Chapter 2
Arnold Lobel: A Frog and a Toad
When I am asked to recommend a children’s story that is clearly philosophical, I often pick one of the stories from Arnold Lobel’s remarkable collection, Frog and Toad Together.i The second story in the collection is called, “The Garden.” It goes this way:
Frog was in his garden
Toad came walking by.
“What a fine garden you have, Frog,” he said.
“Yes,” said Frog. “It is very nice, but it was hard work.”
“I wish I had a garden,” said Toad.
“Here are some flower seeds. Plant them in the ground,” said Frog, “and soon you will have a garden.”
“How soon?” asked Toad.
“Quite soon,” said Frog.
Toad ran home. He planted the flower seeds. “Now seeds,” said Toad, “start growing.”
Toad walked up and down a few times. The seeds did not start to grow. Toad put his head close to the ground and said loudly, “Now seekd, start growing!”
Toad looked at the ground again. The seeds did not start to grow. Toad put his head very close to the ground and shouted, “NOW SEEDS, START GROWING!”
Frog came running up the path. “What is all this noise?” he asked.
“My seeds will not grow,” said Toad.
“You are shouting too much,” said Frog. “These poor seeds are afraid to grow.”
“My seeds are afraid to grow?” asked Toad.
“Of course,” said Frog. “Leaave them alone for a few days. Let the sun shine on them, let the rain fall on them. Soon your seeds will start to grow.”
That night Toad looked out of his window. “Drat!” said Toad. “My seeds have not started to grow. They must be afraid of the dark.”
Toad went out to his garden with some candles. “I will read the seeds a story,” said Toad. “Then they will not be afraid.”
Toad read a long story to his seeds. All the next day Toad sang songs to his seeds. And all the next day Toad read poems to his seeds. And all the next day Toad played music for his seeds.
Toad looked at the ground. The seeds still did not start to grow. “What shall I do?” cried Toad. “These must be the most frightened seeds in the whole world!”
Then Toad felt very tired, and he fell asleep.
“Toad, Toad, wake up,” said Frog. “Look at your garden!”
Toad looked at his garden. Little green plants were coming up out of the ground.
“At last,” shouted Toad, “my seeds have stopped being afraid to grow!”
“And now you will have a nice garden too,” said Frog.
“Yes,” said Toad, “but you were right, Frog. It was very hard work.”
* * *
Some years ago I sat on an advisory committee for a series in in children’s literature produced for television by an educational TV station in Boston. The advisory committee was made up of academics, like me, who were supposed to lend respectability to the literature series. More crassly, having professors from well-known universities, including Harvard and Princeton, was supposed to make it more likely that the TV station would be able to raise money for its series from the National Endowment for the Humanities. (My understanding is that we successfully performed that function.)
At one meeting of our committee we screened a number of TV animations of children’s stories including, as I recall, “The Wind in the Williows,” two or three folk tales from central European countries, and Arnold Lobel’s “The Garden,” the story I have just read out to you. Some of the committee members, being specialists in children’s literature, were able to point out the literary merits of this or that story. Some members, being developmental or educational psychologists, were able to point out ways in which this story or that would or would not be appropriate for a pre-school child, or for a second or third-grader. But my fellow committee members all took a rather condescending attitude toward the Frog-and-Toad episode, “The Garden.” Its vocabulary is certainly very simple. It is, after all, what is called an “I can read” book, which mean that the vocabulary is deliberately restricted. The characters, Frog and Toad, are also rather simply drawn. The episode certainly has none of the literary complexity of, say, “The Wind in the Williows.” My colleagues on that advisory committee pointed out these limitations in solemn tones and gave the story only a qualified okay.
After listening to that condescending assessment of “The Garden” I finally could stand it no longer. “The collection of stories from which ‘The Garden’ comes, Frog and Toad Together, is,” I asserted, “a philosophical classic.” I listed the other stories in the collection, mentioned the philosophical questions they raise, and, for each question, pointed to a classic discussion of that question is Plato or Aristotle or Hume or Descartes. “As for ‘The Garden,” I said, building up to my climax, “that story exposes, in simply language worthy of a great poet, the classic fallacy, post hoc, ergo propter hoc, ‘after this, therefore because of this.” The story, I explained, is about causality and about how we can distinguish a true cause, in this case, the cause of the seeds growing, from preceding events that, in fact, have no causal efrficacy. Causality, I went on, remains a much discussed and highly problematic topic in philosophy. Hume’s skeptical stance toward establishing anything as causal necessity continues to present a challenge. But what are called “Mill’s Methods,” in honor of John Stuard Mill, might provide practical help in considering what Toad ought to do the next time he plants seeds.
