Why one should speak of the Adorned Ceratophrys when the thing might just as well be called the Barking Frog, I don't know. Let us compromise and call him the Adorned C., in the manner of Mr. Wemmick. I respect the Adorned C. almost as much as if he were a toad instead of a frog, but chiefly I admire his mouth. A crocodile has a very respectable mouth--when it separates its jaws it opens its head. But when the Adorned C. smiles he opens out his entire anatomical bag of tricks-- comes as near bisecting himself indeed as may be; opens, in short, like a Gladstone bag. From a fat person, of course, you expect a broad, genial smile; but you are doubly gratified when you find it extending all round him. That, you feel, is indeed no end of a smile--and that is the smile of the Adorned C. [Illustration] [Illustration: "DON'T SQUEEZE SO, TYRRELL!"] [Illustration: "WANT ME TO BARK?"] [Illustration: "HE CALLS THIS WINDING ME UP!"] [Illustration: "SHAN'T BARK--"] [Illustration: "SO THERE!"] [Illustration: "STOW THAT, TYRRELL!"] [Illustration: "HE'S ALWAYS DOING THAT."] [Illustration: "I'LL GET SO WILD IN A MINUTE!"] [Illustration: "GUR-R-R-R-."] [Illustration: "WOW, WOW!"] [Illustration: "SNAP! WOW-WOW!"] [Illustration: "WHAT, GOT TO GO BACK?"] [Illustration: "GOOD NIGHT. TYRRELL!"] But, notwithstanding this smile, the Adorned C. is short of temper. Indeed, you may only make him bark by practising upon this fact. Tyrrell's private performance with the Adorned C. is one that irresistibly reminds the spectator of Lieutenant Cole's with his figures, and would scarcely be improved by ventriloquism itself. The Adorned C. prefers biting to barking, and his bite is worse than his bark--bites always are, except in the proverb. This is why Tyrrell holds the Adorned C. pretty tight whenever he touches him. The one aspiration of the Adorned C. is for a quiet life, and he defends his aspiration with bites and barks. Tyrrell touches him gently, cautiously, and repeatedly on the back until the annoyance is no longer to be tolerated, and then the Adorned C. duly barks like a terrier. Now, the most interesting thing about the Adorned C., after his mouth, is his bark, and why he should be reluctant to exhibit it except under pressure of irritation--why he should hide his light under a bushel of ill-temper--I can't conceive. It is as though Patti wouldn't sing till her manager threw an egg at her, or as though Sir Frederick Leighton would only paint a picture after Mr. Whistler had broken his studio windows with a brick. Even the whistling oyster of London tradition would perform without requiring a preliminary insult or personal assault. But let us account everything good if possible; perhaps the Adorned C. only suffers from a modest dislike for vain display; although this is scarcely consistent with the internal exhibition afforded by his smile.