"You can go 'way, then," retorted Harry. "Uncle Ben's telling me."
"No, he ain't. He's telling bofe of us. Ain't you, Uncle Ben?"
"Anybody who wants to listen is welcome," answered their uncle, with assumed gravity. "But I don't wish to force knowledge into any unwilling young brains. However, I have only a few more things to tell, and then will leave you at liberty."
"Just tell all, Uncle Ben. Don't mind him," cried Harry.
"Another strange part of the story is this," continued their good-natured uncle: "sometimes the rain gets into their granaries, and wets the grain. But as soon as the sun comes out again the industrious little fellows carry out their stores, seed by seed, and lay them in the sun to dry. They then carry them carefully back again, except those that have sprouted and been spoiled. These are left outside."
"Don't they husk their grain?" asked Harry.
"Yes. They carry the husk and all other refuse out-of-doors, and pile it up in a heap on one side of the clearing. Is that all, Harry?"
"But you haven't said a word yet about what these seeds are stored up for. Do they eat them during the winter?"
"Very likely they do, though they have never been observed at their winter meals. Ants usually sleep through the cold weather. But a warm day is apt to waken them, and there is little doubt that they take the opportunity to make a good dinner before going to sleep again."
"But how can they eat such great seeds—bigger than themselves?"