To lie in wait for my Amazons, for whole afternoons on end, often
unsuccessfully, meant taking up too much of my time. I engaged an
assistant whose hours were not so much occupied as mine. It was my
grand-daughter Lucie, a little rogue who liked to hear my stories of
the Ants. She had been present at the great battle between the reds
and blacks and was much impressed by the rape of the long-clothes
babies. Well-coached in her exalted functions, very proud of already
serving that august lady, Science, my little Lucie would wander about
the garden, when the weather seemed propitious, and keep an eye on the
Red Ants, having been commissioned to reconnoitre carefully the road
to the pillaged Ant-hill. She had given proof of her zeal; I could
rely upon it.

One day, while I was spinning out my daily quota of prose, there came
a banging at my study-door:

'It's I, Lucie! Come quick: the reds have gone into the blacks' house.
Come quick!'

'And do you know the road they took?'

'Yes, I marked it.'

'What! Marked it? How?'

'I did what Hop-o'-my-Thumb did: I scattered little white stones along
the road.'

I hurried out. Things had happened as my six-year-old colleague said.
Lucie had secured her provision of pebbles in advance and, on seeing