IT'S RAINING FROGS!
By MILTON LESSER
George didn't like the idea of little red frogs
raining down on him from a clear sky. But a pretty
girl falling into his arms was quite another matter!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1950
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"We shall pick up an existence by its frogs.... Wise men have triedother ways. They have tried to understand our state of being, bygrasping at its stars, or its arts, or its economics. But, if there isan underlying oneness of all things, it does not matter where we begin,whether with stars, or laws of supply and demand, or frogs, or NapoleonBonaparte. One measures a circle, beginning anywhere."
—Charles Fort, LO!
It was raining. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, but it was raining.George wished it were raining cats and dogs, but it wasn't. Anythingwould be better than this. It was raining frogs. Little red frogs.
It was strictly a local rain. The frogs seemed to germinate from aspot somewhere above George's head, and then they spread out and cametumbling down in a cone-shaped area some fifteen feet across. The worstpart of it was that George was in the center of the cone.
It was as if a hole had opened in space, pouring forth the stream of red frogs....
The frogs fell on him. They seemed to be concentrated most heavilyin the center of the cone, and a good percentage of them landed onhim—mostly on his head—and then bounced off to fall on the sand.George didn't like it.
He moved. He got up off the sand and ran half a dozen paces closer tothe surf, but he still felt the little red frogs striking him. The spotwas still directly, over his head; George was not sure how high up. Hewas still the center of the cone.
"Myra! Hey, Myra," George called his wife. He could see her headbobbing up and down in the waves and the powerful strokes of her armsthrough the water showed George that she had heard him call. But shewould be angry. As soon as he shouted, the frogs stopped falling. Firstthe downpour became a drizzle, and then there were no frogs at all.Myra would be very angry. She was all wrapped up in this new idea ofhers, and she would be angry. If he hadn't yelled, more frogs wouldhave fallen—and there's no telling what else, George thought.
The Bikini suit was not in style this year, but Myra wore it becauseshe knew she looked good in it. George watched her run toward him andwatched her shake her dark hair loose after she removed the bathingcap. Then he looked at her figure and he knew it was good, so good thathe unconsciously felt the spare tire beginning to blossom out aroundhis waist, and he blushed. That was another trouble, he always blushed.Not only that, but he was very fair-skinned. They could spend theentire summer at their seaside bungalow in this secluded area, and Myrawould be bronzed like an Indian maiden. But George would turn red andthen he would peel. Then he would turn red all over again and then hewould peel again. And he had freckles all over.
But he stopped thinking of that now. It was a general consideration.The specific consideration bothered him more: there was one circulararea of little red frogs, fifteen feet across. Then there was a trailof little red frogs o