The first thing she does, when she meets you, is to bend both these horns straight towards you, and feel of you. It is quite disagreeable,—almost as bad as shaking hands with strangers.
My Ant’s name is Fornica Rufa. If I knew her better I should call her Ant Ru, for short. But I do not expect ever to know her very well. She evidently does not like to be intimate with anybody but her own family; and I am not surprised, for I was never in any house so overrun with people as hers is. I wondered how they knew themselves apart.
When I went to see her last week I found her just going out, and I thought perhaps that was one reason that she didn’t take any more notice of me.
“How do you do, Ant?” said I. “I am spending the summer near by, and thought I would like to become acquainted with you. I hear you have a very curious cow, and I have a great desire to see it.”
“Humph!” said she, and snapped her horns up and down, as she always does when she is displeased, I find.
“I hope it will not give you any trouble to show her to me. You must be very proud of having such a fine cow. Perhaps you are on the way to milking now, and if so I should be most happy to go with you.”
“Humph!” said my Ant again. At least I think that was what she said. It looked like it, but I can’t say that I heard any sound.
But she turned short on her heels (I suppose she has heels), and plunged into the woods at the right, stopping and looking back at me as if she expected me to follow. So I stepped along after her as fast as I could, and said, “Thank you; I suppose this is the way to the pasture.”
My Ant said nothing, but went ahead, snapping her horns furiously.
“Oh, well,” thought I to myself, “you are an uncivil Ant. Even if I have come simply out of curiosity, you might be a little more polite in your own house, or at least on your own grounds, which is the same thing. I sha’n’t speak to you again.”