thought and prudence; for they not only sow the seeds of the ant rice, but when it has grown and the new seed is ripe they separate the chaff and harvest the grain, garnering several other descriptions of seeds in a similar manner. In a former chapter I gave you an account of Sir John Lubbock's experiments with his ants to ascertain whether they possessed the power of recognition, proving beyond doubt that they do. Various naturalists have contributed towards this interesting branch of natural history, and, however incredible it may appear, insects certainly have the power of distinguishing a friend from a foe. My Oxfordshire friend tells me he is on the most familiar terms with his bees; they come about him and crawl over him without attempting to sting. He doesn't smoke tobacco; bees hold that "weed" in detestation, and will generally attack a smoker: his chief difficulty is when they get up his nose. We all know how a dog or a horse will distinguish his master's voice and step from that of a stranger, even when out of sight. Ants, we have seen, know how to welcome home their absent friends, and how to deal with the intruder from another nest; so, sentinel bees at the door of the hive will allow one of their own company to pass, but a stranger is refused. And yet you or I would certainly fail in distinguishing the faintest difference between them. We all know what kindness will do. I once heard of a soldier in the army of a most vicious character, always being reproved and punished. One day the serjeant again brought him in, when the officer exclaimed, "We have tried everything with him; what can we do with him now?" "There's one thing, sir," replied the serjeant, "we have never yet tried." "What's that?" asked the other. "Why, sir, we have never tried forgiving him." The plan was adopted, and the soldier became one of the best. in the regiment. He was conquered by love. And so are insects. I heard of a public lecturer giving a "bee demonstration" in Hertfordshire recently, who brought his hives before the audience, separating them by a green gauze curtain, through which all that was going on could be seen. The bees crawled all over the lecturer, recognizing him when flying over and upon his head; and the only inconvenience, he said, he experienced, was when they got down his neck. Let us, then, imitate the lower orders of animals in the law of kindness, for, "in the intercourse of social life, it is by little acts of kindness recurring daily and hourly-and opportunities of doing kindnesses, if sought for, are ever starting up-it is by words, by tones, by gestures, by looks, that affection is won and preserved. He who neglects these trifles, yet boasts that whenever a great sacrifice is called for he will be ready to make it, will rarely be loved. The likelihood is, he will not make it; and if he does, it will be much rather for his own sake than for his neighbours'. Many persons, indeed, are said to be penny-wise and pound-foolish; but they who are penny-foolish will hardly be pound-wise, although selfish vanity may now and then for a moment get the better of selfish indolence; for wisdom will always have a microscope in her hand" (Sala). "Be kind to each other, The night's coming on, When friend and when brother How sweet to have earned The best recollection Of kindness returned!" It would appear that the kindness which ants exhibit towards other animals is sometimes attended with selfishness; but when we reflect, do we not find selfishness concealed in almost everything we do? The greatest earthly pleasure I believe to be that which enables us to give pleasure to another; that is the highest and purest of sentiments, but it is nevertheless selfish. So is it with the ants; truly they bestow the greatest attention and kindness upon the aphis, but do they not suck the sweet from them? I have been told by an African traveller that one day, in wandering through the jungle with his native guides and his gun, their attention was attracted to the peculiar noise made by a small bird. The Caffres told the master it was the "honey-bird," and if they followed its direction it would bring them to a store of honey. This was done, and, to the astonishment of my friend, at the bottom of an old gnarled tree, the bird hovering over it significantly meanwhile, there was discovered a store of honey enough to satisfy the appetite of all, including the bird, who was patiently waiting his share when the comb should be thrown away. Let us learn from these little facts that even selfishness is not to be despised when it shows itself in so interesting a manner; but we may say, perhaps, "There is selfishness, and selfishness." According to Sir John Lubbock, some ants take pity upon a family of small blind beetles, keeping them as domestic servants; feeding another description of beetle for the sake of the sweet juice it secretes. Here again is selfishness, but it is beautified with kindness, and that gives it the right colour. Let us honestly examine our motives, and we shall soon understand the apostle's words, conscience bearing witness, and thoughts the meanwhile accusing or else excusing one another." I do not know of a more interesting instance of instinct than that which happens in the life of the honey bee. If the hives be removed into the neighbourhood where the Death's-head Hawk Moth is found, they are ready for the contingency. They may have been born and bred in a country in which the moth, the largest of British species, never comes, and yet they know it is one of their greatest enemies; stealing into the hive, it not only robs them of their honey, of which it is fond, but its strange squeaking sound frightens the bees, so that they look upon the intruder with horror. You would have imagined that nothing could have been easier than to fall upon such an enemy and lodge a few barbed and poisoned stings in his body. You would. But two difficulties, you will see, present themselves: first, the body of the moth is so well protected with scales, that the little sting of the bee would fail to reach the vital part; and, secondly, what could the bees do with the dead body? The hieroglyphic of a human skull on the body of the moth, a symbol of the death that preceded its wondrous change, would surely foreshadow the doom of the bees. So when they find themselves brought into such objectionable society, they narrow the entrance to their hive, leaving it sufficiently wide for one bee to pass in or out, but too small to admit the enemy, who is kept waiting at the door indulging in the sweet smell which he cannot get at. Similarly the ants. In the work already referred to on Mind in the lower animals many references are to be found to other authors, whose experience contributes to the extraordinary stock of illustrations with which the book abounds. Here we learn how the black ants in the Mauritius send messengers for help when an alliance is necessary to attack a common enemy. Sometimes a combined attack is made; at others a division of forces is decided upon, one party forming the front army and the other the rear; pitfalls, ambuscades, or other means of entrapping the enemy are constructed. On the return of ants from a military or marauding expedition, their slaves, who have remained at home, at once recognize the signs of success or non-success, and act accordingly. If their masters come back as conquerors they are received with flattery, compliment, and attention; the victors are relieved of their prisoners, offered food, and otherwise respectfully waited upon. But in the opposite event of failure, of return as conquered instead of conquerors, the reception is characterized by sulkiness and indifference; and although ants work, like bees, in the dark, they rest during their wars at night, renewing the battle in the morning. One author declares that in their military marches they do not slay the weary or leave them to die, as the Romans did, but help or drag them along; volunteers actually enter the ranks and make sacrifices for the rest. And if I were to extend the story of insect battles, I should repeat the "Bombardier Beetle," who actually discharges a mimic pistol at his adversary from his abdomen, not charged with vile gunpowder, but such an abominable acid as, when directed at the head of the adversary, so stupefies it, that while it is cleansing itself the other has time to escape. Is there not more of romance in Nature, now, than in fiction? Comparing again the ant with the dog, and reflecting upon their difference in size, let us think of the "infinite riches in the little room" of one when viewed by the side of the other. We had a favourite spaniel, who died not long ago; it was afflicted with a tumour which we knew must end fatally. We consigned it to the care of a friend who was famous for nursing and kindness. Now the dog, like many of its race, had a terrible aversion to cats; one of the latter abode in the little home our favourite was taken to. Accepting the philosophy in the proverb that "what can't be cured must be endured," the dog became reconciled to the cat; but as it grew weaker and weaker, the death of the former was evidently approaching; and one night, never having done so before, the cat stole up in the dark into the bedroom where our friend was sleeping, and |