CATDOLL : CATDOLL: What is the difference between a frog and a toad?

1. What is the difference between a frog and a toad?

It is difficult to distinguish frogs from toads absolutely.

Frogs belong to the animal kingdom, phylum Chordata, class Amphibia, order Anura, suborder Eirandria, suborder Mesorandria, and suborder Neorandria. The English name is frog.

Toads are commonly known as toads. There are different species, one is poisonous and the other is non-toxic. Ancient people often laughed at toads, such as toads wanting to eat swan meat, while frogs are called frog princes.

Essential difference: one is in adolescence and has acne; the other has normal endocrine system

2. What is the difference between a frog and a toad?

Frogs are conservatives - looking at the world from a well

The Toad is a Reformist - The Problem of Wanting to Eat Swan Meat

Toads have keratinized epidermis, so they are relatively drought-resistant and can move in dry environments far from water. Although frogs and toads have different body colors, they both have protective functions in different living environments, and are greatly affected by the environment. Toads' jumping ability is far inferior to that of frogs, but their venom glands protect them from being eaten by carnivores to a certain extent. These organs are protective organs. Male frogs have a pair of vocal sacs, which are resonators for sound production. The teeth on the frog's upper jaw are all of the same type. These teeth have no chewing function, and only serve to prevent small animals from slipping out of the mouth. The presence or absence of teeth and their attachment position, whether the tip of the tongue is forked, and the type of shoulder girdle and vertebrae are all the basis for the classification of tailless amphibians.

3. What is the difference between frogs and frogs?

Frogs are generally called frogs by southerners, just like people in the Northeast call corn "baomi". In fact, the two are the same thing. As for the classification of frog species, that should be another issue. Personally, I feel that frogs and frogs are both general terms for frogs. However, tiger frogs are the real frogs, and frogs are black-spotted frogs. This is the difference and classification of frogs. Since black-spotted frogs and tiger frogs are difficult to observe clearly if they are not carefully distinguished, and the two are somewhat similar, frogs have become the name for frogs among southerners, just like people in the Northeast call corn "baomi". In fact, there are many types of corn.

4. Walden Pond High School Text

Walden is a collection of essays written by the American writer Henry David Thoreau. Walden is a record of the American writer Thoreau's life alone by Walden Pond. Below is the original text of Walden High School Text that I compiled. Let's take a look.

In Walden Pond, pike were caught, one weighing seven pounds, not to mention another, which drew away a coil of line with extraordinary speed, and the fisherman, who did not see it, estimated it to be eight pounds. In addition, perch, cod, some weighing two pounds, silver fish, bream (scientific name Leueiscus Pulchellus), a very small number of carp, two eels, one weighing four pounds, - I write so much about the weight of fish because their value is generally determined by weight, and as for eels, I have never heard of any other than these two, - in addition, I vaguely remember a small fish five inches long, with silver sides and a green back, similar in nature to a minnow, which I mention mainly to connect fact with fable. In short, there are not many fish in this pond. There are not many pike, but it is the pike that it boasts. Once, lying on the ice, I saw at least three different kinds of pike, one flat and long, steel-grey, like those caught from the river; one golden, with greenish glitters, and in very deep water; and the last golden, similar in form to the first, but with brownish-black or black spots on the sides, and some faint blood-red spots in between, very much like a salmon. But the scientific name reticulatus is not applicable, it is called guttatus. These are very solid fish, much heavier than their appearance would suggest. The whitebait, the cod, and the perch, all the fish of this lake, are indeed cleaner, more beautiful, and stronger than those of the river and most other lakes, because the water is purer, and you can easily distinguish them. Perhaps many ichthyologists can use them to breed some new species. There were also clean frogs and tortoises, and a few mussels; muskrats and martens also left their tracks; and occasionally a turtle came out of the mud on a journey. Once, when I pushed my boat away from the shore at dawn, I frightened a large turtle that had been hiding under the boat at night. Ducks and swans often come in spring and autumn, white-bellied swallows (Hirundobicolor) fly over the waves, and some spotted lapwings (Totanusmacularius) waddle along the stony shore all summer long. Sometimes I startled an osprey sitting on a white pine branch above the lake; but I don't know if any seagulls have flown here, as they have flown to Fair Harbor. At most, there is a diving bird that comes once a year. All the birds that come here regularly are included.

In a calm climate, sitting in a boat, you can see, near the eastern beach, where the water is eight or ten feet deep, and in other parts of the lake, round piles of things, about a foot high and six feet in diameter, made of pebbles a little smaller than eggs, and all around these piles of pebbles is yellow sand. At first, you wonder if the Indians deliberately piled these pebbles on the ice, and when the ice melted, they sank to the bottom of the lake; but even so, the form is too regular, and some of the pebbles are obviously too fresh. They are very similar to those seen in the river. But there are no mullets or lampreys here, and I don't know what fish built it. Maybe it's a nest of silver fish. In this way, the bottom of the water has a pleasant mystery.

