Little candlelight hair, little girl, they called her Froggy.

She was born with a frog in her throat, her older brother Peter said (and he laughed). Little Froggy, with the froggy in her throat. Coughing, hrgggging sounds, the words came out, from this little candlelight hair little girl like the belches from a bullfrog.

But her mother called her candlelight, called her the shadow-chaser, called her Happy.

"I think frogs are pretty," said Candlelight Hair one day, the words scratching out her delicate throat like sandpaper.

"Pretty?" Peter guffawed. "Pretty, those slimy, gross things?"

"Oh yes."

Peter shook his head. "I tell you what Froggy, you know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think a frog stole your voice. Somewhere out there, there's a frog who can sing like an angel."

The door opened to their house, their little cottage, and their mother walked in, their always smiling mother.

"Happy, my dear, would you like to water the garden for me?" their mother asked. She gave her a kiss on her head, and said, like she said every day, "What would you like to say to me today, my beautiful Happy girl?"

Candlelight Hair beamed like the sun. "Today, frogs are beautiful," she told her. Their mother filled a watering can, and Candlelight Hair danced outside into the sun, the sun that had her smile.

She skipped through the soft grass and out into the back, and smiled at the flowers who were smiling back at her.

She gasped. Next to the garden, over a mile from the pond, a frog was sitting in the sunlight.

Candlelight hair leaned down.

"Dear Frog, you came so far," she whispered. "But that's okay, you can keep my voice if you'd like. I suppose I took yours."