Harper's Young People, September 7, 1880 Part 2

I once overheard a little bit of talk between two school-girls, one of whom said, "Well, the Ames family are coming to our house next week, and for my part I dread it. I don't expect to have a mite of enjoyment while they are with us. I can not entertain people." I have forgotten her companion's reply, but I know that the feeling is common among young people, and when guests arrive they often slip off the responsibility of making them happy upon papa and mamma. This is hardly fair. The art of hospitality is really as easily acquired as a knowledge of geography or grammar.

In the first place, the young girls in a family when expecting friends of their own age should see that their rooms are pleasantly arranged, the beds freshly made, toilet soap provided, and plenty of towels and water at hand. Not new towels, dear girls; they are hard and slippery, and n.o.body likes them. There should be a comb and brush, a b.u.t.ton-hook, pins in plenty, and s.p.a.ce in the closet to hang dresses and coats, as well as an empty drawer in the bureau at the guest's service. By attending to these little things themselves, girls can take quite a burden from their busy mothers. Then both boys and girls should have in mind some sort of plan by which to carry on operations during the days of their friends' stay. So far as possible it is well to lay aside unnecessary work for the time. As for the morning and evening duties which belong to every day's course, attend to them faithfully, but do not let them drag. Never make apologies if you happen to have some occupation which you fear may seem very humble in the eyes of your guest. All home service is honorable.

If you live in the country there will be fishing, nutting, climbing, riding, driving, and exploring; all of which you can offer to your friends. Be sure that you have fishing-tackle, poles, and baskets, harness in order, and, in short, everything in readiness for your various expeditions. To most out-of-door excursions a nice luncheon is an agreeable addition, and you need not upset the house nor disturb the cook in order to arrange this, for sandwiches, gingerbread, cookies, crackers, and similar simple refreshments, can be obtained in most homes without much difficulty. Every boy, as well as every girl, should know how to make a good cup of coffee by a woodland fire.

In town there are museums, picture-galleries, and concerts, as well as various shows, to delight guests from a distance. In the season you can take them to the beach or the parks. But whether in town or country, do not wear your friends out by too much going about, nor ever let them feel that you are taking trouble for them, nor yet that they are neglected. Forget your own convenience, but remember their comfort.

Study their tastes and consult their wishes in a quiet way.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A LIVELY TEAM.]

THE HOMES OF THE FARMING ANTS.

BY CHARLES MORRIS.

Woodbine Cottage was just a gem of a place. If any of my readers have ever seen a gem of a place, they will know exactly what that means. For those who have not been so fortunate, I will say that it was the prettiest of cottages, with no end of angles and gables, of shady nooks and sunny corners, and of cunning ins and outs; while to its very roof the fragrant woodbine climbed and clambered, and the bees buzzed about the honeyed blossoms as if they were just wild with delight.

That was Woodbine Cottage itself. But I have said nothing about its surroundings--the neat flower beds, and the prattling brook that ran by just at the foot of the garden, the green lawn as smooth as a table, and the great spreading elm-tree in its centre, against which Uncle Ben Mason was so fond of leaning his chair in the bright summer afternoons, and where Harry and Willie Mason liked nothing better than to lie at his feet on the greensward, and coax him to tell them about the wonderful things he had seen and the marvellous things he had read.

It was only the afternoon succeeding that in which he had told them the strange story of the honey ants, and they were at him again, anxious to know something more about ant life.

"You know, Uncle Ben," pleaded Harry, coaxingly, "that you said there were ever so many other queer things about them."

"And that they milked cows. And that some of them were just soldiers,"

broke in Willie, eagerly. "And--and--" The little fellow was quite at a loss for words in his eagerness.

"Now, now, now!" cried Uncle Ben; "you don't want me to tell you all at once, I hope?"

"Tell us sumfin, Uncle Ben--sumfin of just the queerest you knows,"

pleaded Willie; "cos I wants to know 'bout them ever so much."

"Very well. Suppose I describe the farmer ants."

"The farmer ants!" cried Harry, with interest.

"Yes, there is a species of ants in Texas that have farms of their own, and gather the grain in when it is ripe, and store it away in their granaries; and some people say that they plant the seed in the spring, just like human farmers. But others think that this part of the story is very doubtful."

"You don't believe that, do you, Uncle Ben?" asked Harry, doubtingly.

