Extension News: July 2009 Archives

It was the slightest of movements, an almost imperceptible slide, which I caught only out the corner of my eye. So smooth and slow was the action that the water remained perfectly calm, with no telltale ripple or sudden plop to catch a predator’s attention. The drift downward into the vegetative depths continued with infinite patience and care.

Had I not caught the initial start of the slide off the log, I would never have known that a huge bullfrog was quietly, carefully watching me with its enormous eyes.

We hear the bullfrogs and their smaller cousins in spring and early summer. The concert of mating calls begins with the peepers. Theirs is a light and cheerful song of high-pitched whistles, ascending with the joy of rebirth after the winter hibernation.

The sound makes you smile and turn to your companions, “Ah, spring is truly here! The peepers are back!” If you find a tiny frog, only three quarters to just over an inch long, tan to brown to gray with a dark X on its back, then you’ve found a peeper. Their songs are among the most delightful in spring.

I like the call of the tree frogs. When I first heard it, I wondered what bird was hiding in a nearby tree so I went over to investigate. When I got near the tree, the song stopped. No matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find that bird and the song stubbornly refused to restart. When I walked away, the song returned.

Again and I again I circled that tree but just couldn’t find the bird. Then the call was echoed by one in another tree. Two birds of the same species that close together? I was quite puzzled.

Only later did I learn I had been hearing the call of the tiny tree frog. It’s hard to believe that such a hearty, reverberating call could be coming from a frog barely two inches in size! Sometimes, during the day, I’ll find a gray tree frog sitting on a leaf several feet above the ground and wonder how ever did it get up there? Amazing.

I also like to listen to the call of another small frog. The pickerel frog runs from just under two inches to about three and a half, but what a song it sings! The low croak (yes, it really does croak) is steady and sounds like a snore coming from under the water. One day as I was checking on some plantings near the large vernal pond on the east side of the drive, I heard a sudden plop! Then another and yet another. Carefully I parted some branches and searched the water. Soon I found three frogs, floating gently and silently, legs splayed out behind and to the side, eyes bulging and alert, back glistening with drops of water. They had been quiet when I approached, no dueling songs for mates or territory.

All of these small frogs are important consumers of mosquitoes and other insects. Soon the ponds will sport gelatinous masses of their eggs, stringing out in long strands. I like to look closely at them to see the squirming inside the eggs as the next generation rapidly grows to hatching size. Then it’s tadpole city out there! Quick darting everywhere in the water, tadpoles eat tadpoles and whatever else they can find. I’m always happy to see the little ones flipping around, knowing they’ll help keep the mosquito population in check.

But this day, on this visit, I was seeing something I’d only heard, but never witnessed before. This monster of the frog family totally dwarfed those smaller frogs I’d been admiring for several years. The eyes bulged almost menacingly out of the head. The legs seemed to go on forever. I watched, enchanted, while the bloated body continued to slip ever so slowly down until only the eyes and top of head remained visible above the water. There it stayed.

Elsewhere, another frog gave a loud croak, but there was no response from this one. Did he think I was a heron looking for a meal? He simply wasn’t taking any chances. The water was murky, obscuring my view of his coloring, but I could clearly see the large circles just below and behind the eyes. On smaller frogs, these are hard to see, but not on this specimen! Everything about it was simply huge.

I knew I shouldn’t disrupt it any longer. It needed to get back to resting or sunning or feeding or mating. Silently I thanked it for the pleasure it had given me and, turning, I headed back up the path to the house.

By Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener

Drawing By Pamela Doherty, UNH Cooperative Extension