“Sh!” said Ruth to the audience in general, for she wanted very much to hear what the ant had to say. The ant looked at her approvingly, and then said in a very solemn tone: “My friends, there are ants and ants.” “Who doesn’t know that?” snapped Mrs. Horntail. [Illustration: “‘MY FRIENDS, THERE ARE ANTS AND ANTS’”] “Yes, there are ants and ants,” repeated the speaker, not noticing the interruption. “There is the carpenter ant, for one. In the books she is called Componotis Pennsylvanicus, but never mind the name. It doesn’t seem to hurt her. She makes her nest in the trunks of trees, old buildings, logs, and places of that kind. You can see her on the leaf by Mrs. Saw Fly. She is large and black and——” “Clean,” finished the carpenter ant, speaking for herself, and, without asking further permission, she poised on her hind legs and began to ply her tongue, and the fine and coarse combs on her fore legs, until she had gone over her whole body, smoothing out ruffled hairs, and getting rid of every atom of soil. Her toilet done, she gave a few leisurely strokes, then drew her fore legs through her mouth to clean the combs, and stretched herself with an air of satisfaction. “I hope I haven’t interrupted the proceedings,” she said, “but if I am not clean I am miserable. Now, Miss Lassius Brunens, please go on.” [Illustration: “‘THEN THERE ARE ANTS WHO KEEP SLAVES’”] “Miss who?” asked the little brown ant. “Oh, I see. You are calling me by the name the wise men give me. Well, I can stand it. To continue: I have mentioned the carpenter ant, and there are also the mound builders. Everybody knows their big hills. Then there are ants who keep slaves, and live under stones, and there are honey ants, who live in the South and use the abdomens of their own sisters to store honey in, and there are ants who sow seed and harvest it, and ants who cut pieces from green leaves and carry them as parasols, and soldier ants and——” [Illustration: “‘THEN THERE ARE ANTS WHO CUT PIECES FROM GREEN LEAVES AND CARRY THEM AS PARASOLS’”] “Oh, give us a rest!” broke in Mrs. Horntail. “I am tired of ants.” “Jealous, you mean,” said the little brown ant, “because you are not as wise as we are. Maybe you don’t know that whole books have been written about us and our clever doings. And men have spent years and years trying to study our ways. Now my family may not be the most wonderful, but I think it is the best known. We are the little ants who make the hill with a hole in the middle, which you so often see on sandy paths, or roadsides, or in dry fields.” Ruth had edged closer, and was listening eagerly. Once more the little ant looked at her approvingly, then went on: