"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 multitudes 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 CRÉCY.[1]
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
I was reading of kings and nobles,
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 Crécy light.
He stood on the little hill-side,
Taller than all his peers,
Quite blind, but with eyes uplifted,
Hoary 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 God," 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.