157 



evidently learned their tactics and knew 

 how to defend himself. Suddenly his 

 body moved along an inch and a half, as 

 if by magic. Was it magic? Not at all. 

 One little ant had run up on an overhang- 

 ing blade of grass, and, reaching down, 

 holding on by the wonderful feet spoken 

 of before, and grabbed the poor creature 

 in the middle, raised it right up from the 

 ground, and keeping hold, ran along 

 overhead till the end of the spear of grass 

 was reached. 



This was the last struggle of any im- 

 portance. The worm gave up discour- 



aged ; it was only now a question of time 

 till they had dragged him through the 

 stubble up to the door of the house in the 

 hill, and I saw only a faint quiver as of 

 dread as his body passed through the 

 mysterious opening. I could not help 

 wondering if the ant who started the 

 capture received all the praise she de- 

 served, or if the other four took the glory 

 to themselves. 



At any rate, no one could take away 

 her own satisfaction in overcoming and 

 winning in the struggle. 



Harriet Woodbridge. 



SONG. 



Day is dying ! Float, O song, 

 Down the westward river. 



Requiem chanting to the Day — 

 Day, the mighty Giver. 



Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds. 



Melted rubies sending 

 Through the river and the sky. 



Earth and heaven blending; 



All the long-drawn earthly banks 

 Up to cloud-land lifting: 



Slow between them drifts the swan, 

 'Twixt two heavens drifting. 



Wings half open, like a flow'r, 



Inly deeper flushing. 

 Neck and breast as Virgin's pure — 

 Virgin proudly blushing. 



Day is dying! Float, O swan, 



Down the ruby river ; 

 Follow, song, in requiem 



To the mighty Giver. 



— George Eliot, in the Spanish Gypsy, 