The shore is so irregular that it is not monotonous at all. Even with my eyes closed I can see the deep jagged bays on the west shore, the more open north shore, and the beautiful, scalloped south shore, with capes overlapping each other, which remind you that there must be small bays between the capes that have never been visited by humans. In the middle of the lake, among the mountains, looking at the forests on the mountains that rise up to the water, these forests could not have a better background or be more beautiful, because the forests are reflected in the lake, which not only forms the most beautiful foreground, but the curving shore also makes the most natural and pleasant boundary line for it. Unlike the places where the axe has cut out a clearing in the forest or exposed a cultivated field, there is no feeling of beauty or incompleteness here. The trees have ample room to expand at the water's edge, and each tree extends its strongest branches in this direction. Nature has woven a very natural tapestry, and the eye can gradually look up from the lowest trees along the shore to the highest trees. There are few traces of human hands here. The water washes the shore just as it did a thousand years ago.

A lake is the most beautiful and expressive feature of the landscape. It is the eye of the earth; looking into it he can measure the depth of his own nature. The trees on the edge of the lake are its eyelash-like rim, while the surrounding mountains and cliffs, thickly forested, are its thick, projecting eyebrows.

Standing on the flat beach at the eastern end of the lake, on a calm September afternoon, when the mist made the opposite shoreline unclear, I understood what the phrase "glassy lake" meant. When you turned your head to look at the lake, it was like the finest veil stretched over the valley, shining against the distant pine forest, separating one layer of atmosphere from another. You felt that you could walk under it, to the opposite hill, and still be dry, and you felt that the swallows skimming the water could easily land on the surface. Yes, sometimes they dipped below the water line, as if it were an accidental mistake, and then suddenly realized it. When you look westward across the lake, you have to shield your eyes with both hands, both from the sun's rays and from those reflected in the water; and if you can then examine the lake critically between these two rays, it is as smooth as a mirror, with only a few water-skimmers, at equal distances, scattered over the entire surface, and with the most exquisite glitter imaginable in the sunlight, and perhaps a duck preening its feathers, or, as I have already said, a swallow skimming over the water so low that it touches the water. Or perhaps, in the distance, a fish traces an arc of three or four feet in the air, a flash as it leaps, another flash as it falls into the water, and sometimes the whole arc is revealed, a silvery arc; but here and there a thistle sometimes floats, and the fish leaps at it, and the water stirs up an eddy again. It was like a solution of glass, cooled but not yet congealed, and even the few specks of dust in it were pure and beautiful, like small eyes in glass. You could often see a smoother, darker patch of water, as if separated from the rest by an invisible spider's web, lying on the surface of the lake, like a fence for water monsters. Looking down from the top of the mountain, you could see fish jumping almost everywhere; on such a smooth surface, there was not a pickerel or silver fish that would not disturb the balance of the whole lake when catching an insect. It was amazing that such a simple thing could be so delicately displayed - this aquatic murder would be exposed - I stood at a far height and saw the enlarged vortices of the water, their diameter was five or six rods. You could even see water scorpions (scientific name Gyrinus) sliding continuously on the smooth surface for a quarter of a mile; they plowed the water slightly, dividing it into two lines with a very obvious ripple between them; while water skimmers slid to and fro on the surface of the water without leaving a clear visible trace. When the lake is agitated, the water-skippers and water-scorpions are no longer visible. Apparently, only when the water is calm do they set out from their harbors and, like an adventure, glide up and down from one side of the lake shore in short glides until they glide across the entire lake. What a pleasant thing it is. In autumn, on such a clear day, fully enjoying the warmth of the sun, sitting on a tree stump at such a high point, you can see the entire lake and look closely at the round vortices that are constantly engraved on the water surface between the reflections of the sky and the trees. If it weren't for these vortices, the water surface would not be visible. On such a vast surface of water, there is no disturbance at all, and if there is a little, it immediately returns to calm and disappears gently, just like filling a bottle of water at the edge of the water, and the trembling waves flow back to the shore and immediately become smooth again. A fish leaps, an insect falls on the lake, and all are expressed in eddies, in beautiful lines, as if it were the constant gushing out of a fountain, the gentle pulsation of its life, the rise and fall of its chest's breath. Whether it is a tremor of joy or a shudder of pain, it is impossible to tell. How peaceful is the phenomenon of the lake! Human works shine again as in spring. Yes, every leaf, twig, stone and spider web shines again at afternoon tea, as they do on spring mornings after the dew. The movement of each oar or each insect can give off a flash of light, and the sound of an oar can bring out what a sweet echo!

On such a day, September or October, Walden is a perfect mirror of the forest, bordered on all sides with stones, which I consider precious and rare. There is nothing so beautiful, so pure, and at the same time so large as this lake lying on the surface of the earth. The autumn waters are long and the sky is long. It needs no fence. Nations come and go, but they cannot defile it. This mirror cannot be broken by stones, its mercury can never be wiped off, and its external decoration is constantly repaired by Nature; no storm, no dust, can dull its ever-new surface; - this mirror, if any impurity falls on it, it will immediately settle, the misty brush of the sun is always brushing it, - it is a dust cloth of light, - the breath on it leaves no trace, and in the form of clouds it floats from the water to the high air, but immediately reflects it in its bosom.

