"You didn't expect to find them as big as our cows, I hope?" asked Harry.

"Their real name is aphis, or plant-louse," said Uncle Ben. "They suck the juices of the leaves. These juices become in their bodies a sort of honey, which they yield from certain pores. The ants are very fond of this honey-dew, and lap it up eagerly. And if you watch close you may see them patting or stroking the aphides to make them yield the honey faster. That is what has been called milking their cows."

"Well, that is very curious, I know," exclaimed Harry. "I am going to watch them after this."

"Each ant seems to claim certain cows as his own property," continued Uncle Ben. "And he will bristle up angrily if any other ant strays into his pasture fields. But that is not the whole story. They not only milk these cows, but they tenderly raise their calves. Some species of the aphis live on the roots of plants. Around these the ants make their nests, so as to have their cows in stables of their own. And they take the greatest care of the eggs and the young of the aphides, raising them as tenderly as they raise their own young. No human farmer could be more careful of his own stock of cows and calves."

"You 'mos' might as well say they's folks right out," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Willie, indignantly. "Anyhow, it's ole honey, an' it ain't milk at all."

"I am sure it is not the fault of the ants if their cows give honey instead of milk," replied his uncle, with an odd smile. "And I have certainly seen folks who were not as wise as the ants."

"But never mind the cows, Uncle Ben," persisted Harry. "I want to hear about the foraging ants. Where do they belong, and what queer things do they do?"

"They are a South American ant," was the reply. "They may be seen at certain seasons marching along the ground in a long column, much like an army. They have officers, too. These are large-headed ants that march outside the column, and keep it in order. It is an immense army they command, I can a.s.sure you--greater than that with which Xerxes in old times invaded Greece; for there may be millions of ants in the line.

There is another species which does not march in column, but in a close ma.s.s, often covering from six to ten square yards of ground."

"But what are they after?" asked Harry.

"That's jes what I wants to know," observed Willie, whose curiosity had returned.

"They are after food," replied their uncle. "It is amusing to see the insects scampering off from their line of march. They seem to know the danger that threatens them, for scarcely a living thing escapes the sharp jaws of these fierce foragers. They send out side columns to search the ground and the bushes and low trees. When any insect is found, it is instantly surrounded and covered by these marauders, and torn to pieces, and carried off in fragments. But it is not in the trees and on the ground that they find their chief prey."

"Where, then?" asked Harry, his great blue eyes fixed with speaking interest on his uncle's countenance.

"In the houses. The foraging ants are a perfect blessing to the people of the villages, not a pest, as ants are in our houses. These warm regions, you know, have mult.i.tudes of insects that we never see. The houses are infested not only with rats and mice, roaches and fleas, but with snakes and scorpions, with huge spiders and with many other unpleasant things; so the village folks are glad enough to see the approach of the foraging ants. They throw open every door in their houses, unlock their drawers and trunks, and pull the clothes out on the floor. They then vacate the houses, and leave them to the ants, who soon stream in. Those who have seen them say that it is a wonderful spectacle. Nothing living escapes them. They search every hole, nook, and cranny. Here, dozens may be seen surrounding a great spider or scorpion; there, they chase sprawling long-legged creatures across the window-panes; yonder, hundreds of them may be observed dragging out a rat or a mouse which they have killed: even snakes can not escape from the sharp and poisonous bite of these bold foragers. It takes from three to four hours for them to clear out a house. They will not leave it until they are sure that not a living thing remains. Then they stream out again, carrying their prey with them; and the inhabitants gladly return, satisfied that they will have a month or two of comfort after this ants' house-cleaning."

"I do b'lieve you's half funnin' again, Uncle Ben," declared Willie, with an aspect of severe doubt. "How's little tings like ants goin' to pull out snakes an' rats? I'd jes like to know that!"

"But I forgot to tell you that these ants are much larger than any we have here. Some of the tropical ants are an inch long, and as large as a large wasp; so you may imagine that a whole army of them is not to be trifled with."

"Is it them that's the soldiers, Uncle Ben?" asked Willie.

"The soldiers? Oh, you want to hear about the soldiers--But, I declare, if there isn't the dinner-bell! Who would have thought that we had spent so much time over the ants?"

THE PLUMES OF CReCY.[1]

BY LILLIE E. BARR.

I was reading of kings and n.o.bles, Tourney and knightly gage, Till the summer twilight faded From Froissart's ancient page.

Then in the darkened parlor I saw a fairer sight-- The brave old King whose valor makes The shame of Crecy light.

He stood on the little hill-side, Taller than all his peers, Quite blind, but with eyes uplifted, h.o.a.ry with many years.

Still wearing his golden armor, Crowned with his royal crown, Leaning upon the sword with which He struck the Soldan down.

And high in his gleaming helmet Three ostrich plumes, snow white-- From the Paynim's brow he tore them In some Jabluna fight.

All scarred with Carpathian arrows, His heart with Honor flames: "Advance!" he cries, "and fight for France, Bohemia, and St. James!"

But two of his knights staid by him, And little did they say; The blind old King talked with his heart, And that was in the fray.

Alas! alas! He heard too soon The sounds of shameful flight; "Thank G.o.d," he sighed, "Bohemia's blind!"-- He would not see this sight.

"Now, friends, one more good deed I claim, Last service for your lord: I ask a soldier's grave, good knights; I'll dig it with my sword.

My horse's reins tie fast to yours-- A friend on either hand-- Then ride straight on to where you see The English archers stand."

They kissed their King most tenderly, Then three as one they went Down to the field of certain death With proud and glad content.

They cut a path to where Prince Charles, The King's son, stood at bay: 'Twas spirits, and not flesh and blood, For honor fought that day.

The three white plumes above the gloom Gleamed like a snowy wing; Victors and vanquished paused to watch The blind Bohemian King.

Pierced oft by arrows, stained with blood, The Soldan's plumes still wave, Until Bohemia's sword had cut Honor's unsullied grave.

Next day, when English heralds sought Over the fatal field Trampled lilies and flags of France, They found upon his shield The blind old King of Bohemia, Son and friends by his side; But torn and stained the snowy plumes That long had been his pride.

Then said the Black Prince over him, "O knight, the bravest, best, Thy plumes are dyed in hero's blood-- Henceforth they are my crest!"

And still they wave o'er England's crown, And teach the young and brave, When all is lost but honor, then Valor digs Honor's grave.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _Froissart's Chronicle_, vol. i., p. 164.

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