After he passed away, things didn't exactly happen as they were supposed to happen. Well, he did see a bright light at the end of a long red tunnel, but the voices that called him were not his relatives', and neither they were angelic. The croaking sound was unmistakable, though, and since creeping up the tunnel took an eternity, he had time to think it over before he found himself in a frogman suit, seated on a chair, on stage, in front of an assembly of madly hopping frogs.

This must be a trial of some sort, he thought. Obviously, he would not have to spend the rest of his death in a shouting match with amphibians. Or there had been a clerical mistake somewhere. He hoped that this mess would be soon cleared up. Though, while he waited for the din to settle down, or for some winged or harp-playing authority to show up, he tried to remember the few occasions where he could have harmed frogs (at least, he wasn't French - one good point). There was the one in Biology class - how much did he loathe opening the slimy, er, poor thing up ! And the few ones he probably ran over while vacationing in wet countries - not his fault. And the tadpole he was FORCED to gobble alive during one of these sadistic team-building exercises young people indulge in. He was quite confident in his newly-acquired frog-loving spirit when one frog spoke up. It was not a croak, much more the fine baritone voice of a cultured man, and a sudden respectful hush fell on the gathering. The frog said :

- I think, Sir, that you'd better start singing. All the people here have been waiting for you.

That was unexpected, wasn't it ? But look how the human mind works. It can adapt to everything. So, while he searched frantically the recesses of his tired brain for a logical explanation, he also looked for a song. Frogs sing, everybody knew that. But what are the oldies and