It started, as most things in the House of the Hearth did, with a questionable decision and a great deal of enthusiasm.
The first warning signs came when Mother Goose, returning from her midday walk, noticed a series of red handkerchiefs mysteriously missing from the laundry line, along with a conspicuous absence of her decorative doll crown that usually sat on the parlor mantel.
The second clue was the sound. Not the usual chaos of sword-fighting with brooms or dramatic soliloquies about stolen cookies—but high-pitched, relentless, squeaking.
And then came the unmistakable shout from the garden:
"ALL HAIL HIS MAJESTY, KING CROAK THE FIRST!"
Mother Goose paused on the steps of the porch. She narrowed her eyes. "Oh no."
With the resigned patience only someone who's helped raise literal dozens of wildly imaginative children could possess, she followed the sounds toward the back garden—and stopped in her tracks.
At the center of the yard, a large upturned bucket had been placed like a throne. Upon it, sitting with a regal if damp expression, was a comically small desert frog—no larger than a child's palm—wearing a crown clearly snatched from a toy doll and a cape that was very obviously one of her missing handkerchiefs, now pinned at the frog's throat with a crooked button.
Standing at the frog's side was a child, Theo, dressed in what appeared to be makeshift armor made from baking trays and twine. He held a stick like a sword and knelt beside the tiny amphibian with grave seriousness.
"The King says he demands more strawberries," Theo declared, lifting his nose proudly. "And that the southern carrot patch shall now be known as the Royal Waddling Wastes."
"SqueeeEEEK!" added the frog, puffing up its throat with all the pomp and bluster of a monarch thrice its size.
A chorus of children, dressed in various bits of armor, paper hats, and bedsheet cloaks, saluted.
"LONG LIVE KING CROAK!"
Mother Goose blinked. "...Where did you even find a desert frog? There isn't a desert for miles."
"He was chosen," said another child, whispering reverently. "He appeared in the sandbox, wrapped in the light of destiny."
"He also jumped into Isaac's shoe," said a smaller child, "and didn't leave. That means he claimed it."
Mother Goose rubbed her temples. "So let me get this straight. You've all declared this… tiny, squeaky frog to be your king. You've built him a throne, a kingdom, and appointed Theo as his squire?"
"Royal Interpreter," Theo corrected. "Only I can understand his sacred squeaks."
"SQUEEK SQUEEK SQUEEEEAK!" said King Croak, flaring his throat with an air of divine decree.
"The King wishes to declare war on the sparrows," Theo said solemnly. "He believes they've been mocking him from the fence."
"I knew those birds looked suspicious!" someone hissed.
Mother Goose stared at the frog, who stared back with the sort of intense scrutiny only an amphibian monarch could manage. She took a long breath.
"I am going to ask this once," she said slowly, "and I want a very specific answer. Are you feeding him?"
"He had three raisins and a crumb of toast," a girl replied proudly. "Also half a strawberry. He ate it like a noble beast."
Mother Goose pinched the bridge of her nose. "So you've declared a desert frog king, fashioned him a cape from my linens, given him dominion over the carrot patch, and are now interpreting his squeaks as law."
"Yes," Theo said. "And he appointed Sir Buttons the Brave as General of the Army."
He pointed to a plush rabbit sitting dutifully on a garden rock.
Mother Goose crouched beside the throne and looked the frog dead in the eyes. "Do you even want this job?"
"SQUEEK."
"She says yes," Theo translated. "Also, she would like a moat. And a sandwich."
"A moat?"
"With drawbridge access."
There was a long pause.
Then Mother Goose sighed the sigh of someone who has cleaned permanent marker off enchanted wallpaper, negotiated truces between talking raccoons, and once battled a sock puppet uprising before breakfast.
"Fine," she said. "He may remain king. But if I find any more handkerchiefs missing—or if he ends up in the sugar jar again—I will declare a diplomatic incident."
"Understood!" Theo saluted. "I shall advise His Majesty accordingly."
"SQUEEEAK!"
"And he appreciates your generosity and merciful rule," Theo added.
Mother Goose stood up and walked back toward the house, muttering under her breath, "What next? A crow president? A squirrel archbishop?"
From the garden, more cheers rang out as King Croak the First decreed naptime was now optional, and his knights began drafting a treaty with the ant colony beneath the rose bush.
And in his tiny cape and crooked crown, the frog sat tall—content, proud, and possibly unaware that he was now ruler of the most absurd kingdom in existence.