“I should think the Frogs like the Feast best. Don’t they?” “Well, there’s generally very few of them that get any. They _will_ keep their mouths shut so tight! And it’s just as well they _do_,” she added, “because Bruno likes to cook it himself: and he cooks _very_ queerly. Now they’re all in. Would you just help me to put them with their heads the right way?” We soon managed this part of the business, though the Frogs kept up a most discontented croaking all the time. “What _are_ they saying?” I asked Sylvie. “They’re saying ‘Fork! Fork!’ It’s very silly of them! You’re not going to _have_ forks!” she announced with some severity. “Those that want any Feast have just got to open their mouths, and Bruno’ll put some of it in!” At this moment Bruno appeared, wearing a little white apron to show that he was a Cook, and carrying a tureen full of very queer-looking soup. I watched very carefully as he moved about among the Frogs; but I could not see that _any_ of them opened their mouths to be fed—except one very young one, and I’m nearly sure it did it accidentally, in yawning. However Bruno instantly put a large spoonful of soup into its mouth, and the poor little thing coughed violently for some time. So Sylvie and I had to share the soup between us, and to _pretend_ to enjoy it, for it certainly was _very_ queerly cooked. I only ventured to take _one_ spoonful of it (“Sylvie’s Summer-Soup,” Bruno said it was), and must candidly confess that it was not _at all_ nice; and I could not feel surprised that so many of the guests had kept their mouths shut up tight. “What’s the soup _made_ of, Bruno?” said Sylvie, who had put a spoonful of it to her lips, and was making a wry face over it. And Bruno’s answer was anything but encouraging. “Bits of things!” The entertainment was to conclude with “Bits of Shakespeare,” as Sylvie expressed it, which were all to be done by Bruno, Sylvie being fully engaged in making the Frogs keep their heads towards the stage: after which Bruno was to appear in his real character, and tell them a Story of his own invention. “Will the Story have a Moral to it?” I asked Sylvie, while Bruno was away behind the hedge, dressing for the first ‘Bit.’ “I _think_ so,” Sylvie replied doubtfully. “There generally _is_ a Moral, only he puts it in too soon.” “And will he _say_ all the Bits of Shakespeare?” “No, he’ll only _act_ them,” said Sylvie. “He knows hardly any of the words. When I see what he’s dressed like, I’ve to tell the Frogs what character it is. They’re always in such a hurry to guess! Don’t you hear them all saying ‘What? What?’” And so indeed they were: it had only sounded like croaking, till Sylvie explained it, but I could now make out the “Wawt? Wawt?” quite distinctly. “But why do they try to guess it before they see it?” “I don’t know,” Sylvie said: “but they always _do_. Sometimes they begin guessing weeks and weeks before the day!”