MINOR MUD AND WATER FOLK. 125 



You sit down on a bank and think yourself 

 alone. But there are many eyes on you. You 

 hear a rustle, and behold a little white frog is 

 hopping away from your feet. Aphides alight on 

 your shoulder, and now would that a person might 

 have as acute hearing as the mythic Heimdall 

 had, he who lived in the fort at the end of the 

 rainbow, and had so fine ears that he could hear 

 " the wool growing on the backs of sheep and the 

 grass springing in the meadows." For, if we had 

 such ears we might hear many a bug and beetle 

 and spider in this supposed-uninhabited nook say- 

 ing to each other, " Who is the giant who has 

 come here and why has he come? This part of 

 the world belongs to us. We are the Brookside 

 Folk." 



And you reflect that the spiders and beetles 

 and bugs really have more to substantiate their 

 claims than had those " Three Tailors " whom 

 Carlyle mentions as addressing Parliament and 

 the Universe, sublimely styling themselves, " We, 

 the People of England." 



Ants walk beside our pool on the mud near the 

 margin. What may be their errand there I do 

 not know, for there are no live-oaks or willows in 

 that particular spot to attract them. Where wil- 

 lows grow you may find the backs of the leaves 

 brown with aphides that the ants are visiting. 

 The Portuguese of Brazil call the ant the King 

 of that country, and the peasants of Cornwall say 



