Chapter 2

"Not exactly. The leaves are mingled through the earth to sustain the great domes which they erect. The houses which these tropical ants build are wonderfully different from the little ant-hills we see about here. They are not very high; it is true. The dome rises about two feet above the ground. But then it is more than forty feet across. One of them would reach nearly across our garden, like a great white swelling upon the face of the earth. They certainly need something to hold together the wet clay of their great domes."

"But our ants here live 'way down, 'way under-ground," remarked Willie.

"So do these," replied Uncle Ben. "The dome is only the roof of their house. They are famous diggers--I assure you of that. Talk about our miners, with their tunnels running deep into the mountains: why, their work is nothing in comparison with that of these little creatures. They make wonderful under-ground tunnels, which run out from the nest in all directions, and to incredible distances. No one sees these tunnels, however, unless they may happen to come to the surface in a very disastrous manner, as they sometimes do."

"How do you mean?" asked Harry, curiously. He had now crept out of his lair, and was seated quietly beside his uncle, with his feet hanging just above the stream.

"Why, in one case, in South America, they tunnelled through the bank of a reservoir. The first thing the people knew, the water was rushing out in a torrent. It was never discovered what was the trouble until the reservoir was quite empty, when they found that the parasol ants had caused the mischief."

"Well, I do declare!" cried Willie, laughing so heartily that he nearly tumbled off Uncle Ben's knee. "Wasn't that jes ever so cunning?"

"Why, you don't think they did it just a-purpose, for nothing but mischief, I hope?" asked Harry, with some indignation.

"I s'poses so," replied Willie, laughing to that extent that he dropped his hat into the stream. And then there was a lively scramble until it was rescued again from the merry waters, which were running away with it as fast as they could.

"You're such a comical little fellow," said Harry, as he shook the water from the dripping hat, and pressed it tightly down on Willie's head. "Anybody that can't laugh without shaking his hat overboard!"

"But that was so funny 'bout the ants lettin' the water all run away! don' know how I's to help laughin'," retorted Willie.

"There is another story told," continued Uncle Ben, "about a nest of parasol ants that dug a tunnel into a gold mine. The under-ground streams got turned into this tunnel, and the waters poured in until they flooded the mine. It cost thousands of dollars to pump the water out, and get the mine ready for working again. And the owners had first to send for a professional ant-killer, and destroy the ant nest, before it was safe to go on."

"A professional ant-killer?" repeated Harry, opening his eyes wide in surprise.

"Yes: there are persons who make a regular business of destroying these troublesome ants."

"Guess that can't be much trouble," said Willie, disdainfully. "Jes got to put your foot on 'em, an' smash 'em."

"I hardly think your foot would cover forty square feet of ground," remarked his uncle, lifting up the diminutive foot, and very gravely examining it. "And then there are the tunnels, running eighty or a hundred feet away in all directions. I am afraid this foot would not be quite large enough."

"I don't care," cried Willie, jerking his foot away. "I was thinkin' 'bout ants like what we have here."

"But how do they kill them, then?" asked Harry, looking up inquiringly into his uncle's face.

"They build a sort of oven over the doorway of the nest," was the reply. "In this they make a fire of charcoal and pungent herbs, and some negroes are stationed with bellows, driving the smoke and fumes from the fire down into the nest. When smoke is seen rising from the ground anywhere, they know that a tunnel opens in that spot, and they stop it up with clay. But it is no light task to kill out a nest of ants. The negroes are kept constantly at work with their bellows for four days and nights, driving down the smothering fumes. At the end of that time the oven is taken away and the nest opened, every tunnel being laid bare. If any ants are found to be alive, they are instantly killed, and all the openings are stopped up with clay, which is stamped down hard, until the whole nest is filled with it."

"Who would ever have thought that a nest of ants would be so hard to kill?" remarked Harry, reflectively.

"All that trouble jes to kill some ole ants," said Willie, getting down and walking away disdainfully. "Guess big men with their big boots could smash 'em easier 'an that if they wanted to."

"Are there other ants that make such tunnels?" asked Harry.

"Oh yes; some of the ants are wonderful diggers. There is a Texan species which on one occasion was found to have run a tunnel under a creek, fifteen or twenty feet deep and thirty feet wide, for the purpose of getting at the vegetables and fruits in a gentleman's garden on the other side of the creek."

"I think _they_ should have been smoked out anyhow," said Harry.

