say?"

One anthill is very much like another. So many avenues, wide or narrow,
where the little creatures swarm in strange confusion; these bustling by,
important; these halting to pow-wow with one another. These struggling
with big burdens; those but basking in the sun. So many granaries stored
with food; so many cells where the little things sleep, and eat, and
love; the corner where lie their little white bones. This hive is
larger, the next smaller. This nest lies on the sand, and another under
the stones. This was built but yesterday, while that was fashioned ages
ago, some say even before the swallows came; who knows?

Nor will there be found herein folk-lore or story.

Every valley where lie homesteads has its song. I will tell you the
plot; you can turn it into verse and set it to music of your own.

There lived a lass, and there came a lad, who loved and rode away.

It is a monotonous song, written in many languages; for the young man
seems to have been a mighty traveller. Here in sentimental Germany they
remember him well. So also the dwellers of the Blue Alsatian Mountains
remember his coming among them; while, if my memory serves me truly, he
likewise visited the Banks of Allan Water. A veritable Wandering Jew is
he; for still the foolish girls listen, so they say, to the dying away of
his hoof-beats.

In this land of many ruins, that long while ago were voice-filled homes,
linger many legends; and here again, giving you the essentials, I leave
you to cook the dish for yourself. Take a human heart or two, assorted;