"Your first duty is to the children," said an older ant. "You see that not one of us is looking out for herself. But I think we shall be able to stay here after all. See! the water is going down."
At this moment a stern voice was heard outside. It was the first time that Alerta had heard human speech, but she understood every word.
"What a mean, cruel thing to do!" it said. "Were the ants doing any harm to you? In future, remember that you are never to hurt or frighten any creature, even the smallest of them, for your own poor pleasure or amus.e.m.e.nt. I am ashamed of you, my son."
"Now we are safe," said the ants joyfully. "Let us go on with our work.
This is a great day for us. That boy will not harm us again."
Adapted from an English story.
A b.u.t.tERFLY"S WING.
When a great green worm crawls across our path, we shrink with disgust because we are too ignorant to see its real beauty. But when, after a few weeks, a gorgeous creature is seen waving its exquisite wings in the summer twilight, we all are ready to admire the caterpillar in its new dress.
Moths and b.u.t.terflies are among the loveliest things living. Moths fly at night, spread their wings when resting, and have no k.n.o.bs at the ends of their antennae. b.u.t.terflies love the sunshine and fold their wings over their backs when at rest. Their antennae are thickened at the ends.
To some people, catching b.u.t.terflies seems a harmless sport, especially if the pretty creature is soon released and allowed to flutter away in the sunshine. Those who have studied them, however, say that much suffering is caused in this way.
On the surface of the wing are soft, tiny feathers, set row upon row like shingles on a house. There are over two million feathers on each wing. When the b.u.t.terfly is held in hot, hasty hands, these feathers are rubbed off and do not grow again. It is very much as if we should have our teeth pulled out, or our hair torn out by the roots. When we think of the shock and pain, and of the helplessness that will surely follow, catching b.u.t.terflies no longer seems an innocent pleasure.
TO A b.u.t.tERFLY.
Poor harmless insect, thither fly, And life"s short hour enjoy; "Tis all thou hast, and why should I That little all destroy?
Why should my tyrant will suspend A life by wisdom giv"n, Or sooner bid thy being end Than was designed by Heav"n?
To bask upon the sunny bed, The damask flowers to kiss, To range along the bending shade Is all thy life of bliss.
Then flutter still thy silken wings, In rich embroidery drest, And sport upon the gale that flings Sweet odors from his vest.
JANE TAYLOR.
CUNNING BEE.
Said a little wandering maiden To a bee with honey laden, "Bee, at all the flowers you work, Yet in some does poison lurk."
"That I know, my little maiden,"
Said the bee with honey laden; "But the poison I forsake, And the honey only take."
"Cunning bee with honey laden, That is right," replied the maiden; "So will I, from all I meet, Only draw the good and sweet."
ANON.
GRa.s.sHOPPER AND CRICKET.
The poetry of earth is never dead!
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the gra.s.shopper"s, he takes the lead In summer luxury; he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket"s song, in warmth increasing ever; And seems to one in drowsiness half lost The gra.s.shopper"s among some gra.s.sy hills JOHN KEATS
PATIENT WEAVERS.
Is a spider an insect? If you have thought so, you have been mistaken. Insects are made up of three distinct parts; they always have six legs, and they breathe through air-tubes along the sides of their bodies.
Spiders breathe through lungs as we do. Their bodies are in two sections, and instead of six legs they have eight. They have six or eight eyes on the top of the head. The spider spins from her body a silk so fine that we can scarcely see it, of which she makes a web as carefully measured as if she had a foot rule. In fact, she has a useful pair of compa.s.ses in the shape of claws at the ends of her fore legs.
The spider is one of the most industrious, cleanly, and patient workers in the world. More than six hundred separate strands go to make one slender thread of her web. She can choose, moreover, whether she will spin a fine or coa.r.s.e, a dry or spangled thread for the particular work she has in hand.
In an hour a spider will make a web more than half a yard across, and of a strength wonderful in proportion to its size. Steel wire of the same thickness as a spider"s thread would be less than two-thirds as strong.
The spider is a devoted mother, and will die with her little ones rather than leave them. Some kinds of spiders carry their babies about with them, while others fasten their cradles to a crevice in the wall.
Spiders are very useful to us in destroying the flies and troublesome insects that annoy us. Though spiders are often called cruel, they never torture their victims, but kill them at once by means of a poisonous fluid which is said to deaden pain.
One day when the Scotch king, Robert Bruce, lay sick and discouraged in a lonely shed, he watched the patient efforts of a spider to repair its web. Six times she tried to throw the frail thread from one beam to another, and six times she failed.
"Six times have I been beaten in battle," said Bruce. "I know how to pity that poor spider."
But the spider was not discouraged. A seventh time she flung her thread, and this time she succeeded in fastening it to the beam.
Bruce sprang to his feet. "I will try once more," he said, and went forth to victory. Since that day, the story goes, no member of the family of Bruce will injure a spider.
THE WOODMOUSE.
Do you know the little woodmouse, That pretty little thing, That sits among the forest leaves, Or by the forest spring?
Its fur is red like the chestnut, And it is small and slim, It leads a life most innocent, Within the forest dim.
It makes a bed of the soft, dry moss, In a hole that"s deep and strong, And there it sleeps secure and warm, The dreary winter long; And though it keeps no calendar, It knows when flowers are springing, And it waketh to its summer life, When nightingales are singing.
MARY HOWITT.