"Guess I'd pulled eberyting 'fore the ants got over," suggested Willie.

"And what were those foraging ants you spoke of, Uncle Ben?"

"Jes neber mine them," exclaimed Willie. "You knows you was goin' to tell all 'bout the cows, an' you ain't eber goin' to tell one word. I b'lieves you's jes funnin' with us, Uncle Ben. I jes b'lieves that, now."

"Oh! you want to hear about the cows?" said his uncle, with a look of grave surprise. "Why, of course. The ant cows, you know, are everywhere. There is no trouble to find them."

A stray branch of a grape-vine had grown over the hedge, and stretched itself across the brook. Uncle Ben bent it down and examined it for a minute.

"Why, here they are now!" he exclaimed, pointing to some very small insects on one of the leaves, about which several ants were busying themselves. "These are the ant cows. And here are their keepers looking after them."

"Them little tings cows!" said Willie, with a look of utter disdain.

"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," ejaculated 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 assure 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 mass, 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 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.

FOOTNOTES:

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

THE MONTHS.--BY KATE GREENAWAY.

SUMAC HUNTING.

BY J. ESTEN COOKE.

Anybody visiting the valley of Virginia in the autumn will be sure to notice, after sunset, all along the slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains, little glimmering lights like stars. These are the fires in front of the small tents of the sumac hunters, who, after gathering sumac all day long, are laughing and talking with their wives and children as they eat their suppers before lying down to sleep.

Sumac is a very pretty plant or shrub which grows a few feet high only, and has beautiful blood-red leaves springing from a delicate shoot, or bough. The stalk is smooth, and the leaves are almond-shaped, only more pointed. On the top of the plant and its larger boughs grow bunches of red berries in the shape of grape bunches; and the leaves and berries are of such a deep, rich crimson in the late autumn that they sometimes make the slopes of the hills appear as if they were on fire. If any little girl would like to dress the vases on the parlor mantelpiece prettily, she could not do better than collect a handful of these delicate tendrils with their scarlet leaves, and use them as a background to the lovely little autumn flowers--late primroses, stars-of-Bethlehem, wild honeysuckles, and fringed ferns--which grow in the woods and fields at this time of the year.

But the honest country people who take so much pains about collecting sumac are not thinking about dressing vases with it. They gather it to sell, and are paid from one cent to a cent and a half a pound for it at the sumac mills. This may not seem much, but then the ocean is made up of drops, and with poor people a little money goes a long way. As little children can pull sumac just as well as grown people, a whole family may gather in a day several dollars' worth.

It is used for dyeing, and is said to be better for that purpose than anything else to color fair leather and certain other fabrics. Great quantities of it are employed in printing calicoes in rich patterns, and the dresses worn by ladies and girls often owe their bright colors to the leaves of the sumac. The way in which it is collected and prepared for use is very simple. As soon as the leaves turn red, which is toward the end of summer, the sumac hunters begin their work. They scatter through the fields, or along the sides of the mountain, and break off the twigs on which the leaves are growing; for these twigs do not make the leaves less valuable. Then, when they have collected an armful, they put it in a pile or into bags, and as night comes on the whole is taken to one spot, from which it is hauled home in wagons. Here it is laid on the floor of the barn or any out-house, in the shade, so that it may dry very gradually, and keep the juices which afford the coloring matter. When this process of drying is gone through with, and the leaves are in a proper state, it is loaded on carts or wagons, in bags, and taken to the sumac mills, where it is weighed, and paid for by the owner of the mills at the rate, as I have said, of from one cent to a cent and a half a pound. The largest mills in Virginia, where the finest sumac grows--or at least a very fine article--are at Richmond; but at Winchester, in the lower part of the Shenandoah Valley, toward the Potomac, there is a big mill, where great quantities are purchased, and prepared for the use of the dyers. The leaves and small twigs are pounded and reduced to a fine dust, and then it is ready to be sent away. When it reaches the manufactories where it is to be used as a dye for leather, calico, etc., it is mixed with what are called _mordants_, certain substances that make it _bite in_, as the word means, and take fast hold of the material to be dyed; and then there is the pretty calico with its bright colors, which can not be washed out.

It is only of late years that much attention has been paid to it in Virginia. People thought more about raising corn and wheat than of gathering sumac; but in twenty years they have learned a great deal, and now begin to understand that "every little helps," and that if they can go with their wives and children and pull sumac, and then sell it, they can take their money and buy sugar and coffee, and perhaps some of the very calico for their little girls' dresses which the red leaves of the sumac make so pretty.

