Callie was six, and the summer holidays had begun. In the garden, the grass tickled her toes, and the paddling pool sat round and blue, waiting for splashy business.
She put on her yellow hat. She carried one cup, one boat, and one small towel. Then she stopped. “Where is my rubber duck?”
Oh dear! The duck was not by the pool. It was not under the chair. It was not beside the enormous sunflower, nodding in the warm breeze.
Callie bent down and saw tiny wet marks on the path. Plip, plip, plip. “Aha,” she whispered, “a mysterious duck trail.”
She followed the marks past the tomato pots. Her sandal went squelch in a muddy patch. She giggled and lifted her foot with a shloop.
The trail went under the bean leaves. The leaves shook with a soft rustle-rustle. Callie held her breath. Something said, “Ribbit.”
“Oh!” said Callie. “That is not a quack.”
There, in the shady flowerpot, sat a tiny green frog. And underneath the frog was Callie’s yellow duck, looking very grand, like a boat for kings.
The frog blinked. Callie blinked back. Then the frog gave one bouncy hop and the duck went wobble-wobble in the soil.
Follow the splish, follow the splash, summer surprises come quick as a flash.
Callie cupped her hands near the ground, not touching the frog. “You can have a pond too,” she said softly.
She fetched a shallow saucer and filled it with water. Drip, drip, splash. The frog hopped in with a tiny plop, and Callie rescued her duck.
At last, the duck sailed in the pool. Callie climbed in after it, and the water went splish-splash, splish-splash, all around her knees.
She made the boat zoom. She made the cup rain. She made the duck bob beside her, while the frog watched from its little garden pond.
“Best holiday pool day,” Callie said, kicking gently. The pool sparkled, the garden hummed, and the yellow duck floated home.
