If the spiders that feed upon ants deceive them by their mimicry those which are preyed upon by ants would gain an advantage by a similar disguise.  I once placed a little ant-like spider of the genus Herpyllus in a bottle with three ants no larger than itself, which I had caught with it in the sweep-net.  In a very few minutes the ants had killed and begun to devour the spider.  It may be that the resemblance was sufficiently close to deceive them in the open, but failed when spider and ants were confined together in close quarters.

THE BATH OF THE BIRDS

BY RICHARD JEFFERIES.

[Illustration]

One morning Sir Bevis went down to the brook.  Standing on the brink, he said:  “Brook, Brook! what are you singing?  You promised to tell me what you were saying.”

The brook did not answer, but went on singing.  Bevis listened a minute, and then he picked a willow leaf and threw it into the bubbles and watched it go whirling round and round in the eddies and back up under the fall, where it dived down and presently came up again, and the stream took it and carried it away past the flags.  “Brook, Brook!” said Bevis, stamping his foot; “tell me what you are singing.”

And the brook, having now finished that part of his song, said:  “Bevis, dear; sit down in the shadow of the willow, for it is very hot to-day, and the reapers are at work; sit down under the willow and I will tell you as much as I can remember.”

“But the reed said you could not remember anything,” said Bevis, leaning back against the willow.

“The reed did not tell you the truth, dear; indeed, he does not know all; the fact is, the reeds are so fond of talking that I scarcely ever answer them now or they would keep on all day long, and I should never hear the sound of my own voice, which I like best.  So I do not encourage them, and that is why the reeds think I do not recollect.”

“And what is that you sing about?” said Bevis impatiently.

“My darling,” said the brook, “I do not know myself always what I am singing about.  I am so happy I sing, sing, and never think about what it means; it does not matter what you mean as long as you sing.  Sometimes I sing about the sun, who loves me dearly, and tries all day to get at me through the leaves and the green flags that hide me; he sparkles on me everywhere he can, and does not like me to be in the shadow.  Sometimes I sing to the wind, who loves me next most dearly, and will come to me everywhere in places where the sun cannot get.  He plays with me whenever he can, and strokes me softly and tells me the things he has heard in the woods and on the hills, and sends down the leaves to float along; for he knows I like something to carry.  Fling me in some leaves, Bevis, dear.

“Sometimes I sing to the earth and the grass; they are fond of me, too, and listen the best of all.  I sing loudest at night to the stars; for they are so far away they would not otherwise hear me.”