Frog in a well

This is a story of a well frog.

Because it was so long ago, I don’t recall whether my grandfather told me this story aloud or pressed a book into my hands that happened to contain it. It didn’t matter. I was a teenager at the time, and I’d already learned everything I needed to know.

So I forgot the story—or thought I did.

Then the decades did what decades do. I ran into well frogs in classrooms, in bars, and, once in a while, in the mirror.

Below is my rendition.

Apparently, a version of this story appears in the Zhuangzi (a Daoist classic), in the “Autumn Floods” chapter, as the idiom 井底之蛙—“the frog at the bottom of the well.” Another well-known version comes from Indian/Sanskrit tradition, which gave rise to the expression kūpamaṇḍūka—also “frog in a well.”

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The Frog Who Thought He Owned the World

A lake frog—plump, glossy, and content—was enjoying a perfectly ordinary afternoon of doing what lake frogs do: leaping for sport, judging dragonflies, and perfecting a sonorous croak that suggested the sun had risen solely to applaud him.

Then he misjudged a landing.

One enthusiastic hop, one slick patch of moss, and—whoop!—down he went.

He fell through darkness, bounced off damp stone, and landed with a soggy plop in a puddle that smelled faintly of rust and certainty.

He blinked hard, eyes straining to adjust to the gloom. Far above was a neat circle of light, as if the sky had been cut into a coin and dropped there by a careless god.

“Well, hello, my good fellow,” came a voice. “What brings you here?”

From a shadowed ledge sat another frog—leaner, older, and wearing the mild smugness of someone who has never left home and calls that “stability.”

“Hello to you,” the lake frog said, eyes darting along the slick walls. “A bit of bad luck, I’m afraid.”

“Bad luck?” The well frog spread his toes into the puddle like a landlord inspecting his property. “Arriving in the World isn’t bad luck!”

“The world?” the lake frog repeated, glancing around at the stone, the puddle, and the dramatic lack of literally everything else.

“Yes,” said the well frog. “The world. This is it. Where are you from?”

“The lake,” said the lake frog.

The well frog paused, as if searching his memory for any mention of “lake” on the well’s official map. “Lake,” he repeated slowly, tasting the word with suspicion. “And what is this… lake like?”

“It’s—” the lake frog began, then stopped, realizing he had never once in his life been required to define “lake.” “It’s a big body of water.”

The well frog’s eyes narrowed. “As big as this well?”

To illustrate, he hopped from one side of the well to the other—plap—and looked back as if expecting applause.

The lake frog, trying to be polite, said, “Sure.”

“I see,” the well frog said, scandalized. “You dare.”

He hopped again—plap!—landing with a triumphant splat, like a philosopher delivering the final proof of a theorem.

“You mean,” he said, puffing up, “as big as this?”

The lake frog stared at him for a beat.

“My good fellow,” he said gently, “no frog can jump from one side of the lake to the other.”

The well frog recoiled as if slapped by metaphor. “Rubbish!” he cried. “You dare say my well—” he gestured grandly, splashing a teaspoon of water—“is not as big as your lake?”

“My friend,” the lake frog said, carefully, “this well is a charming place. Safe. Sturdy. Well tended. But a thousand wells could fit inside the lake.”

The well frog trembled with righteous fury. “Impossible. Nothing is bigger than this. I have traveled all over this world.”

The lake frog’s eyes traced the distance the well frog had “traveled.” “You hopped three feet.”

“Three feet,” the well frog snapped, “in every direction.”

The lake frog tried again, kindly: “There are places where the water stretches so far you can’t see the other side.”

The well frog stared—horrified, then angry, then resolved—like a judge reaching a verdict.

“This frog,” he announced, “is a rascal.”

“A rascal?”

“A liar. A trickster. A puddle-peddler.” The well frog jabbed a toe at him. “You are trying to corrupt me with your fantasy geography. OUT!”

And with that, he charged—splashing, huffing, and bullying the lake frog toward the wall.

The lake frog sighed. The lake frog couldn’t perceive beyond what its eyes see. With one strong leap, he caught a protruding stone, and hauled himself upward until at last he scrambled out into daylight.

Above, the sky was not a circle.

It was a roofless cathedral.

Behind him, far below, the well frog’s voice floated up—faint but firm:

“Good riddance! And don’t come back!”