other ants, and get to depend so much on these slaves that they can't even care for their own children, and it told about the honey-ants of the Garden of the Gods that make some of the workers in each nest--but that's what this story is going to tell about, so we had better wait. But it was all a veritable fairy-story book, as any good book about the ways and life of ants must be. And Mary listened eagerly. She liked it. When going-home time came she had, however, one insistent question to ask. "What can I _see_?" she demanded. "What can I see right away; to-morrow?" "Mary you can--see--to-morrow,"--and I think rapidly,--"you can see--to-morrow,"--still thinking,--"ah, yes--yes you _can_; you can see them to-morrow." "But _what_ can I see to-morrow?" "Why the animated honey-jars; didn't I say what? No? Well, to-morrow we can go to see them; in the Arboretum at the foot of the big Monterey pine. I think I remember the exact place." "But I thought the honey-ants were only in Mexico and New Mexico and Colorado," says Mary. "Didn't the book say that?" "Yes, that kind; but we have a kind of our own here in California. The sort that McCook found in the Garden of the Gods and studied all that summer twenty-five years ago is found only there and in the Southwest, but there are two or three other kinds of honey-ants known, and one of them that has never been told about in the books at all is right here on the campus. There are several of the nests here, or were a few years ago, and we'll go to-morrow and try to find one. It will be fine, won't it?" "Fine," said Mary. "Good-night." And so the next morning we went. The Arboretum is a place where once were planted almost all the kinds of trees that grow wild in California, besides many other kinds from Australia and Japan and New Zealand and Peru and Chili and several of the other Pacific Ocean countries. But the big, swift-growing eucalyptuses and Monterey pines have crowded out many of the other more tender and less-pushing kinds. However, it is still a wonderful place of trees. Many birds live there; swift troops of the beautiful plumed California quails; crimson-throated Anna humming-birds, crestless California jays, fidgeting finches and juncos, spunky sparrows and wrens, chattering chickadees and titmice, fierce little fly-catchers and kinglets. There are winding paths and little-used roads in it, and altogether it is a fine place to go when one has only a short hour for walking and seeing things. And so Mary and I came with a garden-trowel and a glass fruit-jar to the foot of the big Monterey pine near the _toyon_. A _toyon_, if you are an Easterner and need telling, is the tree that bears the red berries for Christmas for us Pacific-Coasters. It is our holly, as the Ceanothus is our lilac, and the poison-oak is our autumn-red sumac.