498 JOURNAL, BOMBAY NATURAL HIST. SOCIETY, Vol. XXVIIL 
matrimonial matters very seriously. The back of the belly and thighs are 
suffused with yellow. It is very frequently victimised by the snake Nerodia 
piscator, less frequently by Amphiesma beddomei and A. monticola. 
Rana temporalis. 
An elegant frog that few people ever see owing to its shy and solitary nature 
is Rana temporalis, a species that grows to about three inches in length. It is 
not uncommon at about 6,000 feet. It is a beautiful uniform rich brown 
dorsally, and the delicate smoothness of its skin rivals that of the most 
beautiful calf bound volume the trade can produce There is a dark 
band before and behind the eye, and dark bands on the limbs. The belly is 
white with some speckling of brown on the throat and breast. 
Those I have tracked into their lairs were solitary, and had established them- 
selves in some dark recess beside a mountain stream or trickle in some quiet glen, 
the favoured haunt of the mosquito. and the tree fern. Nobody would suspect 
its presence there if it remained silent. However in the rains, like other batra- 
chians its thoughts tend towards the subtlest of passions. Stirred by unusual 
emotions its feelings give vent to a vocal effort intended for his lady love, but 
which also proclaims the presence of the frog to the attentive ear of the naturalist. 
T heard its unmusical note many times before I discovered the species responsible 
for it. As with other batrachians I found I could approach to perhaps three 
yards of it by an extremely cautious advance, and then it suddenly became as 
speechless as a Scotch Planter after a Masonic dinner. I had many trials of 
patience with the unknown, but failed miserably in these contests. The fact is 
on these occasions all is in favour of the quarry. He sits in the water or beside 
the water in some dark recess, and croaks words of love to his prospective bride. 
A huge beast in human form hears a mysterious batrachian sound and seeks to 
learn the author. Moving at a snail’s pace the human beast—on this occasion 
me—gradually arrives at a certain proximity from whence the frog has him in 
full view. At this point the frog decides to make no further remarks to his lady 
love. Then follows that trial of patience which the frog invariably wins. Human 
nature being what it isin the presence of mosquitoes the time comes when immo- 
bility is no longer possible. The human beast at last flinches or brushes aside 
the mosquitoes on his hands or face, and all the previous period of statue-like 
patience is wasted, and the struggle commences afresh. After many days of 
fruitless endeavour the human beast resolved to try bold tactics such as 
are so successful in the capture of the feminine heart. Thus determined I wen: 
off one day to Sim’s Park, the scene of so many previous frog adventures. This 
was before I had placed it out of bounds for myself. It is a beauty spot in the 
middle of the most beautiful of all Hill Stations. Here one finds all the trees 
and plants named, and can improve one’s knowledge of botany. There are 
garden seats too where one can sit in comfort after one’s latest defeat at the hands 
of a frog, smoke a cigarette and think matters out. My steps were directed to 
that same little glen below the miniature lake, where the light is dim and water 
tinkles melodiously, and tree ferns wave, where glade-loving butterfli2zs such as 
Y pthimas and Lethes rise under one’s feet, and flit jauntily away into still deeper 
gloom, and where I knew one of my unknown frogs lived. He had defeated me 
so often that I had an intense desire to get level with him. I listened. Yes: 
he was there in the usual place. Without further delay I rushed into his lair- 
splash, splash, clatter, clatter in the bed of the trickle, actively probing with my 
stick into one dark recess after another. Out came the skulker thoroughly alarm- 
ed, with one sump, and then another, I literally fell upon him, and the intelligence 
that he had not escaped was communicated to me through the cutaneous nerves 
beneath my waistcoat. He was butting into me, as a hungry kid butts into the 
udder of its mother. Still lying prone upon my face I passed my hand beneath 
me, sought for, found, and closed it upon the struggling prisoner. Froggie had 
played his last trick and lost. Brother naturalist ! If this manceuvre is done 
