by Margaret's daughter Eliza
 My sister Kammy and brother Isaac and I used to crawl into my parents' bed every night and listen to my mom tell us a story. One night, my mom was very tired, but we three, young as we were, could not (would not) go to sleep without a good story. And so my poor, tired mother began to weave a tale of witches who had lost their power, children who had gone a'wandering, and a few toads thrown in here and there (all good stories have toads). All three of us were deeply entranced by this wonderful tale and wondering how it would turn out. Suddenly, my sleepy mom began to sing: 

Calling, calling, calling, Mr. Toad.
 We have scrumptious flies to serve you,
We have precious drinks to serve you. 
Calling, calling, calling, Mr. Toad...

And then she fell asleep. 

Kammy began to shake my mom, "Mom, Mom wake up. What happens next?" When we finally succeeded in waking her up, my mom had absolutely no memory of the song, and no idea how to finish the story. She began giggling, and soon all four of us dissolved into helpless laughter. 




So in honor of all things forgotten and all things mysterious and all things pointless,
welcome to 
calling mr. toad.com.



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