Ah, how unfortunate! ant and orange-bud have fallen together into
the depths of a Colorado canon which yawns in the path. The ant soon
reappears, but clearly feels it impossible to drag the bud up such a
precipice, and runs away on some other quest. What did he want with
that bud, I wonder? was it for food, or bric-a-brac, or a plaything
for the babies? Never mind,--I shall never know, and I prepare to read
again. But what's this? Here is my ant returning, and accompanied by
some friends. They disappear in the canon, helpfulness and interest
in every wave of their feelers. Their heads come into sight again,
and--yes! they have the bud. Now, indeed, events move, and the burden
travels rapidly across the smooth courtyard toward the house. Can they
intend to take it up on the flat roof, where we have lately suspected
a nest? Yes, there they go, straight up the wall, all putting their
shoulders to the wheel, and resting now and then in the chinks of the
crumbling adobes. Up the bud moves to the gutters,--I can see it gleam
as it is pulled over the edge,--they are out of sight,--the task is
done! How easy any undertaking, I think, when people are willing to
help.

* * * * *

In a high dormer window of a great city, in a nest of quilts and
pillows, sits little Ingrid. Her blue Danish eyes look out from a
pinched, snow-white face, and her thin hands are languidly folded in
her lap. She gazes far down below to the other side of the square,
where she can just see the waving of some green branches and an open
door.

Her eyes brighten now, for a stream of little children comes pouring
from that door. "Look, mother!" she cries, "there are the children!"
and the mother leaves her washing, and comes with dripping hands to
see every tiny boy look up at the window and flourish his hat, and
every girl wave her handkerchief, or kiss her hand. They form a ring;
there is silence for a moment and then, 'mid great flapping of dingy
handkerchiefs and battered hats, a hearty cheer is heard.

"They're cheering my birthday," cries Ingrid. "Miss Mary knows it's my
birthday. Oh, isn't it lovely!" And the thin hands eagerly waft some
grateful kisses to the group below.

The scene has only lasted a few moments, the children have had their
run in the fresh air, and now they go marching back, pausing at the
door to wave good-by to the window far above. The mother carries
Ingrid back to her bed (it is a weary time