles, quite a production line, quoaark, quoaark, quoaark . . ."
Once again, Zettelwitz had spied a quarry.
"That's quite enough squalling, you chatterbox", he cried. "Don't you realise you are talking to the enemy? Herons eat frogs!
Besides, your queer noise is disturbing my tranquillity and I'll soon quench it!"