157 



evidently learned their tactics and knew aged ; it was only now a question of time 



how to defend himself. Suddenly his till they had dragged him through the 



body moved along an inch and a half, as stubble up to the door of the house in the 



if by magic. Was it magic ? Not at all. hill, and I saw only a faint quiver as of 



One little ant had run up on an overhang- dread as his body passed through the 



ing blade of grass, and, reaching down, mysterious opening. I could not help 



holding on by the wonderful feet spoken wondering if the ant who started the 



of before, and grabbed the poor creature, capture received all the praise she de- 



in the middle, raised it right up from the served, or if the other four took the glory 



ground, and keeping hold, ran along to themselves. 



overhead till the end of the spear of grass At any rate, no one could take away 



was reached. her own satisfaction in overcoming and 



This was the last struggle of any im- winning in the struggle, 

 portance. The worm gave. up discour- 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 7 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 



