the thorn birds colleen mccullough

under the tapping leaves of the wistaria vine.
The frogs loved the screening, too. Little fellows they were, green
with a delicate overlay of glossy gold. On suckered feet they crept
up the outside of the mesh to stare motionless at the diners, very
solemn and dignified. Suddenly one would leap, grab at a moth
almost bigger than itself, and settle back into inertia with two-thirds
of the moth flapping madly out of its overladen mouth. It amused
Dane and Justine to time how long it took a frog to swallow a big
moth completely, staring gravely through the wire and every ten
minutes getting a little more moth down. The insect lasted a long
time, and would often still be kicking when the final piece of
wingtip was engulfed. "Erckle! What a fate!" chuckled Dane.
"Fancy half of you still being alive while the other half of you is
busy being digested."
Avid reading-that Drogheda passion-had given the two O'neill
children excellent vocabularies at an early age. They were
intelligent, alert and interested in everything. Life was particularly
pleasant for them. They had their thoroughbred ponies, increasing in
size as they did; they endured their correspondence lessons at Mrs.
Smith's green kitchen table; they played in the pepper tree
cubbyhouse; they had pet cats, pet dogs, even a pet goanna, which
walked beautifully on a leash and answered to its name. Their
favorite pet was a miniature pink pig, as intelligent as any dog,
called Iggle-Piggle. So far from urban congestion, they caught few
diseases and never had colds or influenza. Meggie was terrified of
infantile paralysis, diphtheria, anything which might swoop out of
nowhere to carry them off, so whatever vaccines became available