The spirits of the sky cannot escape this great body of water. It constantly receives new life and new movements from above. The lake is the medium between the earth and the sky. On the earth, only the grass and trees are swaying like waves, but the water itself is rippled by the wind. I can see from a line or a flash that the wind blows past. It is amazing that we can look down at the waves of water. Perhaps we should also look down at the surface of the sky like this carefully to see if there is a more subtle spirit sweeping over it.

In the second half of October, the water-skimmers and water-scorpions finally stopped appearing, and the severe frosts had come; so in mid-November, when it is usually a fine day, nothing stirs up ripples on the water. One afternoon in mid-November, the rain that had been falling for several days finally stopped, and the sky was still gloomy and full of fog. I found that the lake was surprisingly calm, so its surface could hardly be seen, and although it no longer reflected the bright colors of October, it reflected the dark colors of November on the surrounding hills. So I rowed on the lake as quietly as possible, and the faint waves stirred up by the stern of the boat extended far beyond my sight, and the reflections on the lake were also tortuous. However, when I looked at the water surface, I saw a faint light here and there in the distance, as if some water-skimmers that had escaped the severe frost were gathering again, or perhaps the surface of the lake was too calm, so the springs that were bubbling up under the water could be unconsciously felt on the surface of the water. When I reached those places by paddling, I was surprised to find myself surrounded by millions of small perch, each only five inches long; the green water had a gorgeous copper color, and they were playing there, often rising to the surface of the water, making some small eddies on the surface, and sometimes leaving some small bubbles on the surface. In such transparent, seemingly bottomless water, reflecting the clouds, I seemed to be floating in the air on a light balloon, and the swimming of the perch was so circling and flying, as if they were a flock of birds, flying left and right just below my height; their fins, like sails, were fully stretched out. There are many such aquatic creatures in this lake, and it is obvious that they need to improve themselves. In the short season before the ice curtain descends in winter and blocks their skylight, sometimes the waves stirred by them seem to be blown by a breeze or like a gentle raindrop falling. When I approached them carelessly, they panicked and suddenly swept their tails across the water, stirring up the water as if someone had whipped the waves with a brush-like branch, and immediately they all hid in the deep water. Later, the wind blew hard, the fog became thick, the waves began to move, and the bass jumped higher than before, half of the fish body jumped out of the water, and jumped up at once, hundreds of black spots, each three inches long. One year, until December 5th, I still saw eddies on the water, and I thought it would rain hard soon. The air was full of fog, and I hurriedly sat on the oars and rowed home: the raindrops were getting bigger and bigger, but I didn't feel the raindrops hitting my cheeks. At that time, I thought I would get soaked. But suddenly all the eddies disappeared, it turned out that they were all caused by the bass, and the sound of my oars finally scared them away to the deep water; I saw them disappear in groups! I was dry all afternoon.

An old man who used to come to the lake about sixty years ago, and who came to tell me when darkness had covered the surrounding woods, told me that in his time the lake was sometimes very lively, full of ducks and other waterfowl, and with many eagles hovering overhead. He came there to fish, and used an old canoe he had found on the shore. It was made of two white pines, hollowed out in the middle and nailed together, and the ends were cut square. It was a very heavy canoe, but it took many years to fill it with water, and it has probably since sunk to the bottom of the lake. He didn't know who it belonged to; or if it belonged to the lake. He used to tie strips of hickory bark together to make an anchor rope. Another old man, a potter, who lived on the lake before the Revolution, once told him that there was a large iron box at the bottom of the lake, and he had seen it before. Sometimes it would float to the shore, but when you approached it, it would return to the deep water and disappear. I was very interested in the account of the canoe, which replaced another Indian canoe, of the same material, but much more elegantly made. It was probably a tree on the shore, and then it seemed to have fallen into the lake, where it drifted for a generation, and was a perfect vessel for the lake. I remember that when I first looked into the depths of this lake, I vaguely saw many large trunks lying on the bottom of the lake, either broken by the strong winds or lying on the ice after being cut down, because wood was much cheaper at that time. But most of these trunks are now gone.

When I first rowed on Walden Pond, it was completely surrounded by thick and tall pines and oaks, and in some of the hollows the vines had climbed over the trees, forming pavilions under which boats could pass. The mountains that formed the shore were so steep and the trees so high that, viewed from the west, it looked like an amphitheater, where some mountain drama could be performed on the water. I spent many a day there when I was younger, floating on the pond like a gentle breeze, rowing first to the center of the pond, then leaning back on the seat, half awake on a summer morning, until the boat ran on the beach and startled me, and I rose to see to which shore fate had pushed me; in those days, laziness is the most tempting career, and its productivity is also the most abundant. I spent many a morning in this way. I would rather waste the most precious time of the day, when the morning is the key; for I am rich, although this has nothing to do with money, I am rich in the hours of sunshine and the days and months of summer, and I squander them; I do not regret not wasting them more in the workshop or on the teacher's platform. However, since I left the shore of the lake, the woodcutters have begun to cut down trees in large numbers. For many years, it will be impossible to wander on the south road in the woods, and it will be impossible to see the lake from such a forest. If my Muse is silent, she is forgiven. How can I expect songbirds to sing when the forest has been cut down?