exactly opposed
to each other in the direction in which they wish to proceed. One of
the legs on the fore side is advanced to its full stretch, while all the
others remain stationary. That leg stops, and the ants attached to it
hold on with the rest, while another of the foremost legs is advanced.
Thus they continue, until all the foremost are out, and the body of the
animal is suspended by its legs at its full stretch. Now one of the
hindmost legs closes in to the body, while all the others hold on--now
another, and another, each in their turn; and by this skilful manoeuvre
they have contrived to advance the body nearly an inch along the
ceiling. One of the foremost legs advances again, and they proceed as
before. Could your shore-going ants have managed this? I have often
watched them, when a boy, because my grandmother used to make me do so;
in later days, because I delighted in their industry and perseverance;
but, alas! in neither case did I profit by their example.

"Now, Freddy," the old lady would say, giving her spectacles a
preparatory wipe, as she basked in a summer evening's sun, after a five
o'clock tea, "fetch a piece of bread and butter, and we will see the
ants work. Lord bless the boy, if he hasn't thrown down a whole slice.
Why do you waste good victuals in that way? Who do you think's to eat
it, after it has been on the gravel? There, pinch a bit off and throw
it down. Put the rest back upon the plate--it will do for the cat."

But these ants were no more to be compared to mine, than a common
labourer is to the engineer who directs the mechanical powers which
raise mountains from their foundation. My old grandmother would never
let me escape until the bread and butter was in the hole, and, what was
worse, I had then to listen to the moral inference which was drawn, and
which took up more time than the ants did to draw the bread and butter--
all about industry, and what not; a long story, partly her own, partly
borrowed from Solomon; but it was labour in vain. I could not
understand why, because ants like bread and butter, I must like my book.
She was an excellent old woman; but nevertheless, many a time did I
have a fellow-feeling with the boy in the caricature print, who is
sitting with his old grandmother and the cat, and says, "I wish one of
us three were dead. It an't I--and it an't you, pussy."

Well, she died at last, full of years and honour; and I was summoned
from school to att