The children like the "camping out" on the mountain in the pleasant summer and fall nights very much. It is a sort of frolic, and it is a very good thing to mix up pleasure with work: it makes the work much easier. The tents are very simple little affairs--only a breadth of canvas stretched across a ridge-pole, like the "comb" of a house, held up by forked sticks set in the ground. In this are spread what in Virginia are called "pine tags," that is, the tassels, or needles, of the pine-trees, which are dry and brown, and by spreading a blanket or old comforter on these you have an excellent soft bed. In front of the tent a fire is built to cook by, and by means of forked sticks a pot can be hung above the fire for making soup, boiling meat, etc. By this fire, as I have told you, the sumac hunters gather in the evening, after work, and laugh and talk and sing, and eat their suppers; or perhaps some one of them can play the fiddle, and he strikes up a dancing tune, and the girls and boys dance on the grass, and laugh and enjoy themselves much more than if they were in fine drawing-rooms. After a while the long day's work makes them sleepy, and they lie down on the fresh pine tags in the tent, and go to sleep--to be up at daylight, and once more at work hunting and gathering their sumac.

OLD TIMES IN THE COLONIES.

BY CHARLES CARLETON COFFIN.

No. VIII.

THE BATTLE OF THE RANGERS.

When war broke out between France and England in 1755, the French and Indians came down from Canada and attacked the settlers of New England and New York, as they had done in previous wars, burning their dwellings, killing men and women, or carrying them to Canada as prisoners.

The French had a fort at Crown Point, on Lake Champlain, and another at Ticonderoga; while the English had Fort William Henry, at the southern end of Lake George, and Fort Edward, on the Hudson.

The English officers who had been sent over by the King to command the "Provincials," as the people of England called all who lived in America, thought that soldiers must march in the wilderness with just as much precision as along a hard beaten road, that they must move in platoons and columns, keeping step to the drum-beat. The French officers, on the other hand, adopted the plan of the Indians, marching in single file, each man carrying his provisions. They made quick movements, falling suddenly upon a settlement, with their Indian allies, making all the havoc possible, and before the settlers could gather to resist them, would be far on their way to Crown Point or Canada.

Robert Rogers, of New Hampshire, who was fighting the French, prevailed upon Lord Loudon, the English commander-in-chief, to allow him to form a battalion of troops, who should have the privilege of scouting the woods around Lake George and Lake Champlain, to discover the movements of the French and Indians, to fall upon them just as they were stealing upon the English, strike a blow, and be gone before the French would know what had happened. He would play their own game upon them.

Lord Loudon having given his consent, Major Rogers went to New Hampshire and enlisted his men. They were all young, strong, athletic. They had tramped over the hills and mountains of that province, hunting bears, and had set their traps along the streams for beavers. They could pick their way through the forest on a cloudy day when there was no sun to guide them, and could tell in the darkest and cloudiest night which way was north by feeling the bark on the trees--for the bark is always more mossy on the northern than on the side exposed to the sun.

It was to be a service of hardship and privation. They would have to make long marches; to sleep on the ground; to endure great fatigue; brave the cold of winter, wrapping themselves in their blankets at night, and lying down with the snow for their bed.

Although the hardships would be so great, Robert Rogers had no difficulty in obtaining all the men he wanted. The settlers had suffered so much from the enemy that they were eager to take their revenge. There was a fascination in the service. How stirring the thought of stealing through the woods, making roundabout marches, shooting a deer or bear, eating the nice steaks, lying down to sleep beneath the trees; up again in the morning, coming upon the French and Indians unawares, pouring in a volley, killing the savages or taking them prisoners, and returning in triumph!

Major Rogers chose as lieutenant the man who had knocked the Indians about, right and left, when called upon to run the gauntlet--John Stark, who could follow a trail as well as any Indian, who was always cool and collected, and as brave as a lion. The men were called Rangers. They wore green frocks, and besides their rifles each man had a long knife which he could use in a close fight. They wore boots and leather leggings, and each man carried his rations--bread and cold corned beef--in a bag.

The ice on Lake George was thick and strong in March, 1757, when the Rangers, seventy-four in number, with iron spurs on their feet, several days' rations in their bags, their blankets rolled upon their shoulders, marching in single file, with trailed arms, Major Rogers at the head, and John Stark in the rear, started from Fort William Henry.