As for the causal efficacy of reading poetry or playing music to make seeds grow, there are, I pointed out, commercial suppliers who sell music makers to help gardens grow and my colleagues in botany even report that academic botanists are quite gingerly considering whether they ought to include research on the psychology of plants at their annual professional meetings.
My outburst had the effect of ending the condescension toward “The Garden.” Perhaps my colleagues were most impressed at the Latin phrase, post hoc, ergo propter hoc, that I threw at them in my effort to generate respect for Arnold Lobel’s story. They laughed good-naturedly and teased me a bit after the meeting, but even the most eminent authority on children’s literature on our committee, and he is really quite eminent, admitted that he had failed to appreciate the profundity of this simple story.
Causality certainly is problematic, both in general and in a particular case such as Toad’s garden. My wife frets about what she needs to do to keep her orchids blooming. The metaphor for her insecurity is her worry about whether she has a “green thumb,” either in general, or for orchids in particular. It’s fun to discuss these issues with children, perhaps in connection with the house plants, or with some school botany project.
* * *
The next story in this remarkable collection is called “Cookies.” Here it is:
Toad baked some cookies.
“These cookies smell very good,” said Toad, who promptly ate one.
“And they taste even better,” he added.
Toad ran over to Frog’s house.
“Frog, Frog,” Toad cried, “taste these cookies I have made.”
Frog did. He was suitably impressed. “These are the best cookies I have ever eaten!” he exclaimed.
Frog and Toad ate many cookies, one after another.
Frog became worried. “You know, Toad,” he said, with full mouth, “I think we should stop eating. We will soon be sick.”
Toad readily agreed. “You are right, Frog,” he said, but then added, “Let’s eat one last cookie, and then we will stop.”
Frog and toad ate one last cookie.
There were many cookies left in the bowl.
“Frog,” said Toad, “let’s each one very last cookie, and then we will stop.”
They each ate one very last cookie.
“We must stop eating!” exclaimed Toad, as he was eating another cokie.
“Yes,” agreed Frod, reaching for another cookie, “What we need is will power.”
Toad asked what will power is.
“Will power,” said Frog thoughtfully, “is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do.”
“Do you meant like trying not to eat all these cookies,” asked Toad.
“Right,” said Frog.
Frog put all the remaining cookies in a box.
“There,” he said with some satisfaction, “now we will not eat any more cookies.”
Toad was not reassured. “We can always open the box,” he pointed out.
“That’s true,” said Frog.
So Frog tied some string around the box. “There,” he said with new confidence, “now we will not each any more cookies.”
But Toad was still not reassured. “We can cut the string and open the box,” he pointed out.
“That’s true,” agreed Frog, frustrataed again.
So Frog got a ladder. He climbed the ladder and put the box of cookies on a high shelf. “There,” he said, now we will not eat any more cookies.”
Still Toad was not satisfied. “We can climb the ladder and take the box down and cut the string and open the box.”
“That’s true,” agreed Frog.
Defeated, Frog climbed the ladder, took down the box of cookies, cut the string, and opened the box. He took the box outside and shouted in a loud voice, “HEY BIRDS, HERE ARE COOKIES!”
Birds came from everywhere. They picked up the cookies in their beaks and flew away.
“Now we have no more cookies,” Toad said sadly, “not even one.”
“Yes,” agreed Frog, “but we have lots and lots of will power.”
This story, I find, is an immediate favorite in all age groups. I have read it to pre-schoolers, to fourth and fifth graders, to undergraduates, to graduate students, to school teachers – everyone likes this story. The philosophical problem it introduces is a problem about what philosophers call “weakness of will,”ii The situation the story presents is one we have all been in, perhaps many times. We find ourselves doing something we know we ought not to be doing — eating another cookie, having another drink. We might try rationalizing our indulgence. (“One more cookie won’t make any difference.”) But we may not really believe our rationalization. Or, like Frog and Toad, we may not even bother to rationalize eating another cookie. How can this be?