"Why, that would be making them folks at once."

"They are very much like folks without that," said his uncle, settling himself back easily in his chair, and gazing down with his kindly glance on his eager young nephews.

"If you could see one of their clearings," he continued. "But maybe you don't care to hear about them?"

"Yes, we does," cried Willie, eagerly.

"I do, ever so much. I know that," chimed in Harry.

"Well, then, if you will keep just as quiet as two mice, I will tell you the story of our little black farmers. They are, in some ways, the strangest of all ants. You have seen little ant-hills thrown up in the sand about an inch across; but these ants build great solid mounds, surrounded by a level court-yard, sometimes as much as ten or twelve feet in diameter. Here they do not suffer a blade of gra.s.s nor a weed to grow, and the whole clearing is as smooth and hard as a barn floor. This is no light labor, I can tell you, for wild plants grow very fast and strong under the hot suns of Texas."

"But how do they do it?" asked Harry.

"You would laugh to see them," continued his uncle. "They bite off every blade of gra.s.s near the root, some seize it with their fore-legs, and twist and pull at it, while others run up to the top of the blade, and bend it down with their weight. It is not long before the great tree, as it must seem to the ants, comes toppling down. The roots are left in the ground to die out, just as a Western wood-cutter leaves the roots of his trees."

"It must be a funny sight," exclaimed Harry.

"Does they keep stables for their cows?" asked Willie, who could not get over his interest in the ants' milking operations.

"Not they. These ants do not keep cows," returned Uncle Ben.

"They're mighty queer farmers, then," replied Willie, contemptuously.

"They are grain farmers, not dairy farmers," was the amused reply. "But I have not finished telling you about their clearings. There is nothing stranger in the world, when we consider how they are made. They may often be seen surrounded by a circle of tall weeds, great, fast-growing fellows, two or three feet high, that look very much as if they would like to step in on the ants' play-ground. But the active little creatures do not suffer any intrusion upon their domain."

"It is odd how they can cut down so many gra.s.s trees without tools,"

said Harry.

"They have better tools than you think," replied Uncle Ben. "Their hard, h.o.r.n.y mandibles are good cutting instruments, and are used for teeth, saws, chisels, and pincers all in one. They form a sort of compound tool."

"I'd like to see them ever so much," cried Willie. "But, Uncle Ben, where does they live? Cos they can't be running 'bout all the time out-of-doors. I know that."

"And they must have some place to put their crops in," said Harry.

"Their houses are in the centre of the clearing," continued their uncle.

"They are usually rounded mounds of earth, with a depression in the top, of the shape of a basin. In the centre of this basin is a small hole, forming the entrance to the ant city, which is all built under-ground.

If you could see one of these mounds cut open, you would be surprised to behold the mult.i.tude of galleries not more than a quarter or half an inch high, running in all directions. Some of them lead up and down to the upper and lower stories of the establishment. At the ends of these galleries are many apartments, some of which serve as nurseries where the young ants are kept, and others as granaries where the grain is stored up. The granaries are sometimes one and three-quarter inches high, and two inches wide, neatly roofed over, and filled to the roof with grain. That may not seem much of a barn, but if you had one in the same proportion to your size, it would need no trifle of grain to fill it."

"But you said they were farmer ants," cried Harry, as if he fancied he had now got his uncle in a tight place, "and you haven't said a word about their wheat fields."

"And you tole us they didn't keep cows, too," put in Willie, triumphantly.

"But I am not half through my story yet," replied Uncle Ben, with a quiet smile. "We have only been talking about their homes and their clearings. Now suppose we take a stroll out to the wheat fields by one of the great roads which the ants make."

"Roads!" cried both boys in surprise.

"Just as fine roads as men could make. Our little farmers always have three or four of these roads, and sometimes as many as seven, running straight out from their clearing, often for sixty feet in length. One observer, in fact, says he saw an ant road that was three hundred feet long. The roads are from two to five inches wide at the clearing, but they narrow as they go out, until they are quite lost."

"But are they real roads? You ain't funning, Uncle Ben?" asked Willie.

"They are as hard, smooth, and level as you would want to see, not a blade of gra.s.s, nor a stick nor a stone, upon them. And just think what little tots they are that make them! That long road I have just mentioned would be equal to a road made by men ten miles long and twenty-two feet wide, and yet it is only the ant's pathway to his harvest field."