"All ye got to dae is swim that wee distance an' fetch me that aiple."
"Ah, lay of the boyo, Yr Alban"
"Ah Gabh suas ort féin An Bhreatain Bheag"
Wales pulled a face, turned his back on his three brothers and walked off, bringing several sheep with him. Scotland exchanged a glance with Ireland, who had , for some reason come over to see his brother, or more like, visit his brothers and torture the youngest one.
"Well, do ye want me to drown the wee rabbit, or nae?"
"No, but-"
"Well get ma aiple."
"But!"
Ireland picked up the snivelling England and promptly threw him into the river. The child vanished under the surface.
The two older brothers stood over the water, looking in waiting for their little brother to surface.
They waited, and waited.
And waited.
And dropped the rabbit and pegged it. Leaving the poor country to the water.
What England had been trying to tell is brothers, was that he couldn't swim. And the current of the river was stronger than it looked,. England couldn't reach the surface, the water was too powerful, he thrashed around, his limbs moving in whatever direction the river chose, his lungs filled with water, he was going to die, he was going to drown here and be washed all the way out too see.
Was that an angel? It was certainly beautiful enough, and what was that gripping the back of his cloak?
And then, he was out of the water, and coughing the ghastly substance all over that damned frogs lap.